Fire Tongue

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"You mean that he may be following him?" cried Wessex.

"It is quite possible--following either Nicol Brinn or the
woman."

"My God, I hope you're right!--even though it makes the Criminal
Investigation Department look a bit silly."

"Then," continued Innes, "there is something else which you
should know. I heard to-day from a garage, with which Mr. Harley
does business, that he hired a racing car last night. He has
often used it before. It met him half-way along Pall Mall at
seven o'clock, and he drove away in it in the direction of
Trafalgar Square."

"Alone?"

"Yes, unfortunately."

"Toward Trafalgar Square," murmured Wessex.

"Ah," said Innes, shaking his head, "that clue is of no
importance. Under the circumstances the chief would be much more
likely to head away from his objective than toward it."

"Quite," murmured Wessex. "I agree with you. But what's this?"

The telephone bell was ringing, and as Innes eagerly took up the
receiver:

"Yes, yes, Mr. Innes speaking," he said, quickly. "Is that you,
Rector?"

The voice of Rector, one of Paul Harley's assistants, answered
him over the wire:

"I am speaking from Victoria Station, Mr. Innes."

"Yes!" said Innes. "Go ahead."

"A very odd-looking woman visited Mr. Nicol Brinn's chambers this
evening. She was beautifully dressed, but wore the collar of her
fur coat turned up about her face, so that it was difficult to
see her. But somehow I think she was an Oriental."

"An Oriental!" exclaimed Innes.

"I waited for her to come out," Rector continued. "She had
arrived in a cab, which was waiting, and I learned from the man
that he had picked her up at Victoria Station."

"Yes?"

"She came out some time later in rather a hurry. In fact, I think
there was no doubt that she was frightened. By this time I had
another cab waiting."

"And where did she go?" asked Innes.

"Back to Victoria Station."

"Yes! Go on!"

"Unfortunately, Mr. Innes, my story does not go much further. I
wasted very little time, you may be sure. But although no train
had left from the South Eastern station, which she had entered,
there was no sign of her anywhere. So that I can only suppose she
ran through to the Brighton side, or possibly out to a car, which
may have been waiting for her somewhere."

"Is that all?" asked Innes, gloomily.

"That's all, Mr. Innes. But I thought I would report it."

"Quite right, Rector; you could do no more. Did you see anything
of Detective Sergeant Stokes before you left Piccadilly?"

"I did," replied the other. "He also was intensely interested in
Nicol Brinn's visitor. And about five minutes before she came out
he went upstairs."

"Oh, I see. She came out almost immediately after Stokes had gone
up?"

"Yes."

"Very well, Rector. Return to Piccadilly, and report to me as
soon as possible." Innes hung up the receiver.

"Did you follow, Wessex?" he said. "Stokes was on the right
track, but made a bad blunder. You see, his appearance led to the
woman's retreat."

"He explained that to me," returned the inspector, gloomily. "She
got out by another door as he came in. Oh! a pretty mess he has
made of it. If he and Rector had been cooperating, they could
have covered her movements perfectly."

"There is no use crying over spilt milk," returned Innes. He
glanced significantly in the inspector's direction. "Miss
Abingdon has rung up practically every hour all day," he said.

Wessex nodded his head.

"I'm a married man myself," he replied, "and happily married,
too. But if you had seen the look in her eyes when I told her
that Mr. Harley had disappeared, I believe you would have envied
him."

"Yes," murmured Innes. "They haven't known each other long, but I
should say from what little I have seen of them that she cares
too much for her peace of mind." He stared hard at the inspector.
"I think it will break her heart if anything has happened to the
chief. The sound of her voice over the telephone brings a lump
into my throat, Wessex. She rang up an hour ago. She will ring up
again."

"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.

"Ah," he muttered. "Might have foreseen it." All the windows were
curtained, or rather, as a rough investigation revealed, were
closed with aluminium shutters which were immovable.

A moment later, as the car moved off, a lamp became lighted above
him. Then he saw that several current periodicals were placed
invitingly in the rack, as well as a box of very choice Egyptian
cigarettes.

"H'm," he murmured.

He made a close investigation upon every side, but he knew enough
of the organization with which he was dealing to be prepared for
failure.

He failed. There was no cranny through which he could look out.
Palpably, it would be impossible to learn where he was being
taken. The journey might be a direct one, or might be a detour.
He wished that he could have foreseen this device. Above all, he
wished that Detective Sergeant Stokes had been a more clever man.

It would have been good to know that he was followed. His only
hope was that someone detailed by Paul Harley might be in
pursuit.

Lighting a fresh cigar, Nicol Brinn drew a copy of the Sketch
from the rack, and studied the photographs of more or less pretty
actresses with apparent contentment. He had finished the Sketch,
and was perusing the Bystander, when, the car having climbed a
steep hill and swerved sharply to the right, he heard the
rustling of leaves, and divined that they were proceeding along a
drive.

He replaced the paper in the rack, and took out his watch.
Consulting it, he returned it to his pocket as the car stopped
and the light went out.

The door, which, with its fellow, Nicol Brinn had discovered to
be locked, was opened by the Oriental chauffeur, and Brinn
descended upon the steps of a shadowed porch. The house door was
open, and although there was no light within:

"Come this way," said a voice, speaking out of the darkness.

Nicol Brinn entered a hallway the atmosphere of which seemed to
be very hot.

"Allow me to take your hat and coat," continued the voice.

He was relieved of these, guided along a dark passage; and
presently, an inner door being opened, he found himself in a
small, barely furnished room where one shaded lamp burned upon a
large writing table.

His conductor, who did not enter, closed the door quietly, and
Nicol Brinn found himself looking into the smiling face of a
Hindu gentleman who sat at the table.

The room was decorated with queer-looking Indian carvings,
pictures upon silk, and other products of Eastern craftsmanship.
The table and the several chairs were Oriental in character, but
the articles upon the table were very European and businesslike
in appearance. Furthermore, the Hindu gentleman, who wore correct
evening dress, might have been the representative of an Eastern
banking house, as indeed he happened to be, amongst other things.

"Good evening," he said, speaking perfect English "won't you sit
down?"

He pointed with a pen which he was holding in the direction of a
heavily carved chair which stood near the table. Nicol Brinn sat
down, regarding the speaker with lack-lustre eyes.

"A query has arisen respecting your fraternal rights," continued
the Hindu. "Am I to understand that you claim to belong to the
Seventh Kama?"

"Certainly," replied Brinn in a toneless voice.

The Hindu drew his cuff back from a slender yellow wrist,
revealing a curious mark which appeared to be branded upon the
flesh. It was in the form of a torch or flambeau surmounted by a
tongue of flame. He raised his black brows, smiling
significantly.

Nicol Brinn stood up, removing his tight dinner jacket. Then,
rolling back his sleeve from a lean, sinuous forearm, he extended
the powerful member, having his fist tightly clenched.

Upon the inside of his arm, just above the elbow, an identical
mark had been branded!

The Hindu stood up and saluted Nicol Brinn in a peculiar manner.
That is to say, he touched the second finger of his right hand
with the tip of his tongue, and then laid the finger upon his
forehead, at the same time bowing deeply.

Nicol Brinn repeated the salutation, and quietly put his coat on.

"We greet you," said the Hindu. "I am Rama Dass of the Bengal
Lodge. Have you Hindustani?"

"No."

"Where were you initiated?"

"At Moon Ali Lane."

"Ah!" exclaimed the Hindu. "I see it all. In Bombay?"

"In Bombay."

"When, and by whom, may I ask?"

"By Ruhmani, November 23, 1913."

"Strange," murmured Rama Dass. "Brother Ruhmani died in that
year; which accounts for our having lost touch with you. What is
your grade?"

"The fifth."

"You have not proceeded far, brother. How do you come to be
unacquainted with our presence in England?"

"I cannot say."

"What work has been allotted to you?"

"None."

"Never?"

"Never."

"More and more strange," murmured the Hindu, watching Nicol Brinn
through the gold-rimmed spectacles which he wore. "I have only
known one other case. Such cases are dangerous, brother."

"No blame attaches to me," replied Nicol Brinn.

"I have not said so," returned Rama Dass. "But in the Seventh
Kama all brothers must work. A thousand lives are as nothing so
the Fire lives. We had thought our information perfect, but only
by accident did we learn of your existence."

"Indeed," murmured Nicol Brinn, coldly.

Not even this smiling Hindu gentleman, whose smile concealed so
much, could read any meaning in those lack-lustre eyes, nor
detect any emotion in that high, cool voice.

"A document was found, and in this it was recorded that you bore
upon your arm the sign of the Seventh Kama."

"'Tis Fire that moves the grains of dust," murmured Nicol Brinn,
tonelessly, "which one day make a mountain for the gods."

Rama Dass stood up at once and repeated his strange gesture of
salutation, which Nicol Brinn returned ceremoniously; and resumed
his seat at the table.

"You are advanced beyond your grade, brother," he said. "You are
worthy the next step. Do you wish to take it?"

"Every little drop swells the ocean," returned Nicol Brinn.

"You speak well," the Hindu said. "We have here your complete
record. It shall not be consulted. To do so were unnecessary. We
are satisfied. We regret only that one so happily circumstanced
to promote the coming of the Fire should have been lost sight of.
Last night there were three promotions and several rejections.
You were expected."

"But I was not summoned."

"No," murmured Rama Dass. "We had learned of you as I have said.
However, great honour results. You will be received alone. Do you
desire to advance?"

"No. Give me time."

Rama Dass again performed the strange salutation, and again Nicol
Brinn returned it.

"Wisdom is a potent wine," said the latter, gravely.

"We respect your decision."

The Hindu rang a little silver bell upon his table, and the
double doors which occupied one end of the small room opened
silently, revealing a large shadowy apartment beyond.

Rama Dass stood up, crossed the room, and standing just outside
the open doors, beckoned to Nicol Brinn to advance.

"There is no fear," he said, in a queer, chanting tone.

"There is no fear," repeated Nicol Brinn.

"There is no love."

"There is no love."

"There is no death."

"There is no death."

"Fire alone is eternal."

"Fire alone is eternal."

As he pronounced those words Nicol Brinn crossed the threshold of
the dark room, and the double doors closed silently behind him.

CHAPTER XXII. FIRE-TONGUE SPEAKS

Absolute darkness surrounded Nicol Brinn. Darkness, unpleasant
heat, and a stifling odour of hyacinths. He had been well
coached, and thus far his memory had served him admirably. But
now he knew not what to expect. Therefore inwardly on fire but
outwardly composed, muscles taut and nerves strung highly, he
waited for the next development.

It took the form, first, of the tinkling of a silver bell, and
then of the coming of a dim light at the end of what was
evidently a long apartment. The light grew brighter, assuming the
form of a bluish flame burning in a little flambeau. Nicol Brinn
watched it fascinatedly.

Absolutely no sound was discernible, until a voice began to
speak, a musical voice of curiously arresting quality.

"You are welcome," said the voice. "You are of the Bombay Lodge,
although a citizen of the United States. Because of some strange
error, no work has been allotted to you hitherto. This shall be
remedied."

Of the weird impressiveness of the scene there could be no doubt.
It even touched some unfamiliar chord in the soul of Nicol Brinn.
The effect of such an interview upon an imaginative, highly
strung temperament, could be well imagined. It was perhaps
theatrical, but that by such means great ends had already been
achieved he knew to his cost.

The introduction of Maskelyne illusions into an English country
house must ordinarily have touched his sense of humour, but
knowing something of the invisible presence in which he stood in
that darkened chamber, there was no laughter in the heart of
Nicol Brinn, but rather an unfamiliar coldness, the nearest
approach to fear of which this steel-nerved man was capable.

"Temporarily," the sweet voice continued, "you will be affiliated
with the London Lodge, to whom you will look for instructions.
These will reach you almost immediately. There is great work to
be done in England. It has been decided, however, that you shall
be transferred as quickly as possible in our New York Lodge. You
will await orders. Only Fire is eternal."

Again the voice ceased. But, Nicol Brinn remained silent:

"Your reply is awaited."

"Fire is life," replied Nicol Brinn.

The blue tongue of flame subsided, lower and lower, and finally
disappeared, so that the apartment became enwrapped in absolute
darkness. A faint rustling sound suggested that a heavy curtain
had been lowered, and almost immediately the doors behind Nicol
Brinn were opened again by Rama Dass.

"We congratulate you, brother," he said, extending his hand. "Yet
the ordeal was no light one, for all the force of the Fire was
focussed upon you."

Nicol Brinn reentered the room where the shaded lamp stood upon
the writing table. In the past he had moved unscathed through
peril unknown to the ordinary man. He was well acquainted with
the resources of the organization whose agents, unseen,
surrounded him in that remote country house, but that their
pretensions were extravagant his present immunity would seem to
prove.

If the speaker with the strangely arresting voice were indeed
that Fire-Tongue whose mere name was synonymous with dread in
certain parts of the East, then Fire-Tongue was an impostor. He
who claimed to read the thoughts of all men had signally failed
in the present instance, unless Nicol Brinn stared dully into the
smiling face of Rama Dass. Not yet must he congratulate himself.
Perhaps the Hindu's smile concealed as much as the mask worn by
Nicol Brinn.

"We congratulate you," said Rama Dass. "You are a worthy
brother."

He performed the secret salutation, which Nicol Brinn
automatically acknowledged. Then, without another word, Rama Dass
led the way to the door.

Out into the dark hallway Nicol Brinn stepped, his muscles taut,
his brain alert for instant action. But no one offered to molest
him. He was assisted into his coat, and his hat was placed in his
hands. Then, the front door being opened, he saw the headlights
of the waiting car shining on a pillar of the porch.

A minute later he was seated again in the shuttered limousine,
and as it moved off, and the lights leapt up above him, he lay
back upon the cushions and uttered a long sigh.

Already he divined that, following a night's sleep, these scenes
would seem like the episodes of a dream. Taking off his hat, he
raised his hand to his forehead, and discovered it to be slightly
damp.

"No wonder," he muttered.

Drawing out a silk handkerchief from the breast pocket of his
dinner jacket, he wiped his face and forehead deliberately. Then,
selecting a long black cigar from a case which bore the monogram
of the late Czar of Russia, he lighted it, dropped the match in
the tray, and lolling back in a corner, closed his eyes wearily.

Thus, almost unmoving, he remained throughout the drive. His only
actions were, first, to assure himself that both doors were
locked again, and then at intervals tidily to place a little cone
of ash in the tray provided for the purpose. Finally, the car
drew up and a door was unlocked by the chauffeur.

Nicol Brinn, placing his hat upon his head, stepped out before
the porch of the Cavalry Club.

The chauffeur closed the door, and returned again to the wheel.
Immediately the car moved away. At the illuminated number Nicol
Brinn scarcely troubled to glance. Common sense told him that it
was not that under which the car was registered. His interest, on
the contrary, was entirely focussed upon a beautiful Rolls Royce,
which was evidently awaiting some visitor or member of the club.
Glancing shrewdly at the chauffeur, a smart, military-looking
fellow, Nicol Brinn drew a card from his waistcoat pocket, and
resting it upon a wing in the light of one of the lamps, wrote
something rapidly upon it in pencil.

Returning the pencil to his pocket:

"Whose car, my man?" he inquired of the chauffeur.

"Colonel Lord Wolverham's, sir."

"Good," said Nicol Brinn, and put the card and a ten-shilling
note into the man's hand. "Go right into the club and personally
give Colonel Lord Wolverham this card. Do you understand?"

The man understood. Used to discipline, he recognized the note of
command in the speaker's voice.

"Certainly, sir," he returned, without hesitation; and stepping
down upon the pavement he walked into the club.

Less than two minutes afterward a highly infuriated military
gentleman--who, as it chanced, had never even heard of the
distinguished American traveller--came running out hatless into
Piccadilly, holding a crumpled visiting card in his hand. The
card, which his chauffeur had given him in the midst of a
thrilling game, read as follows:

MR. NICOL BRINN
RALEIGH HOUSE,
PICCADILLY, W. I.

And written in pencil beneath the name appeared the following:

Borrowed your Rolls. Urgent. Will explain tomorrow. Apologize.
N.B.

CHAPTER XXIII. PHIL ABINGDON'S VISITOR

On the following morning the card of His Excellency Ormuz Khan
was brought to Phil Abingdon in the charming little room which
Mrs. McMurdoch had allotted to her for a private sanctum during
the period of her stay under this hospitable roof.

"Oh," she exclaimed, and looked at the maid in a startled way. "I
suppose I must see him. Will you ask him to come in, please?"

A few moments later Ormuz Khan entered. He wore faultless morning
dress, too faultless; so devoid of any flaw or crease as to have
lost its masculine character. In his buttonhole was a hyacinth,
and in one slender ivory hand he carried a huge bunch of pink
roses, which, bowing deeply, he presented to the embarrassed
girl.

"Dare I venture," he said in his musical voice, bending deeply
over her extended hand, "to ask you to accept these flowers? It
would honour me. Pray do not refuse."

"Your excellency is very kind," she replied, painfully conscious
of acute nervousness. "It is more than good of you."

"It is good of you to grant me so much pleasure," he returned,
sinking gracefully upon a settee, as Phil Abingdon resumed her
seat. "Condolences are meaningless. Why should I offer them to
one of your acute perceptions? But you know--" the long, magnetic
eyes regarded her fixedly--"you know what is in my heart."

Phil Abingdon bit her lip, merely nodding in reply.

"Let us then try to forget, if only for a while," said Ormuz
Khan. "I could show you so easily, if you would consent to allow
me, that those we love never leave us."

The spell of his haunting voice was beginning to have its effect.
Phil Abingdon found herself fighting against something which at
once repelled and attracted her. She had experienced this unusual
attraction before, and this was not the first time that she had
combated it. But whereas formerly she had more or less resigned
herself to the strange magic which lay in the voice and in the
eyes of Ormuz Khan, this morning there was something within her
which rebelled fiercely against the Oriental seductiveness of his
manner.

She recognized that a hot flush had covered her cheeks. For the
image of Paul Harley, bronzed, gray-eyed, and reproachful, had
appeared before her mind's eye, and she knew why her resentment
of the Persian's charm of manner had suddenly grown so intense.
Yet she was not wholly immune from it, for:

"Does Your Excellency really mean that?" she whispered.

A smile appeared upon his face, an alluring smile, but rather
that of a beautiful woman than of a man.

"As you of the West," he said, "have advanced step by step, ever
upward in the mechanical sciences, we of the East have advanced
also step by step in other and greater sciences."

"Certainly," she admitted, "you have spoken of such things
before."

"I speak of things which I know. From that hour when you entered
upon your first Kama, back in the dawn of time, until now, those
within the ever-moving cycle which bears you on through the ages
have been beside you, at times unseen by the world, at times
unseen by you, veiled by the mist which men call death, but which
is no more than a curtain behind which we sometimes step for a
while. In the East we have learned to raise that curtain; in the
West are triflers who make like claims, but whose knowledge of
the secret of the veil is--" And he snapped his fingers
contemptuously.

The strange personality of the man was having its effect. Phil
Abingdon's eyes were widely open, and she was hanging upon his
words. Underneath the soft effeminate exterior lay a masterful
spirit--a spirit which had known few obstacles. The world of
womanhood could have produced no more difficult subject than Phil
Abingdon. Yet she realized, and became conscious of a sense of
helplessness, that under certain conditions she would be as a
child in the hands of this Persian mystic, whose weird eyes
appeared to be watching not her body, nor even her mind, but her
soul, whose voice touched unfamiliar chords within her--chords
which had never responded to any other human voice.

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