"I have said so. But I'd give a lot more than you might believe to know that Abingdon had told you the story which he told me."
"You are not helping, Mr. Brinn," said Harley, sternly. "I believe and I think that you share my belief that Sir Charles Abingdon did not die from natural causes. You are repressing valuable evidence. Allow me to remind you that if anything should come to light necessitating a post-mortem examination of the body, you will be forced to divulge in a court of justice the facts which you refuse to divulge to me."
"I know it," said Brinn, shortly.
He shot out one long arm and grasped Harley's shoulder as in a vice. "I'm counted a wealthy man," he continued, "but I'd give every cent I possess to see 'paid' put to the bill of a certain person. Listen. You don't think I was in any way concerned in the death of Sir Charles Abingdon? It isn't thinkable. But you do think I'm in possession of facts which would help you find out who is. You're right."
"Good God!" cried Harley. "Yet you remain silent!"
"Not so loud—not so loud!" implored Brinn, repeating that odd, almost furtive glance around. "Mr. Harley—you know me. You've heard of me and now you've met me. You know my place in the world. Do you believe me when I say that from this moment onward I don't trust my own servants?
