by Sax Rohmer
CHAPTER XXII. FIRE-TONGUE SPEAKS
Absolute darkness surrounded Nicol Brinn. Darkness, unpleasant heat, anda stifling odour of hyacinths. He had been well coached, and thus farhis memory had served him admirably. But now he knew not what to expect.Therefore inwardly on fire but outwardly composed, muscles taut andnerves strung highly, he waited for the next development.
It took the form, first, of the tinkling of a silver bell, and thenof the coming of a dim light at the end of what was evidently a longapartment. The light grew brighter, assuming the form of a bluish flameburning in a little flambeau. Nicol Brinn watched it fascinatedly.
Absolutely no sound was discernible, until a voice began to speak, amusical voice of curiously arresting quality.
"You are welcome," said the voice. "You are of the Bombay Lodge,although a citizen of the United States. Because of some strange error,no work has been allotted to you hitherto. This shall be remedied."
Of the weird impressiveness of the scene there could be no doubt. Iteven touched some unfamiliar chord in the soul of Nicol Brinn.The effect of such an interview upon an imaginative, highly strungtemperament, could be well imagined. It was perhaps theatrical, but thatby such means great ends had already been achieved he knew to his cost.
The introduction of Maskelyne illusions into an English country housemust ordinarily have touched his sense of humour, but knowing somethingof the invisible presence in which he stood in that darkened chamber,there was no laughter in the heart of Nicol Brinn, but rather anunfamiliar coldness, the nearest approach to fear of which thissteel-nerved man was capable.
"Temporarily," the sweet voice continued, "you will be affiliated withthe London Lodge, to whom you will look for instructions. These willreach you almost immediately. There is great work to be done in England.It has been decided, however, that you shall be transferred as quicklyas possible in our New York Lodge. You will await orders. Only Fire iseternal."
Again the voice ceased. But, Nicol Brinn remained silent:
"Your reply is awaited."
"Fire is life," replied Nicol Brinn.
The blue tongue of flame subsided, lower and lower, and finallydisappeared, so that the apartment became enwrapped in absolutedarkness. A faint rustling sound suggested that a heavy curtain had beenlowered, and almost immediately the doors behind Nicol Brinn were openedagain by Rama Dass.
"We congratulate you, brother," he said, extending his hand. "Yet theordeal was no light one, for all the force of the Fire was focussed uponyou."
Nicol Brinn reentered the room where the shaded lamp stood upon thewriting table. In the past he had moved unscathed through peril unknownto the ordinary man. He was well acquainted with the resources of theorganization whose agents, unseen, surrounded him in that remote countryhouse, but that their pretensions were extravagant his present immunitywould seem to prove.
If the speaker with the strangely arresting voice were indeed thatFire-Tongue whose mere name was synonymous with dread in certain partsof the East, then Fire-Tongue was an impostor. He who claimed to readthe thoughts of all men had signally failed in the present instance,unless Nicol Brinn stared dully into the smiling face of Rama Dass. Notyet must he congratulate himself. Perhaps the Hindu's smile concealed asmuch as the mask worn by Nicol Brinn.
"We congratulate you," said Rama Dass. "You are a worthy brother."
He performed the secret salutation, which Nicol Brinn automaticallyacknowledged. Then, without another word, Rama Dass led the way to thedoor.
Out into the dark hallway Nicol Brinn stepped, his muscles taut, hisbrain alert for instant action. But no one offered to molest him. He wasassisted into his coat, and his hat was placed in his hands. Then,the front door being opened, he saw the headlights of the waiting carshining on a pillar of the porch.
A minute later he was seated again in the shuttered limousine, and asit moved off, and the lights leapt up above him, he lay back upon thecushions and uttered a long sigh.
Already he divined that, following a night's sleep, these scenes wouldseem like the episodes of a dream. Taking off his hat, he raised hishand to his forehead, and discovered it to be slightly damp.
"No wonder," he muttered.
Drawing out a silk handkerchief from the breast pocket of his dinnerjacket, he wiped his face and forehead deliberately. Then, selecting along black cigar from a case which bore the monogram of the late Czar ofRussia, he lighted it, dropped the match in the tray, and lolling backin a corner, closed his eyes wearily.
Thus, almost unmoving, he remained throughout the drive. His onlyactions were, first, to assure himself that both doors were lockedagain, and then at intervals tidily to place a little cone of ash in thetray provided for the purpose. Finally, the car drew up and a door wasunlocked by the chauffeur.
Nicol Brinn, placing his hat upon his head, stepped out before the porchof the Cavalry Club.
The chauffeur closed the door, and returned again to the wheel.Immediately the car moved away. At the illuminated number Nicol Brinnscarcely troubled to glance. Common sense told him that it was not thatunder which the car was registered. His interest, on the contrary, wasentirely focussed upon a beautiful Rolls Royce, which was evidentlyawaiting some visitor or member of the club. Glancing shrewdly at thechauffeur, a smart, military-looking fellow, Nicol Brinn drew a cardfrom his waistcoat pocket, and resting it upon a wing in the light ofone of the lamps, wrote something rapidly upon it in pencil.
Returning the pencil to his pocket:
"Whose car, my man?" he inquired of the chauffeur.
"Colonel Lord Wolverham's, sir."
"Good," said Nicol Brinn, and put the card and a ten-shilling note intothe man's hand. "Go right into the club and personally give Colonel LordWolverham this card. Do you understand?"
The man understood. Used to discipline, he recognized the note ofcommand in the speaker's voice.
"Certainly, sir," he returned, without hesitation; and stepping downupon the pavement he walked into the club.
Less than two minutes afterward a highly infuriated militarygentleman--who, as it chanced, had never even heard of the distinguishedAmerican traveller--came running out hatless into Piccadilly, holdinga crumpled visiting card in his hand. The card, which his chauffeur hadgiven him in the midst of a thrilling game, read as follows:
MR. NICOL BRINN RALEIGH HOUSE, PICCADILLY, W. I.
And written in pencil beneath the name appeared the following:
Borrowed your Rolls. Urgent. Will explain tomorrow. Apologize. N.B.
