His servant silently retired, and following a short interval
rapped again upon the door, opened it, and standing just inside
the room announced: "Mr. Paul Harley."

The door being quietly closed behind him, Paul Harley stood
staring across the room at Nicol Brinn. At this moment the
contrast between the types was one to have fascinated a
psychologist. About Paul Harley, eagerly alert, there was
something essentially British. Nicol Brinn, without being
typical, was nevertheless distinctly a product of the United
States. Yet, despite the stoic mask worn by Mr. Brinn, whose
lack-lustre eyes were so unlike the bright gray eyes of his
visitor, there existed, if not a physical, a certain spiritual
affinity between the two; both were men of action.

Harley, after that one comprehensive glance, the photographic
glance of a trained observer, stepped forward impulsively, hand
outstretched. "Mr. Brinn," he said, "we have never met before,
and it was good of you to wait in for me. I hope my telephone
message has not interfered with your plans for the evening?"

Nicol Brinn, without change of pose, no line of the impassive
face altering, shot out a large, muscular hand, seized that of
Paul Harley in a tremendous grip, and almost instantly put his
hand behind his back again. "Had no plans," he replied, in a
high, monotonous voice; "I was bored stiff. Take the armchair."

Paul Harley sat down, but in the restless manner of one who has
urgent business in hand and who is impatient of delay. Mr. Brinn
stooped to a coffee table which stood upon the rug before the