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 defense.
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.