He shouted
hoarsely and was about to apply the brakes when the two cars
touched!
A rending crash came--a hoarse scream--and the big limousine
toppled over into the ditch.
Harley felt himself hurled through space.
"Shall I follow on to Lower Claybury, sir?" asked Inspector
Wessex, excitedly.
Phil Abingdon's message had come through nearly an hour before,
and a party had been despatched in accordance with Brinn's
instructions. Wessex had returned to New Scotland Yard too late
to take charge, and now, before the Assistant Commissioner had
time to reply, a 'phone buzzed.
"Yes?" said the Assistant Commissioner, taking up one of the
several instruments: "What!"
Even this great man, so justly celebrated for his placid
demeanour, was unable to conceal his amazement.
"Yes," he added. "Let him come up!" He replaced the receiver and
turning to Wessex: "Mr. Nicol Brinn is here!" he informed him.
"What's that!" cried the inspector, quite startled out of his
usual deferential manner.
Footsteps sounded in the corridor. Came a rap at the door.
"Come in," said the Assistant Commissioner.
The door was thrown open and Nicol Brinn entered. One who knew
him well would have said that he had aged ten years. Even to the
eye of Wessex he looked an older man. He wore a shoddy suit and a
rough tweed cap and his left arm was bandaged.
"Gentlemen," he said, without other greeting, "I'm here to make a
statement.
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