“Hullo!” came a voice.  “That you, Innes?”

“Mr. Harley!” cried Innes.  “Thank God you are safe!  I was growing desperately anxious!”

“I am by no means safe, Innes!  I am in one of the tightest corners of my life!  Listen:  Get Wessex!  If he’s off duty, get Burton.  Tell him to bring—­”

The voice ceased.

“Hullo!—­Mr. Harley!” called Innes.  “Mr. Harley!”

A faint cry answered him.  He distinctly heard the sound of a fall.  Then the other receiver was replaced on the hook.

“Merciful Heavens!” whispered Innes.  “What has happened?  Where was he speaking from?  What can I do?”

CHAPTER XIII.  NICOL BRINN HAS A VISITOR

It was close upon noon, but Nicol Brinn had not yet left his chambers.  From that large window which overlooked Piccadilly he surveyed the prospect with dull, lack-lustre eyes.  His morning attire was at least as tightly fitting as that which he favoured in the evening, and now, hands clasped behind his back and an unlighted cigar held firmly in the left corner of his mouth, he gazed across the park with a dreamy and vacant regard.  One very familiar with this strange and taciturn man might have observed that his sallow features looked even more gaunt than usual.  But for any trace of emotion in that stoic face the most expert physiognomist must have sought in vain.

Behind the motionless figure the Alaskan ermine and Manchurian leopards stared glassily across the room.  The flying lemur continued apparently to contemplate the idea of swooping upon the head of the tigress where she crouched upon her near-by pedestal.  The death masks grinned; the Egyptian priestess smiled.  And Nicol Brinn, expressionless, watched the traffic in Piccadilly.

There came a knock at the door.

“In,” said Nicol Brinn.

Hoskins, his manservant, entered:  “Detective Inspector Wessex would like to see you, sir.”

Nicol Brinn did not turn around.  “In,” he repeated.

Silently Hoskins retired, and, following a short interval, ushered into the room a typical detective officer, a Scotland Yard man of the best type.  For Detective Inspector Wessex no less an authority than Paul Harley had predicted a brilliant future, and since he had attained to his present rank while still a comparatively young man, the prophecy of the celebrated private investigator was likely to be realized.  Nicol Brinn turned and bowed in the direction of a large armchair.

“Pray sit down, Inspector,” he said.

The high, monotonous voice expressed neither surprise nor welcome, nor any other sentiment whatever.

Detective Inspector Wessex returned the bow, placed his bowler hat upon the carpet, and sat down in the armchair.  Nicol Brinn seated himself upon a settee over which was draped a very fine piece of Persian tapestry, and stared at his visitor with eyes which expressed nothing but a sort of philosophic stupidity, but which, as a matter of fact, photographed the personality of the man indelibly upon that keen brain.