Fire Tongue

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Wandering from side to side of the library, he presently found
himself standing still before the mantelpiece and studying a
photograph in a silver frame which occupied the centre of the
shelf. It was the photograph of an unusually pretty girl; that is
to say, of a girl whose beauty was undeniable, but who belonged
to a type widely removed from that of the ordinary good-looking
Englishwoman.

The outline of her face was soft and charming, and there was a
questioning look in her eyes which was alluring and challenging.
Her naive expression was palpably a pose, and her slightly parted
lips promised laughter. She possessed delightfully wavy hair and
her neck and one shoulder, which were bare, had a Grecian purity.
Harley discovered himself to be smiling at the naive lady of the
photograph.

"Presumably 'Miss Phil'," he said aloud.

He removed his gaze with reluctance from the fascinating picture,
and dropping into the big lounge chair, he lighted a cigarette.
He had just placed the match in an ash tray when he heard Sir
Charles's voice in the lobby, and a moment later Sir Charles
himself came hurrying into the library. His expression was so
peculiar that Harley started up immediately, perceiving that
something unusual had happened.

"My dear Mr. Harley," began Sir Charles, "in the first place pray
accept my apologies--"

"None are necessary," Harley interrupted. "Your excellent
housekeeper has entertained me vastly."

"Good, good," muttered Sir Charles. "I am obliged to Mrs.
Howett," and it was plainly to be seen that his thoughts were
elsewhere. "But I have to relate a most inexplicable
occurrence--inexplicable unless by some divine accident the plan
has been prevented from maturing."

"What do you mean, Sir Charles?"

"I was called ten minutes ago by someone purporting to be the
servant of Mr. Chester Wilson, that friend and neighbour whom I
have been attending."

"So your butler informed me."

"My dear sir," cried Sir Charles, and the expression in his eyes
grew almost wild, "no one in Wilson's house knew anything about
the matter!"

"What! It was a ruse?"

"Palpably a ruse to get me away from home."

Harley dropped his cigarette into the ash tray beside the match,
where, smouldering, it sent up a gray spiral into the air of the
library. Whether because of his words or because of the presence
of the man himself, the warning, intuitive finger had again
touched Paul Harley. "You saw or heard nothing on your way across
the square to suggest that any one having designs on your safety
was watching you?"

"Nothing. I searched the shadows most particularly on my return
journey, of course. For the thing cannot have been purposeless."

"I quite agree with you," said Paul Harley, quietly.

Between the promptings of that uncanny sixth sense of his and the
working of the trained deductive reasoning powers, he was
momentarily at a loss. Some fact, some episode, a memory, was
clamouring for recognition, while the intuitive, subconscious
voice whispered: "This man is in danger; protect him." What was
the meaning of it all? He felt that a clue lay somewhere outside
the reach of his intelligence, and a sort of anger possessed him
because of his impotence to grasp it.

Sir Charles was staring at him in that curiously pathetic way
which he had observed at their earlier interview in Chancery
Lane. "In any event," said his host, "let us dine: for already I
have kept you waiting."

Harley merely bowed, and walking out of the library, entered the
cosy dining room. A dreadful premonition had claimed him as his
glance had met that of Sir Charles--a premonition that this man's
days were numbered. It was uncanny, unnerving; and whereas, at
first, the atmosphere of Sir Charles Abingdon's home had been
laden with prosperous security, now from every side, and even
penetrating to the warmly lighted dining room, came that chilling
note of danger.

In crossing the lobby he had not failed to note that there were
many Indian curios in the place which could not well have failed
to attract the attention of a burglar. But that the person who
had penetrated to the house was no common burglar he was now
assured and he required no further evidence upon this point.

As he took his seat at the dining table he observed that Sir
Charles's collection had overflowed even into this room. In the
warm shadows about him were pictures and ornaments, all of which
came from, or had been inspired by, the Far East.

In this Oriental environment lay an inspiration. The terror which
had come into Sir Charles's life, the invisible menace which,
swordlike, hung over him, surely belonged in its eerie quality to
the land of temple bells, of silent, subtle peoples, to the
secret land which has bred so many mysteries. Yes, he must look
into the past, into the Indian life of Sir Charles Abingdon, for
the birth of this thing which now had grown into a shadow almost
tangible.

Benson attended at table, assisted by a dark-faced and very
surly-looking maid, in whom Harley thought he recognized the
housekeeper's bete noire.

When presently both servants had temporarily retired. "You see,
Mr. Harley," began Sir Charles, glancing about his own room in a
manner almost furtive, "I realized to-day at your office that the
history of this dread which has come upon me perhaps went back so
far that it was almost impossible to acquaint you with it under
the circumstances."

"I quite understand."

"I think perhaps I should inform you in the first place that I
have a daughter. Her mother has been dead for many years, and
perhaps I have not given her the attention which a motherless
girl is entitled to expect from her father. I don't mean," he
said, hastily, "that we are in any sense out of sympathy, but
latterly in some way I must confess that we have got a little out
of touch." He glanced anxiously at his guest, indeed almost
apologetically. "You will of course understand, Mr. Harley, that
this seeming preamble may prove to have a direct bearing upon
what I propose to tell you?"

"Pray tell the story in your own way, Sir Charles," said Harley
with sympathy. "I am all attention, and I shall only interrupt
you in the event of any point not being quite clear."

"Thank you," said Sir Charles. "I find it so much easier to
explain the matter now. To continue, there is a certain
distinguished Oriental gentleman--"

He paused as Benson appeared to remove the soup plates.

"It is always delightful to chat with one who knows India so well
as you do," he continued, glancing significantly at his guest.

Paul Harley, who fully appreciated the purpose of this abrupt
change in the conversation, nodded in agreement. "The call of the
East," he replied, "is a very real thing. Only one who has heard
it can understand and appreciate all it means."

The butler, an excellently trained servant, went about his work
with quiet efficiency, and once Harley heard him mutter rapid
instructions to the surly parlourmaid, who hovered disdainfully
in the background. When again host and guest found themselves
alone: "I don't in any way distrust the servants," explained Sir
Charles, "but one cannot hope to prevent gossip." He raised his
serviette to his lips and almost immediately resumed: "I was
about to tell you, Mr. Harley, about my daughter's--"

He paused and cleared his throat, then, hastily pouring out a
glass of water, he drank a sip or two and Paul Harley noticed
that his hand was shaking nervously. He thought of the photograph
in the library, and now, in this reference to a distinguished
Oriental gentleman, he suddenly perceived the possible drift of
the conversation.

This was the point to which Sir Charles evidently experienced
such difficulty in coming. It was something which concerned his
daughter; and, mentally visualizing the pure oval face and
taunting eyes of the library photograph, Harley found it
impossible to believe that the evil which threatened Sir Charles
could possibly be associated in any way with Phyllis Abingdon.

Yet, if the revelation which he had to make must be held
responsible for his present condition, then truly it was a
dreadful one. No longer able to conceal his concern, Harley stood
up. "If the story distresses you so keenly, Sir Charles," he
said, "I beg--"

Sir Charles waved his hand reassuringly. "A mere nothing. It will
pass," he whispered.

"But I fear," continued Harley, "that--"

He ceased abruptly, and ran to his host's assistance, for the
latter, evidently enough, was in the throes of some sudden
illness or seizure. His fresh-coloured face was growing
positively livid, and he plucked at the edge of the table with
twitching fingers. As Harley reached his side he made a sudden
effort to stand up, throwing out his arm to grasp the other's
shoulder.

"Benson!" cried Harley, loudly. "Quick! Your master is ill!"

There came a sound of swift footsteps and the door was thrown
open.

"Too late," whispered Sir Charles in a choking voice. He began to
clutch his throat as Benson hurried into the room.

"My God!" whispered Harley. "He is dying!"

Indeed, the truth was all too apparent. Sir Charles Abingdon was
almost past speech. He was glaring across the table as though he
saw some ghastly apparition there. And now with appalling
suddenness he became as a dead weight in Harley's supporting
grasp. Raspingly, as if forced in agony from his lips:

"Fire-Tongue," he said . . . "Nicol Brinn..."

Benson, white and terror-stricken, bent over him.

"Sir Charles!" he kept muttering. "Sir Charles! What is the
matter, sir?"

A stifled shriek sounded from the doorway, and in tottered Mrs.
Howett, the old housekeeper, with other servants peering over her
shoulder into that warmly lighted dining room where Sir Charles
Abingdon lay huddled in his own chair--dead.

CHAPTER III. SHADOWS

"Had you reason to suspect any cardiac trouble, Doctor
McMurdoch?" asked Harley.

Doctor McMurdoch, a local practitioner who had been a friend of
Sir Charles Abingdon, shook his head slowly. He was a tall,
preternaturally thin Scotsman, clean-shaven, with shaggy dark
brows and a most gloomy expression in his deep-set eyes. While
the presence of his sepulchral figure seemed appropriate enough
in that stricken house, Harley could not help thinking that it
must have been far from reassuring in a sick room.

"I had never actually detected anything of the kind," replied the
physician, and his deep voice was gloomily in keeping with his
personality. "I had observed a certain breathlessness at times,
however. No doubt it is one of those cases of unsuspected
endocarditis. Acute. I take it," raising his shaggy brows
interrogatively, "that nothing had occurred to excite Sir
Charles?"

"On the contrary," replied Harley, "he was highly distressed
about some family trouble, the nature of which he was about to
confide to me when this sudden illness seized him."

He stared hard at Doctor McMurdoch, wondering how much he might
hope to learn from him respecting the affairs of Sir Charles. It
seemed almost impertinent at that hour to seek to pry into the
dead man's private life.

To the quiet, book-lined apartment stole now and again little
significant sounds which told of the tragedy in the household.
Sometimes when a distant door was opened, it would be the sobs of
a weeping woman, for the poor old housekeeper had been quite
prostrated by the blow. Or ghostly movements would become audible
from the room immediately over the library--the room to which the
dead man had been carried; muffled footsteps, vague stirrings of
furniture; each sound laden with its own peculiar portent,
awakening the imagination which all too readily filled in the
details of the scene above. Then, to spur Harley to action, came
the thought that Sir Charles Abingdon had appealed to him for
aid. Did his need terminate with his unexpected death or would
the shadow under which he had died extend now? Harley found himself
staring across the library at the photograph of Phil Abingdon.
It was of her that Sir Charles had been speaking when that
mysterious seizure had tied his tongue. That strange, fatal
illness, mused Harley, all the more strange in the case of a man
supposedly in robust health--it almost seemed like the working of
a malignant will. For the revelation, whatever its nature, had
almost but not quite been made in Harley's office that evening.
Something, some embarrassment or mental disability, had stopped
Sir Charles from completing his statement. Tonight death had
stopped him.

"Was he consulting you professionally, Mr. Harley?" asked the
physician.

"He was," replied Harley, continuing to stare fascinatedly at the
photograph on the mantelpiece. "I am informed," said he,
abruptly, "that Miss Abingdon is out of town?"

Doctor McMurdoch nodded in his slow, gloomy fashion. "She is
staying in Devonshire with poor Abingdon's sister," he answered.
"I am wondering how we are going to break the news to her."

Perceiving that Doctor McMurdoch had clearly been intimate with
the late Sir Charles, Harley determined to make use of this
opportunity to endeavour to fathom the mystery of the late
surgeon's fears. "You will not misunderstand me, Doctor
McMurdoch," he said, "if I venture to ask you one or two rather
personal questions respecting Miss Abingdon?"

Doctor McMurdoch lowered his shaggy brows and looked gloomily at
the speaker. "Mr. Harley," he replied, "I know you by repute for
a man of integrity. But before I answer your questions will you
answer one of mine?"

"Certainly."

"Then my question is this: Does not your interest cease with the
death of your client?"

"Doctor McMurdoch," said Harley, sternly, "you no doubt believe
yourself to be acting as a friend of this bereaved family. You
regard me, perhaps, as a Paul Pry prompted by idle curiosity. On
the contrary, I find myself in a delicate and embarrassing
situation. From Sir Charles's conversation I had gathered that he
entertained certain fears on behalf of his daughter."

"Indeed," said Doctor McMurdoch.

"If these fears were well grounded, the danger is not removed,
but merely increased by the death of Miss Abingdon's natural
protector. I regret, sir, that I approached you for information,
since you have misjudged my motive. But far from my interest
having ceased, it has now as I see the matter become a sacred
duty to learn what it was that Sir Charles apprehended. This
duty, Doctor McMurdoch, I propose to fulfil with or without your
assistance."

"Oh," said Doctor McMurdoch, gloomily, "I'm afraid I've offended
you. But I meant well, Mr. Harley." A faint trace of human
emotion showed itself in his deep voice. "Charley Abingdon and I
were students together in Edinburgh," he explained. "I was mayhap
a little strange."

His apology was so evidently sincere that Harley relented at
once. "Please say no more, Doctor McMurdoch," he responded. "I
fully appreciate your feelings in the matter. At such a time a
stranger can only be an intruder; but"--he fixed his keen eyes
upon the physician--"there is more underlying all this than you
suspect or could readily believe. You will live to know that I
have spoken the truth."

"I know it now," declared the Scotsman, solemnly. "Abingdon was
always eccentric, but he didn't know the meaning of fear."

"Once that may have been true," replied Harley. "But a great fear
was upon him when he came to me, Doctor McMurdoch, and if it is
humanly possible I am going to discover its cause."

"Go ahead," said Doctor McMurdoch and, turning to the side table,
he poured out two liberal portions of whiskey. "If there's
anything I can do to help, count me at your service. You tell me
he had fears about little Phil?"

"He had," answered Harley, "and it is maddening to think that he
died before he could acquaint me with their nature. But I have
hopes that you can help me in this. For instance"--again he fixed
his gaze upon the gloomy face of the physician--"who is the
distinguished Oriental gentleman with whom Sir Charles had
recently become acquainted?"

Doctor McMurdoch's expression remained utterly blank, and he
slowly shook his head. "I haven't an idea in the world," he
declared. "A patient, perhaps?"

"Possibly," said Harley, conscious of some disappointment; "yet
from the way he spoke of him I scarcely think that he was a
patient. Surely Sir Charles, having resided so long in India,
numbered several Orientals among his acquaintances if not among
his friends?"

"None ever came to his home," replied Doctor McMurdoch. "He had
all the Anglo-Indian's prejudice against men of colour." He
rested his massive chin in his hand and stared down reflectively
at the carpet.

"Then you have no suggestion to offer in regard to this person?"

"None. Did he tell you nothing further about him?"

"Unfortunately, nothing. In the next place, Doctor McMurdoch, are
you aware of any difference of opinion which had arisen latterly
between Sir Charles and his daughter?"

"Difference of opinion!" replied Doctor McMurdoch, raising his
brows ironically. "There would always be difference of opinion
between little Phil and any man who cared for her. But
out-and-out quarrel--no!"

Again Harley found himself at a deadlock, and it was with scanty
hope of success that he put his third question to the gloomy
Scot. "Was Sir Charles a friend of Mr. Nicol Brinn?" he asked.

"Nicol Brinn?" echoed the physician. He looked perplexed. "You
mean the American millionaire? I believe they were acquainted.
Abingdon knew most of the extraordinary people in London; and if
half one hears is true Nicol Brinn is as mad as a hatter. But
they were not in any sense friends as far as I know." He was
watching Harley curiously. "Why do you ask that question?"

"I will tell you in a moment," said Harley, rapidly, "but I have
one more question to put to you first. Does the term Fire-Tongue
convey anything to your mind?"

Doctor McMurdoch's eyebrows shot upward most amazingly. "I won't
insult you by supposing that you have chosen such a time for
joking," he said, dourly. "But if your third question surprised
me, I must say that your fourth sounds simply daft."

"It must," agreed Harley, and his manner was almost fierce; "but
when I tell you why I ask these two questions--and I only do so
on the understand ing that my words are to be treated in the
strictest confidence--you may regard the matter in a new light.
'Nicol Brinn' and 'Fire-Tongue' were the last words which Sir
Charles Abingdon uttered."

"What!" cried Doctor McMurdoch, displaying a sudden surprising
energy. "What?"

"I solemnly assure you," declared Harley, "that such is the case.
Benson, the butler, also overheard them."

Doctor McMurdoch relapsed once more into gloom, gazing at the
whiskey in the glass which he held in his hand and slowly shaking
his head. "Poor old Charley Abingdon," he murmured. "It's plain
to me, Mr. Harley, that his mind was wandering. May not we find
here an explanation, too, of this idea of his that some danger
overhung Phil? You didn't chance to notice, I suppose, whether he
had a temperature?"

"I did not," replied Harley, smiling slightly. But the smile
quickly left his face, which became again grim and stern.

A short silence ensued, during which Doctor McMurdoch sat staring
moodily down at the carpet and Harley slowly paced up and down
the room; then:

"In view of the fact," he said, suddenly, "that Sir Charles
clearly apprehended an attempt upon his life, are you satisfied
professionally that death was due to natural causes?"

"Perfectly satisfied," replied the physician, looking up with a
start: "perfectly satisfied. It was unexpected, of course, but
such cases are by no means unusual. He was formerly a keen
athlete, remember. 'Tis often so. Surely you don't suspect foul
play? I understood you to mean that his apprehensions were on
behalf of Phil."

Paul Harley stood still, staring meditatively in the other's
direction. "There is not a scrap of evidence to support such a
theory," he admitted, "but if you knew of the existence of any
poisonous agent which would produce effects simulating these
familiar symptoms, I should be tempted to take certain steps."

"If you are talking about poisons," said the physician, a rather
startled look appearing upon his face, "there are several I might
mention; but the idea seems preposterous to me. Why should any
one want to harm Charley Abingdon? When could poison have been
administered and by whom?"

"When, indeed?" murmured Harley. "Yet I am not satisfied."

"You're not hinting at--suicide?"

"Emphatically no."

"What had he eaten?"

"Nothing but soup, except that he drank a portion of a glass of
water. I am wondering if he took anything at Mr. Wilson's house."
He stared hard at Doctor McMurdoch. "It may surprise you to learn
that I have already taken steps to have the remains of the soup
from Sir Charles's plate examined, as well as the water in the
glass. I now propose to call upon Mr. Wilson in order that I may
complete this line of enquiry."

"I sympathize with your suspicions, Mr. Harley," said the
physician dourly, "but you are wasting your time." A touch of the
old acidity crept back into his manner. "My certificate will be
'syncope due to unusual excitement'; and I shall stand by it."

"You are quite entitled to your own opinion," Harley conceded,
"which if I were in your place would be my own. But what do you
make of the fact that Sir Charles received a bogus telephone
message some ten minutes before my arrival, as a result of which
he visited Mr. Wilson's house?"

"But he's attending Wilson," protested the physician.

"Nevertheless, no one there had telephoned. It was a ruse. I
don't assume for a moment that this ruse was purposeless."

Doctor McMurdoch was now staring hard at the speaker.

"You may also know," Harley continued, "that there was an
attempted burglary here less than a week ago."

"I know that," admitted the other, "but it counts for little.
There have been several burglaries in the neighbourhood of late."

Harley perceived that Doctor McMurdoch was one of those
characters, not uncommon north of the Tweed, who, if slow in
forming an opinion, once having done so cling to it as tightly as
any barnacle.

"You may be right and I may be wrong," Harley admitted, "but
while your professional business with Sir Charles unfortunately
is ended, mine is only beginning. May I count upon you to advise
me of Miss Abingdon's return? I particularly wish to see her, and
I should prefer to meet her in the capacity of a friend rather
than in that of a professional investigator."

"At the earliest moment that I can decently arrange a meeting,"
replied Doctor McMurdoch, "I will communicate with you, Mr.
Harley. I am just cudgelling my brains at the moment to think how
the news is to be broken to her. Poor little Phil! He was all she
had."

"I wish I could help you," declared Harley with sincerity, "but
in the circumstances any suggestion of mine would be mere
impertinence." He held out his hand to the doctor.

"Good-night," said the latter, gripping it heartily. "If there is
any mystery surrounding poor Abingdon's death, I believe you are
the man to clear it up. But, frankly, it was his heart. I believe
he had a touch of the sun once in India. Who knows? His idea that
some danger threatened him or threatened Phil may have been
merely--" He tapped his brow significantly.

"But in the whole of your knowledge of Sir Charles," cried
Harley, exhibiting a certain irritation, "have you ever known him
to suffer from delusions of that kind or any other?"

"Never," replied the physician, firmly; "but once a man has had
the sun one cannot tell."

"Ah!" said Harley. "Good-night, Doctor McMurdoch."

When presently he left the house, carrying a brown leather bag
which he had borrowed from the butler, he knew that rightly or
wrongly his own opinion remained unchanged in spite of the
stubborn opposition of the Scottish physician. The bogus message
remained to be explained, and the assault in the square, as did
the purpose of the burglar to whom gold and silver plate made no
appeal. More important even than these points were the dead man's
extraordinary words: "Fire-Tongue"--"Nicol Brinn." Finally and
conclusively, he had detected the note of danger outside and
inside the house; and now as he began to cross the square it
touched him again intimately.

He looked up at the darkened sky. A black cloud was moving slowly
overhead, high above the roof of the late Sir Charles Abingdon;
and as he watched its stealthy approach it seemed to Paul Harley
to be the symbol of that dread in which latterly Sir Charles's
life had lain, beneath which he had died, and which now was
stretching out, mysterious and menacing, over himself.

CHAPTER IV. INTRODUCING MR. NICOL BRINN

At about nine o'clock on the same evening, a man stood at a large
window which overlooked Piccadilly and the Green Park. The room
to which the window belonged was justly considered one of the
notable sights of London and doubtless would have received
suitable mention in the "Blue Guide" had the room been accessible
to the general public. It was, on the contrary, accessible only
to the personal friends of Mr. Nicol Brinn. As Mr. Nicol Brinn
had a rarely critical taste in friendship, none but a fortunate
few had seen the long room with its two large windows overlooking
Piccadilly.

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