Harley leaned forward, resting one hand upon the table. “I know I was followed,” he said, sternly. “I was followed because I have entered upon the biggest case of my career.” He paused and smiled in a very grim fashion. “A suspicion begins to dawn upon my mind that if I fail it will also be my last case. You understand me?” “I understand absolutely,” replied Nicol Brinn. “These are dull days. It’s meat and drink to me to smell big danger.” Paul Harley lighted a cigarette and watched the speaker closely the while. His expression, as he did so, was an odd one. Two courses were open to him, and he was mentally debating their respective advantages. “I have come to you to-night, Mr. Brinn,” he said finally, “to ask you a certain question. Unless the theory upon which I am working is entirely wrong, then, supposing that you are in a position to answer my question I am logically compelled to suppose, also, that you stand in peril of your life.” “Good,” said Mr. Brinn. “I was getting sluggish.” In three long strides he crossed the room and locked the door. “I don’t doubt Hoskins’s honesty,” he explained, reading the inquiry in Harley’s eyes, “but an A1 intelligence doesn’t fold dress pants at thirty-nine.” Only one very intimate with the taciturn speaker could have perceived any evidence of interest in that imperturbable character. But Nicol Brinn took his cheroot between his fingers, quickly placed a cone of ash in a little silver tray (the work of Benvenuto Cellini), and replaced the cheroot not in the left but in the right corner of his mouth. He was excited. “You are out after one of the big heads of the crook world,” he said. “He knows it and he’s trailing you. My luck’s turned. How can I help?” Harley stood up, facing Mr. Brinn. “He knows it, as you say,” he replied, “and I hold my life in my hands. But from your answer to the question which I have come here to-night to ask you, I shall conclude whether or not your danger at the moment is greater than mine.” “Good,” said Nicol Brinn. In that unique room, at once library and museum, amid relics of a hundred ages, spoil of the chase, the excavator, and the scholar, these two faced each other; and despite the peaceful quiet of the apartment up to which as a soothing murmur stole the homely sounds of Piccadilly, each saw in the other’s eyes recognition of a deadly peril. It was a queer, memorable moment. “My question is simple but strange,” said Paul Harley. “It is this: What do you know of ‘Fire-Tongue’?” CHAPTER V. THE GATES OF HELL