elephone 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, whi