“Yet I never thought he was a marrying man,” muttered the inspector.

“Neither did I,” returned Innes, smiling sadly.  “But even he can be forgiven for changing his mind in the case of Phil Abingdon.”

“Ah,” said the inspector.  “I am not sorry to know that he is human like the rest of us.”  His expression grew retrospective, and:  “I can’t make out how the garage you were speaking about didn’t report that matter before,” he added.

“Well, you see,” explained Innes, “they were used to the chief making long journeys.”

“Long journeys,” muttered the inspector.  “Did he make a long journey?  I wonder—­I wonder.”

CHAPTER XXI.  THE SEVENTH KAMA

As Nicol Brinn strolled out from the door below his chambers in Piccadilly, a hoarse voice made itself audible above his head.

“Police!” he heard over the roar of the traffic.  “Help!  Police!”

Detective Sergeant Stokes had come out upon the balcony.  But up to the time that Nicol Brinn turned and proceeded in leisurely fashion in the direction of the Cavalry Club, the sergeant had not succeeded in attracting any attention.

Nicol Brinn did not hurry.  Having his hands thrust in the pockets of his light overcoat, he sauntered along Piccadilly as an idle man might do.  He knew that he had ample time to keep his appointment, and recognizing the vital urgency of the situation, he was grateful for some little leisure to reflect.

One who had obtained a glimpse of his face in the light of the shop windows which he passed must have failed to discern any evidence of anxiety.  Yet Nicol Brinn knew that death was beckoning to him.  He knew that his keen wit was the only weapon which could avail him to-night; and he knew that he must show himself a master of defence.

A lonely man, of few but enduring friendships, he had admitted but one love to his life, except the love of his mother.  This one love for seven years he had sought to kill.  But anything forceful enough to penetrate to the stronghold of Nicol Brinn’s soul was indestructible, even by Nicol Brinn himself.

So, now, at the end of a mighty struggle, he had philosophically accepted this hopeless passion which Fate had thrust upon him.  Yet he whose world was a chaos outwardly remained unmoved.

Perhaps even that evil presence whose name was Fire-Tongue might have paused, might have hesitated, might even have changed his plans, which, in a certain part of the world, were counted immutable, had he known the manner of man whom he had summoned to him that night.

Just outside the Cavalry Club a limousine was waiting, driven by a chauffeur who looked like some kind of Oriental.  Nicol Brinn walked up to the man, and bending forward: 

“Fire-Tongue,” he said, in a low voice.

The chauffeur immediately descended and opened the door of the car.  The interior was unlighted, but Nicol Brinn cast a comprehensive glance around ere entering.  As he settled himself upon the cushions, the door was closed again, and he found himself in absolute darkness.