Fire-Tongue

by Sax Rohmer

  CHAPTER XXVIII. THE CHASE

  The events which led to the presence of Mr. Nicol Brinn at so opportunea moment were--consistent with the character of that remarkable man--ofa sensational nature.

  Having commandeered the Rolls Royce from the door of the Cavalry Club,he had immediately, by a mental process which many perils had perfected,dismissed the question of rightful ownership from his mind. The factthat he might be intercepted by police scouts he refused to entertain.The limousine driven by the Hindu chauffeur was still in sight, anduntil Mr. Nicol Brinn had seen it garaged, nothing else mattered,nothing else counted, and nothing else must be permitted to interfere.

  Jamming his hat tightly upon his head, he settled down at the wheel,drawing up rather closer to the limousine as the chase lay throughcrowded thoroughfares and keeping his quarry comfortably in sight acrossWestminster Bridge and through the outskirts of London.

  He had carefully timed the drive to the unknown abode of Fire-Tongue,and unless it had been prolonged, the more completely to deceive him,he had determined that the house lay not more than twenty miles fromPiccadilly.

  When Mitcham was passed, and the limousine headed straight on intoSurrey, he decided that there had been no doubling, but that the houseto which he had been taken lay in one of these unsuspected countrybackwaters, which, while they are literally within sight of the lightsof London, have nevertheless a remoteness as complete as secrecy coulddesire.

  It was the deserted country roads which he feared, for if the man aheadof him should suspect pursuit, a difficult problem might arise.

  By happy chance Nicol Brinn, an enthusiastic motorist, knew the mapof Surrey as few Englishmen knew it. Indeed, there was no beauty spotwithin a forty-mile radius of London to which he could not have drivenby the best and shortest route, at a moment's notice. This knowledgeaided him now.

  For presently at a fork in the road he saw that the driver of thelimousine had swung to the left, taking the low road, that to the rightoffering a steep gradient. The high road was the direct road to LowerClaybury, the low road a detour to the same.

  Nicol Brinn mentally reviewed the intervening countryside, and taking agambler's chance, took the Rolls Royce up the hill. He knew exactlywhat he was about, and he knew that the powerful engine would eat up theslope with ease.

  Its behaviour exceeded his expectations, and he found himself mountingthe acclivity at racing speed. At its highest point, the road, skirtinga hilltop, offered an extensive view of the valley below. Here NicolBrinn pulled up and, descending, watched and listened.

  In the stillness he could plainly hear the other automobile hummingsteadily along the lowland road below. He concentrated his mind uponthe latter part of that strange journey, striving to recall any detailswhich had marked it immediately preceding the time when he had detectedthe rustling of leaves and knew that they had entered a carriage drive.

  Yes, there had been a short but steep hill; and immediately beforethis the car had passed over a deeply rutted road, or--he had a suddeninspiration--over a level crossing.

  He knew of just such a hilly road immediately behind Lower Clayburystation. Indeed, it was that by which he should be compelled to descendif he continued to pursue his present route to the town. He could thinkof no large, detached house, the Manor Park excepted, which correspondedto the one which he sought. But that in taking the high road he hadacted even more wisely than he knew, he was now firmly convinced.

  He determined to proceed as far as the park gates as speedily aspossible. Therefore, returning to the wheel, he sent the car along thenow level road at top speed, so that the railings of the Manor Park,when presently he found himself skirting the grounds, had the semblanceof a continuous iron fence wherever the moonlight touched them.

  He passed the head of the road dipping down to Lower Claybury, but fortyyards beyond pulled up and descended. Again he stood listening, and:

  "Good!" he muttered.

  He could hear the other car labouring up the slope. He ran along to thecorner of the lane, and, crouching close under the bushes, waited forits appearance. As he had supposed, the chauffeur turned the car to theright.

  "Good!" muttered Nicol Brinn again.

  There was a baggage-rack immediately above the number plate. Upon thisNicol Brinn sprang with the agility of a wildcat, settling himself uponhis perilous perch before the engine had had time to gather speed.

  When presently the car turned into the drive of Hillside, Nicol Brinndropped off and dived into the bushes on the right of the path. Fromthis hiding place he saw the automobile driven around the front of thehouse to the garage, which was built out from the east wing. Not daringto pursue his investigations until the chauffeur had retired, he soughta more comfortable spot near a corner of the lawn and there, behind abank of neglected flowers, lay down, watching the man's shadowy figuremoving about in the garage.

  Although he was some distance from the doors he could see that therewas a second car in the place--a low, torpedo-bodied racer, paintedbattleship gray. This sight turned his thoughts in another direction.

  Very cautiously he withdrew to the drive again, retracing his stepsto the lane, and walking back to the spot where he had left the RollsRoyce, all the time peering about him to right and left. He was lookingfor a temporary garage for the car, but one from which, if necessary,he could depart in a hurry. The shell of an ancient barn, roofless anddesolate, presently invited inspection and, as a result, a few minuteslater Colonel Lord Wolverham's luxurious automobile was housed for thenight in these strange quarters.

  When Nicol Brinn returned to Hillside, he found the garage lockedand the lights extinguished. Standing under a moss-grown wall whichsheltered him from the house, from his case he selected a long blackcigar, lighted it with care and, having his hands thrust in the pocketsof his light overcoat and the cigar protruding aggressively from theleft corner of his mouth, he moved along to an angle of the wall andstared reflectively at the silent house.

  A mental picture arose of a secret temple in the shadow of the distantHimalayas. Was it credible that this quiet country house, so typical ofrural England, harboured that same dread secret which he had believed tobe locked away in those Indian hills? Could he believe that the darkand death-dealing power which he had seen at work in the East was nowcentred here, within telephone-call of London?

  The fate of Sir Charles Abingdon and of Paul Harley would seem toindicate that such was the case. Beyond doubt, the document of whichRama Dass had spoken was some paper in the possession of the late SirCharles. Much that had been mysterious was cleared up. He wondered whyit had not occurred to him from the first that Sir Charles's inquiry,which he had mentioned to Paul Harley, respecting Fire-Tongue, had beendue to the fact that the surgeon had seen the secret mark upon his armafter the accident in the Haymarket. He remembered distinctly that hissleeve had been torn upon that occasion. He could not imagine, however,what had directed the attention of the organization to Sir Charles, andfor what reason his death had been decided upon.

  He rolled his cigar from corner to corner of his mouth, staringreflectively with lack-lustre eyes at the silent house before him. Inthe moonlight it made a peaceful picture enough. A cautious tour of theplace revealed a lighted window upon the first floor. Standing in theshadow of an old apple tree, Nicol Brinn watched the blind of thiswindow minute after minute, patiently waiting for a shadow to appearupon it; and at last his patience was rewarded.

  A shadow appeared--the shadow of a woman!

  Nicol Brinn dropped his cigar at his feet and set his heel upon it. Abitter-sweet memory which had been with him for seven years aroseagain in his mind. There is a kind of mountain owl in certain partsof northern India which possesses a curiously high, plaintive note. Hewondered if he could remember and reproduce that note.

  He made the attempt, repeating the cry three times. At the thirdrepetition the light in the first floor window went out. He heard thesound of the window being gently opened. Then a voice--a voicewhich held the sweet
est music in the world for the man who listenedbelow--spoke softly:

  "Nicol!"

  "Naida!" he called. "Come down to me. You must. Don't answer. I willwait here."

  "Promise you will let me return!"

  He hesitated.

  "Promise!"

  "I promise."