On the threshold of the third Brinn stopped
dead, and his gaunt face grew ashen. Then he tottered across the
room, arms outstretched.
"Naida," he whispered. "My love, my love!"
Paul Harley withdrew quietly. He had begun to walk along the
corridor when the sound of a motor brought him up sharply. A
limousine was being driven away from the side entrance! Not alone
had he heard that sound. His face deathly, and the lack-lustre
eyes dully on fire, Nicol Brinn burst out of the room and, not
heeding the presence of Harley, hurled himself down the stairs.
He was as a man demented, an avenging angel.
"There he is!" cried Harley--"heading for the Dover Road!"
Nicol Brinn, at the wheel of the racer--the same in which Harley
had made his fateful journey and which had afterward been
concealed in the garage at Hillside--scarcely nodded.
Nearer they drew to the quarry, and nearer. Once--twice--and
again, the face of Ormuz Khan peered out of the window at the
rear of the limousine.
They drew abreast; the road was deserted. And they passed
slightly ahead.
Paul Harley glanced at the granite face of his companion with an
apprehension he was unable to conceal. This was a cool madman who
drove. What did he intend to do?
Inch by inch, Nicol Brinn edged the torpedo body nearer to the
wheels of the racing limousine. The Oriental chauffeur drew in
ever closer to the ditch bordering the roadside.
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