Detective Inspector Wessex cleared his throat and did not appear to be quite at ease.
"What is it?" inquired Nicol Brinn, and proceeded to light his cigar.
"Well, sir," said the detective, frankly, "it's a mighty awkward business, and I don't know just how to approach it."
"Shortest way," drawled Nicol Brinn. "Don't study me."
"Thanks," said Wessex, "I'll do my best. It's like this"—he stared frankly at the impassive face: "Where is Mr. Paul Harley?"
Nicol Brinn gazed at the lighted end of his cigar meditatively for a moment and then replaced it in the right and not in the left corner of his mouth. Even to the trained eye of the detective inspector he seemed to be quite unmoved, but one who knew him well would have recognized that this simple action betokened suppressed excitement.
"He left these chambers at ten-fifteen on Wednesday night," replied the American. "I had never seen him before and I have never seen him since."
"Sure?"
"Quite."
"Could you swear to it before a jury?"
"You seem to doubt my word."
Detective Inspector Wessex stood up. "Mr. Brinn," he said, "I am in an awkward corner. I know you for a man with a fine sporting reputation,
