CHAPTER XV. A startling disclosure. Kleeck took a sudden step forward. What's that? What's that? He rapped out sharply. Your shots, Ennigel? This is something I haven't heard of before, and it's likely to cause trouble. Explain, please. But Meritan was past explaining anything just then, for he had bowed his head in his hands, and was sobbing in great heart-rung sobs, with Dr. Bartholomew's arms about him. Sobs that told of the nerve strain which gave them birth, that told of the tenseness under which he had lived these last weeks. And now the thread had snapped, and all the broken, jangling nerves of the man had been loosed, and torn his control to atoms. The doctor shook him gently, but with firm fingers.   He said over and over again, as he waved the other away, and taking out a little file from his waistcoat pocket, dropped a dose from it into a wine glass, and forced it between the man's lips.  The shot he fired was nothing, the mere whim of a man whose brain had been fired by champagne, and who wasn't, therefore, altogether responsible for his actions. He whipped round suddenly upon clique, his faded eyes, with their fringe of almost white lashes flashing like points of light from the seemed and wrinkled frame of his face. If you'll want to hear that foolish part of the story, I can give it to you, he said sharply, because I happen to be there. You? Yes, I'm Mr. Headland, isn't it? Ah, thanks. But the boy's unstrung, nerve-wracked. He's been through too much. The whole beastly thing has made a mess of him, and he was a fool to meddle with it. Nigel Merritton fired a shot that night when Dacre Winn disappeared, Mr. Headland.  So Sir Nigel was no good friend of this man, Winn's, then, remarked clique quietly, as if he did not already know the fact. The doctor looked up as though he were ready to spring upon him and tear him limb from limb. No, he said furiously, and neither would you have been if you'd known him, great hulking bully that he was. I tell you, I've seen the man use his influence upon this boy here, until fine upstanding chap that he is, and I've known him and his people ever since he was a baby. He has succeeded in making him as weak as a hysterical girl, and gloated over it too. Clique drew in a quiet breath, and gave his shoulders the very slightest of twitches to show that he was listening. Very interesting doctor as psychological studies of the kind go, he said smoothly stroking his chin and looking down at the bowed shoulders of the man in the armchair with something almost like sorrow in his eyes. But we've got to get down to brass tacks, you know. This thing's serious. It's got to be proved. If it can't be, well, it's going to be mighty awkward for Sir Nigel. Now, let's hear the thing straight out from the person most interested, please. I don't like to appear thoughtless in any way, but this is a serious admission you've just made. Sir Nigel, I beg of you. Tell us the story before the constable comes. It might make things easier for you in the long run.  He got slowly to his feet, and went over to the table, leaning his hand upon it as though for support. Oh, well, he said listlessly. You might as well hear it first as last. Dr. Bothol amuse right, Mr. Hedlund. I did fire a shot upon the night of Jacob Wynne's disappearance, and I fired it from my bedroom window. It was like this. Wynne had gone, and after waiting for him to come back away past the given time, we all made up our minds to go to bed, and Tony West, a pal of mine who was one of the guests, and the doctor here accompanied me to my room door. Dr. Bothol amuse had a room next to mine. In that part of the house the walls are thin, and although my revolver, which I always carry with me, Mr. Hedlund, since I lived in India, is one of those almost soundest little things, still the sound of it reached him. Is it of small caliber? asked Cleak at this juncture. Meritan nodded gravely. As you say of small caliber, you can see it for yourself. Borkins, he turned toward the man who was standing by the doorway, his hands hanging at his sides, his manner a trifle of sequias. Will you bring it from the left-hand drawer of my dressing-table? Here is the key.  Very good, Sir Nigel, said the man, and withdrew, leaving the door open behind him, however, as though he were afraid to lose any of the story that was being told in the quiet morning-room. When he had gone, Meritan resumed, I'm not a superstitious man, Mr. Hedlund, but that old wife's tale of the frozen flames, and the new one coming out every time they claimed another victim, seemed to have burnt its way into my brain, that and the champagne together, and then close upon it Dacre Winn's foolish bet to find out what the things were. When I went up to my room, and after saying good night to the doctor here, closed the door and locked it, I then crossed to the window and looked out at the flames, and as I looked, believe it or not, as you will, another flame suddenly sprang up at the left of the others, a flame that seemed brighter, bigger than any of the rest, a flame that bore with it the message, I am Dacre Winn. Cleek smiled crookedly and went on stroking his chin. Rather a fanciful story, that, Sir Nigel, he said, but go on, what happened? Why, I fired at the thing.   Though I know those weren't the identical words I spoke.  Here the doctor nodded vigorously as though to corroborate these statements, and made as if to speak. Cleek silenced him with a gesture. And then, what next, Sir Nigel? Myrton cleared his throat before proceeding, there was a drawn look upon his face. The doctor said he thought he had heard a shot, and asked me what it was, and I replied, nothing, only I was potting at the flames. This seemed to amaze him, as it would any sane man, I should think, and as no doubt it is amazing you, Mr Headland.  Well, I showed the doctor the revolver in my hand, and he laughingly said that he'd take it to bed with him, in case I should start potting at him by mistake. Then I got into bed after making him promise he wouldn't breathe a word to anybody of what had occurred, as the others would be sure to laugh at me, and that's all. And quite enough, too, I should say, broken Cleek as the man finished. It sounds true enough, believe me, from your lips, and I know you for an honourable man, but what sort of a credence do you think an average jury is going to place upon it? Do you think they'd believe you? He shook his head, never, they'd simply laugh at the whole thing, and say you are either drunk or dreaming. People in the 20th century don't indulge in superstition to that extent, Sir Nigel, or at least, if they do, they let their reason govern their actions as far as possible. It's a tall story at best, if you'll forgive me for saying so. Meritons face went a dull, sultry red, his eyes flamed. Then you don't believe me, he said impatiently. Cleek raised a hand. I don't say that for one moment, he replied. What I say is, would a judge and jury believe you? That is the question, and my answer to it is no. You've had every provocation to take Decawin's life so far as I can learn. Every provocation, that is, that a man of unsound mentality who would stoop to murder could have to justify himself in his own eyes.  You can swear to this statement as far as your part in it is concerned, Dr. Bartholomew. Absolutely, said the doctor, though plainly showing that he felt it was no business of the supposed Mr. Headlands. Well, that's good. But if only there had been another witness, someone who actually saw this thing done, or who had heard the pistol shot, not as I'm doubting your word at all, doctor, it might help to elucidate matters. There is no one you know of who could have heard and not spoken. At this juncture, Borkin's came quietly into the room, holding the little revolver in his right hand, and handed it to Cleek. If you please, Sir, he said impassively and with a quick look into Meriton's grave face. I heard, and I can speak if the jury wants me to. I don't doubt that what my tale would be worth listening to, if only to add my evidence to the rest. That man there. He pointed one shaking forefinger at his master's face, and glowered into it for a moment. Was the murderer of poor Mr. Wynn? End of Chapter 15. Chapter 16 of The Riddle of the Frozen Flame by Mary E. Hanshaw and Thomas W. Hanshaw. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 16 Trapped.  Meriton let forward suddenly, and it was with difficulty that Cleek could restrain him from seizing the butler round the throat. Gently, gently, my friend, interposed Cleek as he neatly caught Meriton's up-thrown arm.  We've got to hear what this man says, to know whether he's speaking the truth or not, and we've got to go into his evidence as clearly as we go into yours. You're perfectly right, Doctor, I am a policeman, and I'm down here for the express purpose of investigating this appalling affair. The expression of your face so plainly said, What right has he to go meddling in another man's affairs like this, that I was obliged to confess the fact for the sake of my self-respect? My friend here, Mr. Lake, is working with me. At this, he gave Borkin's a keen, searching look, and saw in the man's impassive countenance that this was no news to him. Now then, my man, speak out. You tell us you heard that revolver shot when you masterfired it from his bedroom. Where are your quarters? On the other side of the house, sir, returned Borkin's, flushing a trifle. But I was up in me dressing gown as I somehow thought that something was amiss. I'd heard the quarrel that had taken place between St Nigel and poor Mr. Wynne, and I'd heard him go out and slam the door behind him. So I was keeping me ears peeled, as you might say. I see. Doing a bit of veevs-dropping, eh? Asked Creek, and was rewarded by an angry look from under the man's dark brows and a sudden tightening of the lines about his mouth. And what then? I kept about first in the bathroom, and then in the hall, keeping my ears open, for I'd nigh-deer that one day things would come to a head between them.  And don't you dare to mention her name, or I'll stop you forever from speaking whether I hang or not. Borkin's looked at Creek, and his look quite plainly conveyed the meaning that he wished the detective to notice how violence and Nigel could be on occasions. But if Creek saw this, he paid not the slightest heed.  He cut in in a sharp tone, and Borkin's resumed. At last I saw Nigel and the doctor and Mr. West come up the corridor together. I heard him bid each other good-night, saw the doctor go into his room, and Mr. West returned to the smoking-room, and heard St Nigel's key turn in his lock. After that there was silence for a bit, and all I years was his moving about, and muttering to himself, as though he was angry about something. Then, just as I was a-going back to my own room, I heard the pistol shot, and nips back again.  And then, without waiting for anything else, I runs down to the servant's hall, which is directly below the smoking-room where the other gentlemen were talking and smoking. I pierce out of the window, upward, for it's a half-basement, as perhaps you've noticed, sir. And there, in the light of the moon, I see Mr. Wind's figure crouch down against the gravel of the front path, and making funny sorts of noises. And then, all of a sudden, he went still as a dead man, and he was a dead man. With that, I flies to my own room, frightened half out of my wits, for I'm a peace-loving person, and easily scared, I'm afraid. And then I locks myself in, saying over and over to myself the words, He's done it, he's done it at last, he's murdered Mr. Wind, he has. And that's all I have to say, sir. In the damned sight too much, too, you liar! Through emeriton furiously, his face convulsed with passion, the veins on his temples standing out like whip-cords. Why, the whole story's a fake! And if it were true, tell me how I could get Wind's body out of the way so quickly, and without anyone hearing me, when every man in that smoking-room from their own words, and from those of the doctor here, was at that moment straining his ears for any possible sound. The smoking-room flanked straight on the drive, Mr. Headland. He caught himself up just in time, as he saw Kleeck's almost imperceptible signal, and then went on, his voice gaining in strength and fury with every word. I'm not a giant, am I? I couldn't have lifted Wind alive and with his own assistance, much less lift him dead when he'd be a good sight heavier.  And if ever I get out of this thing alive, I'll show Borkin's exactly what I think of him, and why you should give credence to the story of a lying servant, rather than to mine I cannot see at all. Would I have brought you here, you, a man whose name— and even in the excitement which had him in its grip, Nigel felt Kleeck's will, powerful, compelling, preventing his giving away the secret of his identity, preventing his telling that it was the mastermind among the criminal investigators of Europe, which was working on this horrible affair. He went on, still in a fury of indignation, but with the knowledge of Mr. Headland's true name still locked in his breast. Did I bring you here as a friend, and give you every opportunity to work on this strange business, to have you arraign me as a murderer? Do not treat me as a suspect, Mr. Detective. I am not on trial. I want this thing cleared up, yes, but I am not here to be accused of the murder of a man who was a guest in my own house, by the very man I brought in to find the true murderer. You haven't given me time to say whether I accuse you or not, sir Nigel, replied Kleeck patiently. Now, if you'll permit me to speak, we'll take up this man's evidence. There are gaps in it that rather badly want filling up, and there are thin places which I hardly think would hold water before a judge and jury. But he swears himself a witness, and there you are. And as for believing his word before yours, who fired the shots, sir Nigel? Did he or did you? I am a representative of the law, and as such I entered your house. Myrton made no reply, simply held his head a little higher, and clasped the edge of the table more firmly. Now, said Kleeck, turning to the butler and fixing him with his keen eyes, you are ready to swear that this is true upon your oath, and knowing that perjury is punishable by law? Yes, sir. Borkin's voice was very low and rather indistinct. Very well. Then may I ask why you did not immediately report this matter to the rest of the party or to the police? Something flashed across Borkin's face and was gone again. He cleared his throat nervously before replying. I felt honoured to, sir Nigel, sir. He returned at length. A man stands by his master, you know, if he's a good one, and though we'd had words before, I didn't bear him no malice, and I didn't want the old house to come to disgrace.  I take it that you had had what you term words since that fatal date. Borkin's nodded. He did not like this cross-examination, and his nervousness was apparent in voice and look and action. Yes, sir. Hmm, and if we put that to one side altogether, can you give me any reason why I should believe this unlikely story, in place of the equally unlikely one that your master has told me? Knowing what I do.  I—I—what can you know about me, but that I have been in the employment of this family nearly all my life? He returned, taken off his guard by Kleeck's remark. I'm only a poor honest working man, sir, been in the same place nigh on to twenty years, and—and hoping you can hang on another twenty, I daresay, through in Kleeck sarcastically. Oh, I know more about you, my man, than I care to tell. But at the moment that doesn't enter into the matter, we'll take that up later. Now then, there's the revolver. Doctor, you should be useful here, if you will use your professional skill in the service of the law that seems trying to embroil your friend. I want you to examine the head wound, please, the head wound of the man called Daker Winn, and, if you can, remove the bullet that is lodged in the brain. Then we shall have a chance to compare it with those remaining in Sir Nigel's revolver. I can't do it, Mr. Hedlund, returned Dr. Bartholomew firmly. I won't lend myself to a plot to infagle this poor boy, to ruin his life. And I demand it in the name of the law. He motioned to Petrie and Hammond, who, through the whole length of the inquiry, had stood with dollops beside the doorway. They came forward swiftly. Arrest Dr. Bartholomew for treating the law with contempt. But I say, Mr. Hedlund, this is a damned outrage. Cleek held up a hand. Yes, he said. I agree with you, but a very necessary one. Besides, he smiled suddenly into the seemed anxious face of the man. Who knows, but that bullet may prove Sir Nigel's innocence. Who knows, but that it is not the same kind as I now in this deadly little thing here in my hand.  Must I arrest him now, and take him off to the public jail to await trial? Or will you give him a sporting chance? The Doctor looked up into the keen eyes bent upon him, his own equally keen. He did not know whether he liked this man of the law or not. Something of the man's personality, unfortunate as had been its revelation during this past trying hour, had caught him in its thrall. He measured him eye for eye, but Cleek's never wavered. I've no instruments, he said at last, hedging for time. I have plenty upstairs. I have dabbled a little in surgery myself when occasion has arisen. I'll fetch them in a minute. You will? The Doctor stood up between the two tall policemen who had a hand upon either shoulder. His face was set like a mask. It's a damned outrage, but I will, he said. Dollops was gone like a flash. In the meantime, Cleek cleared the room. He sent Meritinoff to the smoking-room in charge of Petrie and Hammond, and Borkins with them, though Borkins was to be kept in the hallway, away from his master's touch and voice. Cleek, Mr. Narcombe, and the Doctor remained alone in the room of death, where the Doctor set to his gruesome task. Outside, Constable Roberts' burly voice could be heard holding forth in the hall, upon the fact that he'd been after a poacher on Mr. Jimmison's estate over to Saltfleet, and wasn't in when they came for him. And the operation went quietly on. In the smoking-room, with Hammond and Petrie seated like death-mutes upon either side of him, Meritinoff reviewed the whole awful affair from start to finish, and felt his heart sink like lead in his breast. Oh, what a fool he had been to have these men down here!  To see them willfully chomping up a charge of murder against the Doctor, chomping up a charge of murder against himself was, well, it was enough to make any sane man lose hold on his reason. And Toinette, his little Toinette, if he should be convicted and sent to prison, what would become of her? It would break her heart, and he might never see her again. A sudden moisture pricked at the corners of his eyes. God! Never to call her wife! How long were those beasts going to brood in there over the dead? And was there not a chance that the bullet might be different? After all, wasn't it almost impossible that the bullet should be the same? His was an unusual little revolver, made by a firm in French Africa, having a different sort of cartridge. Every Tom, Dick and Harry didn't have one, couldn't afford it in the first place. There was a chance. Yes, certainly there was a chance. His blood began to hammer in his veins again, and his heart beat rapidly. Hope went through him like wine, drowning all the fears and terrors that had stalked before him like demons from another world. He heard, with throbbing pulses, approaching footsteps in the hall. His head was swimming, his feet seemed loaded with lead so that he could not rise. Then across the space from where Cleak stood, the revolver in one hand and the tiny black object that had nested in a dead man's brain in the other, came the sound of his voice, speaking in clear, concise sentences.  For a moment the world swam, then he caught the import of what Cleak was saying. The bullet is the same as those in your revolver, Sir Nigel. He said concisely, I am sorry, but I must do my duty. Constable Roberts, here is your prisoner. I arrest this man for the murder of Dacre Wynne. Tell them a story that was a tissue of lies. It was appalling. What a fiend incarnate this man, Cleak, was. Coming here at Nigel's own bidding, and then suddenly manipulating the evidence until it caught him up in its writhing coils, like a well-throne lasso. Oh, if he had only let well enough alone and not brought a detective to the house. Yet how was he to know that the man would try to fix a murder on him himself? Useless for him to speak, to deny. The revolver shot and the cruel little bullet, which showed there were others who possessed that sort of firearm besides himself, proved too easily upon the circumstantial evidence theory at all events that his word was not. He went through the next hour or two like a man who has been tortured, silent but bearing the mark of it upon his white face and in his haggard eyes, and indeed his situation was a terrible and strange one. He had set the wheels of the law in motion. He himself had brought the relentless Hamilton Cleak into the affair, and now he was called a murderer. In the little cell where they had placed him, away from the gaping, murmuring, gesticulating knot of villagers that had marked his progress to the police station for news flyers fast in the country, especially when there is a viper tongue like Borkins to wing it on its way, he was thankful for the momentary peace and quiet that the place afforded. At least he could think, think and pace up and down the narrow room with its tiny barred window too high for a man to reach, and its hard camp bedstead with the straw mattress, and go through the whole miserable fabrication that had landed him there. The second day of confinement brought him a visitor. It was Toinet. His jailer, a rough-haired village hand who had taken up with the force and wore the uniform as though it belonged to someone else which indeed it had, brought him news of her arrival. It cut him like a lash to see her thus, and yet the longing for her was so great that it superseded all else, so he faced the man with a grim smile. I suppose, Bennet, that I shall be allowed to see, Miss Brelia, you have made inquiries? Yes, sir. Bennet was crestfallen and rather ashamed of his duty. Any restrictions? Bennet hedged. Well, if you please, sir Nigel, that is.  Constable Roberts, give orders that I was to stay here with you. But I can turn me back, returned Bennet with flushing continents. Shall I show the lady in? Yes. She came. Her frock was of some clinging grey material that made her look more fairy-like than ever.   O Nigel, it seems impossible, utterly, that you should be sought to have killed Daker, you of all people. Poor, peace-loving Nigel, something must be done, dearest, something shall be done. You shall not suffer so for someone else's sin, you shall not. He smiled at her wonly, and told her how beautiful she was. It was useless to explain to her the utter futility of it all. There was the revolver, and there the bullet. The weapon was his, of the bullet, he could say nothing. He had only told the truth, and they had not believed him. Yes, see, dear, he said patiently. They do not believe me.  Sworn, in fact, that he saw it all from the kitchen window. Saw wind lying in the garden-path dying after I fired at him. Of course, the things and outrageous lie, but they're acting upon it. Nigel, how doubt he— Whom, Borkin's? That kind of a devil dares anything. How's your uncle, dear? He has heard, of course. Her face brightened, her eyes were suddenly moist. She put her hands upon his shoulders, and tilted her chin so that she could see his eyes. Uncle Gustav told me to tell you that he does not believe a word of it, dearest, she said softly. And he is going to make investigations himself. He is so unhappy, so terribly unhappy over it all. Such a tangled web as it is. Such a wicked, wicked plot they have woven about you. O Nigel, dearest, why did you not tell me that they were detectives?  What then, petite? I would have made you send them away. I would, I would. She cried vehemently. They should not have come, not if I had wired to them myself. Something told me that day after you were gone that a dreadful thing would happen. I was frightened for you, frightened, and I could not tell why. I kept laughing at myself, trying to tease myself out of it as though it was simply what you call it—the blues. And now this. He nodded. And now this. He said grimly and laughed. Bennett, hand upon watch, turned apologetically at this juncture. Sorry, sir Nigel. He said, but time's up. Ten minutes is the time allowed, the prisoner. And I'm afraid the young lady must go. It hurts me to tell you, sir, but you'll understand duty is duty. Yes, darkness, Bennett, though some people's idea of it is different from others, returned Meryton with a bleak smile. Have no fear, Twanette. There is still plenty of time. And I shall engage the finest council in the land to stand for me. This knot shall be broken somehow. This tissue of lies must have a flaw somewhere. And nowadays circumstantial evidence, you know, doesn't hold too much water in a court of law.   But they had helped her, and for that he was glad. When she had gone, he sat down on the edge of his narrow bed, and dropped his face in the cup of his hands. How hopeless it seemed! What chance had he of a future now with Cleak against him? Cleak, the unraveler of a thousand riddles that had puzzled the cleverest brains in the universe. Cleak would never admit to having made a blunder this time, though there was a sort of grim satisfaction in the knowledge that he had blundered, though he himself was the victim. He sat there for a long time, thinking, his brain wearied, his heart like lead. Bennet's heavily booted feet upon the stone floor brought him back again to realities. There's another visitor, sir, said he—our gentleman. Seeing him up at the towers, I have name of West, sir. Constable Robert says as thou you may see him. How kind of the Constable! thought Nigel Bitterly. His mouth twisted into a wry smile. Then his eyes lightened suddenly. Tony West's day. So all the rats hadn't deserted the sinking ship after all. There were still the old doctor who came, cheering him up with kind words, bringing him books that he thought he could read, as though a man could read books under such circumstances. And now, Tony West—good old West! West strode in his five feet three of manhood, looking as though it were ready to throw the jailer's six feet one out of the window upon request, and seized Nigel's hand, ringing it furiously. Good old Nigel! God, but it's fine to see you.  Ring his damned neck, I would. How are you, old sport? Under such light badinage did West try to conceal his real feeling, but there was a tremor of the lips that spoke so banteringly. Good old West! a friend in a thousand. Nice sort of place for the squire of the manor to be disporting himself, isn't it? Returned Meryton, fighting his hardest to keep his composure and reply in the same light tone. I—I— Damn it, Tony, you don't believe it, do you? West went red to the rim of his collar. He choked with the vehemence of his response. Believe it, man! Do you think I'm crazy? What sort of a fool would I be to believe it? Wasn't I there that night with you? Wait until I give my evidence in court. Bullet or no bullet, you're no—no murderer, Nigel. I'd swear my life away on that. There were others on worst terms with Win and you, old chap. There was Stark for one. Stark used to borrow money from him in the old days, you know, until they had a devil of a shindy over an IOU and the friendship bust. You'd know more reason to kill him than Lester Stark, I swear, or me for that matter. No, I'd no reason to kill him, Tony. But they'll take that quarrel we had over the frozen flame that night and bring it up against me in court. They'll bring everything against me, everything that can be twisted or turned or bullied into blackening my name.  West put up his hand suddenly. Don't, he said quietly. Or they'll be putting that against you, too. Believe me, Nigel, oh boy, the law's the greatest duffer on earth. By the way, here's a piece of news for you. I heard it as I stopped in the towers this morning. Saw that man, Hedlund, the detective. He told me to tell you, and I clean forgot. But they found an IOU on Win's body. An IOU for two thou in Lester Stark's name. Dated two nights before the party. Looks a bit funny, that, doesn't it? Funny! Meryton felt his heart suddenly bound upward, and as suddenly dropped back in his breast like lead. Glad that there was a chance for another pal to come under the same brutal sway as he had. What sort of a friend was he, anyway? But an IOU, and in Lester Stark's name. He remembered the black looks that passed between the two of them that night, remembered them as though they had been but yesterday. He jerked his chin up. What are they going to do about it? Hedlund told me to tell you that he was going to investigate the matter further, that you were to keep up your heart. Seemed a decent sort of chap, I must say. Keep up his heart. And there was a chance of someone else taking his share of the damnable thing after all. But Lester Stark wouldn't kill. Perhaps not.   But somehow his heart had lightened. Cleak didn't seem such a bad chap after all, and they couldn't hang him yet, anyhow. For the rest of the long dreary day, the memory of that IOU with Lester Stark's name sprawled across the bottom of it in the dashing calligraphy that he knew danced before his mind's eye like a fleeting hope, making the day less long. End of Chapter 17. Chapter 18 Of The Riddle of the Frozen Flame by Mary E. Hanshu and Thomas W. Hanshu This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 18 Possible Excitement Meanwhile, Cleak, Mr. Narcombe and Dollop stayed on at the towers for such time as it would take to have the coroner's inquest arranged, and Meryton brought up before the local magistrate. Mr. Narcombe was frankly uneasy over the whole affair. There's something fishy in it, Cleak. He kept saying, I don't like the looks of it. Taking that innocent boy up for a murder, which I feel certain he never committed. Of course, circumstantial evidence points strongly against him, but he is better out of the way at all events, into posed Cleak. Mind you, I don't say the chap is innocent. Men of wind's caliber have the knack of raising the very devil in a person who is under their influence for long. And there's Borkin's story.  He crossed to where Mr. Narcombe stood and put a hand on his arm. Tell me, he said quietly, did you ever hear of a chap squirming and moaning and doing the rest of the things that the man said Wynne was doing in the garden pathway, when a bullet had got him clean through the brain? Something fishy there, if you like. I should think so, replied Mr. Narcombe. Why, the chap would have died instantly. Then you think Borkin's himself is guilty? On the contrary, I do not. Returned Cleak emphatically. If my theory is correct, Borkin's is not the murderer of Dayka Wynne. Much more likely to be Nigel Meritan for that matter. Then there's the question of this IOU that I found on the body. Signed Lester Stark. And the doctor, god, what a loyal friend to have, told me that Lester Stark, Meritan and a little man called West, were bosom friends and clubmates. Then perhaps the man Stark killed him after all. Threw in Mr. Narcombe at this juncture, and there was a tinge of eagerness in his excited tones, which made Cleak whirl round upon him and say accusingly, old friend, Meritan has won your heart as he has won others.  And I must say he does seem such a clean, honest, upstanding young fellow. But you're ready to convict any one of the murder of Dayka Wynne but Meritan himself. Own up now, you've a sneaking regard for the fellow. Mr. Narcombe reddened. Well, if you want the truth of it, I have.  He is exactly the kind of chap I'd like for a son of my own, and dash it. I don't like seeing him in the lock-up, and that's the long and short of it. As so long as it's only the long and short, and not the end of it, it doesn't greatly matter. Returned Cleak. Hello, is that you, dollops? Yes, sir. Any news for me? Found that chap with the straggling black mustache that tried to do me in the other night? I've not a doubt that you've discovered the answer to the whole riddle by the look upon your face. Dollops cautiously approached, looking over his shoulder, as though he expected any minute that the cadaverous face of Borkins would peer in at him, or that perhaps Dayka Wynne himself would rise from the dead and shake an accusing finger in his face. He reached Cleak and laid a timid hand upon the detective's arm, then he bent his face close to Cleak's ear. Well, I've an inkling that I'm well onto the untying of it, help me if I ain't! he whispered in highly melodramatic tones. Cleak laughed but looked interested at once, while Mr. Narcon prepared to give his best attention to what the lad had to say. Traced the blighter with the straggling whiskers on his lip, anyway, he said triumphantly, casting still another glance over his shoulder in the direction of the door and lowering his tone still further. Caught a glimpse of him long by the salt fleet road this afternoon, Governor, and thinks I to myself, you're the bling in blighter, what tried to do the Governor in, are you?  He'd got on sailor in togs, Mr. Cleak, and a black hat pulled down low over one eye. Mate with him looked like a real badon, gold rings in his ears he'd got like a blooming lidey, and a blue sweater and sailor's breeches. Chin whiskers too, what were something like rotten seaweed? Oh, a effinly specimen of a jabby were I can tell you. On the salt fleet road, eh? Interposed, Cleak rapidly as the boy paused a moment for breath. So, my midnight friend is doubtless sailing for foreign parts, as the safest place when Coroner's evidence begins to get too hot for him. And what then, dollops? Couldn't find out much else, Mr. Cleak, except a trace to place where the beggar hangs out, and that's a bit of a shanty just off Salt Fleet Bay, and a stone's throw from what looks to me very like a boat factory of some kind. Wrecking the chap's employed there, as from a casual chap with a sailor in Johnny and the bar parlor of the pig and whistle, where I was a lining of me empty stomach. Detecting is that hungry work, sir, with a sausage and a pint of foreign arth. This fella tells me that pretty near everyone around here works there. I asked him what they did, and he says, make boats and things, with now and again a little flurry in shipping to break the monotony.  And if I don't give him a taste of the api hereafter, well, my name's not dollops. Cleak laughed and laid a hand upon the lad's shoulder. You've done a lot toward unravelling the mystery dollops, my lad, he said.  This evening we'll hire us to the Salt Fleet Road and see what further the pig and whistle can reveal to us. It'll be like the old times of the twisted arm days, boy, where every second held its own unknown and certain danger. Give us an appetite for our breakfast, eh? He laughed again, a happy schoolboyish laugh which brought a positively shocked expression to Mr. Narcombe's round face. My dear Cleak, he expostulated. Really, one might think that you actually enjoyed this sort of thing. One of these fine days, if you're not careful, you'll be caught napping, and it'll take all dollops in my ingenuity to get you out of the clutches. I do beg of you to be careful, for else a sake if not for mine. At mention of the name, for a second the whole look upon Cleak's face altered. Something came into his eyes that softened their keenness. Something settled down over his countenance, wiping away the mirth and the grim lines together. He sighed. Hey, ho! he said softly, spinning round upon his heel and surveying Mr. Narcombe with a half smile upon his lips. I will be careful, dear friend, I promise. And I have given my word to her as well, and that the life of Hamilton Cleak should be so precious to any such angel as that. Well, it fair beats me, as dollops would say. I'll be careful, all right, you may depend upon it. But dollops and I are going to have a little arting on our own. We'll ransack the make-up box after lunch and see what it can produce. And if we don't bring back something worth hearing to you on our return tonight, then I'll retire from Scotland Yard altogether and take a kindergarten class. God, I feel sorry for young Meryton, but there's no other course open to us at present, but to keep him where he is. Coroner's inquest takes place tomorrow afternoon, and a lot may happen in the meantime. Mr. Narcombe gravely shook his head. Don't like a thing at all, headland. He supplemented slowly, lighting a fresh cigarette from the stump of the other one and blowing a cloud of smoke into the air. Something here that we haven't got at. Something big. I feel it. Well, you'll have that feeling further augmented before many more days are over, my friend. Returned Cleak, meaningly. What did the letter from headquarters say? I noticed you got one this morning and recognized it by the way the stump was set on the envelope. Though I must say your secretary is more than discreet. It looked for all the world like a love letter, which no doubt your curious friend Borkin thought it was. But if Cleak appeared in fine fetal at the prospect of a possible exciting evening with dollops, Mr. Narcombe's barometer did not register the same comforting high altitude. He did not smile. Oh, it had to do with these continual bank robberies. He replied with a sigh. There enough to wear a man right out. Seems so simple and all that, and yet never a trace left. Fellowes reports that another one took place at Ealing. As usual, only gold stolen, not a banknote touched. They'll be holding us up in the main road like Dick Turpin if the robbers are allowed to continue on their way like this. It's damnable to say the least. The beggars seem to get off scot-free every time. If this case here wasn't so difficult and important, I'd be off up to London to have a look into things again. Frankly, it worries me. Cleak lifted a restraining hand. Don't let it do anything so foolish as that to you, old man. He interposed. Give them rope to hang themselves. Lots of rope. This is just the opportunity they want. Give orders for nothing to be done.  There's nothing like patience in this sort of a job. They're bound to get careless soon, and then will be your chance. I wish I could feel as confident about it as you do. Returned, Mr. Narcum, with a shake of the head. But you've solved so many unsolvable riddles in your time, man. So I suppose I'll just have to trust your judgment, and let your opinion cheer me up. Still. Ah! Borkins. Lunch ready? I must say I don't like eating the food of a man I've just placed in prison, but I suppose one must eat. And there are a few very necessary inquiries to be gone into before the coroner's inquest to-morrow. The men have been up from the local morgue, haven't they?  Saved for a slight light of triumph, which seemed to flicker in his close-set eyes, and play occasionally about his narrow lips, there was nothing to show in his demeanor that such an extremely large pebble as his master's conviction for murder had caused the ripples to break on the smooth surface of his life's tenor. Cleak blew a cloud of smoke into the air, and swung one leg across the other with a sort of devil-may-care air that was part of his headland makeup in this piece. Well, said he offhandedly, all I can say is I wouldn't like to be in your master's shoes, Borkins. He is guilty, not a doubt of it, and he'll certainly be called to justice. You think so? An undercurrent of eagerness ran in Borkins' tone. Most assuredly I do not a chance for him, poor beggar. He'll possibly swing for it, too. Pleasant conjecture before lunch, I must say. And we'll have it all cold if we don't look sharp about it, Lake O'Chap. Come along. They spent the afternoon in discussing the case bit by bit, probing into it, tearing it to ribbons, analysing, comparing, rehearsing once more the scene of that fateful night when Daker Wynn had crossed the fence, and, according to every one's but Borkins' evidence, had never returned. By evening Mr. Narcombe, notebook in hand, was suffering with writer's cramp, and complained of a headache. As Cleak rose from this private investigation and stretched his hands over his head, he gave a sudden little laugh. Well, you'll be able to rest yourself as much as you like this evening, Mr. Lake. He said lightly, trying the muscles of his right arm with his left hand, and nodding as he felt them ride up, smooth and firm as ivory under his coat's sleeve. I'm not in such bad fetal for an amateur, if anything in the nature of a scrap comes along, after all. Though I'm not anticipating any fighting, I can assure you. There's the morning's papers and the local rag with various lurid and inaccurate accounts of the whole ghastly affair. Meriton seems to have a good many friends in these parts, and the local press is strong in his favour, but that's as far as it goes. At any rate, they'll keep you interested until we come home again. By the way, you might drop a hint to Borkins that I shall be writing some letters in my room tonight, and don't want to be disturbed, and that if he wants to go out, dollops will post them for me and see to my wants, will you? I don't want him to suspicion anything. Mr. Narkham nodded. He snapped his notebook, too, and bound the elastic round it, as clique crossed to the door and threw it open. I'll be going up to my room now, Lake. He said, in clear high tones that carried down the empty hallway to whatever listener might be there to hear them. I have some letters to write, one to my fiancee, you know, and naturally I don't want to be disturbed. All right, said Mr. Narkham equally clearly. So long. Then the door closed sharply and clique mounted the stairs to his room, whistling softly to himself meanwhile. Just as Borkins rounded the corner of the dining-room door, and acknowledged his friendly nod with one equally friendly.  He said to the shadows, So much for your London policeman, eh? Write in love letters on a night like this, young sapid. Then he swung upon his heel and retraced his steps to the kitchen. Upstairs in the dark passageway, clique stood and laughed noiselessly, his shoulders shaking with the mirth that swayed him. Borkins' idea of a London policeman had pleased him mightily. Great grey cloud-banks swamped the sky, and there was a heavy mist that blurred the outline of tree and fence, and made the broad flat stretches of the marshes into one impenetrable blot of inky darkness. Two men in ill-fitting corduroys and soiled blue jerseys, their swathe necks girt about by vivid handkerchiefs, and their big-peaked caps pulled well down over their eyes, made their way along the narrow road that led from Merritton Towers to Saltleet Bay. At the junction with Saltleet Road, two other figures slipped by them in the half mist, and after peering at them from under the screen of dark caps, sang out a husky, Good night, mate. They answered in unison the bigger, broader one whistling as he swung along, his pace slackening a trifle so that the two newcomers might pass him and get on into the shadows ahead. Once they had done so, he ceased his endless, ear-piercing whistle, and turned to his companion, his hand reaching out suddenly and catching the sleeve nearest him. That was Borkin's, he said, in a muttered undertone, as the two figures in front swung away into the shadows. Did you see his face, lad? I did, responded dollops with asperity, and a fine specimen of a face it were, too. If I were born with that tacked onto me and that of me, I'd drown myself in the nearest pond before I'd have courage to survive it. Yes, it was Borkin's, all right, Governor. And the other chat with him, the one with the black whiskers and the lanting jaw, hush, boy, not so loud. Cleek's voice cut into the whispered undertone a mere thread of sound, but a sound to be obeyed. I recognized him, too, interrupted Cleek, my friend of the midnight visit and the plugged pillow. I'm not likely to forget that face in a day's march, I can promise you, and with Borkin's. Well, that was to be expected, of course. The next thing to consider is what the devil has a common sailor or factory hand to do with a chap like Daker Winn or Meritan for that matter. I never heard him say he'd any interest in factories of any kind, and I dareswear he hasn't. And yet, what's this dark stranger, as the fortune tellers say, doing poking his nose into the affair and trying to murder me just because I happen to be down here to investigate the question of the frozen flames? Bit of a problem, eh, dollops? Frozen flames, country squires, dark strangers who are sailormen, and a bucklow who has been years in the family's service.  Now, I wonder where those two are bound for. Pig and whistle? Conjectured dollops, laced ways that I swear old black whiskers is making for. Got friend-borkings in tow as well tonight, so things ought to be getting interesting. God, sir, if you don't look a fair cutthroat, I ain't ever seen one. Makes me blood-run cold just to squint at you, it does. That there must start and get you a farting on the stage, I swear. Mr. Narkham had fainted if he saw you, and I'm not so certain I wouldn't do a bunk myself if I met you in a dark lane, so to speak. Alia, does the expression fair-baits me? Cleek laughed good-humidly. The something theatrical in his make-up was gratified by the admiration of his audience. He linked his arm through the boys. Birthright, dollops, birthright. He made answer, speaking in a leisurely tone. Every man has one, you know. There is the birthright of princes. He sighed. Your birthright is a willing soul and an unwavering loyalty. Mine? A mere play of feature that can transform me from one man into another. A poor thing at best, dollops. But, hello? Lights ahead. What is it, my pocket guidebook? Bigum whistle! Granted dollops in a husky voice, glad of an excuse to hide his pleasure at Cleek's appreciation of his character. Hmm, that's good. The fun commences.  We're salaring men back from a cruise to Jamaica and pretty near penniless. Lost our jobs and looking for others. Told there was a factory somewhere in this part of the world that had to do with shipping and have walked down from London. Took six days, mind, don't forget that. And a devilish long walk, too, I reckon. But that's, by the way. Your name's Sam, Sam Robinson. Mine? Bill Jones. Our friends are ahead of us. Come along. Whistling they swung up to the brightly lit little public house set there upon the edge of the bay. Here and there over the unruffled surface of the waters to the left of them a light pricked out, glowing against the gloom. Black against the mouth of the harbour, as though etched upon a smoky background, a steamer swayed uneasily with the swell of the water at her keel, her nose touching the pier head, a chain of lights outlining her cumbersome hulk. Men's voices made the night noisy and numerous feet scuttled to and fro over the cobbles of the dockyard to where a handful of fishing boats were drawn up, only their masts showing above the landing, with here and there a ghostly wraith of sail. Cleak paused a moment, drinking in the scene with his love of beauty, and then assumed his role of the evening, and how well he could play any role he chose. He cleared his throat and dressed his companion in broad cockney. Gold's truth, Sammy, he said. If this fair don't look like a bit of home, I ain't spotted the brawny for a dog's age. Let's have a drink. Someone turned at his raucous voice and looked back over the curve of a huge shoulder. Then he went to the doorway of the little pub and raised a hand with two fingers extended. Obviously it was some sort of sign, for in an instant the noise of voices dropped, and Cleak and Dollop slouched in and up to the crowded bar. Men made room for them on either side as they pushed their way in, eyeing them at first with some suspicion, then as they saw the familiar garments, calling out some hoarse jest or greeting in their own lingo, to which Cleak cheerfully responded. A little to the right of them stood Borkin's. His cap still pulled low over his eyes, and a shabby overcoat buttoned to the neck. Cleak glanced at him out of the tail of his eye, and then, at sight of his companion, his mouth tightened, he'd give something to measure that kerr muscle for muscle, strength for strength, the sort to steal into a man's room at night and try to murder him. The detective planted an arm, brown and brawny, and with a tattooed serpent winding its way round the strong wrist to the elbow, oh wonderful makeup box, on the edge of the marble bar and called loudly for a drink. His very voice was raw and husky with a tang of the sea in it. Dollop's nasal twang took up the story while the barmaid, a red-headed fat woman with a coarse hard face, who was continually smiling, looked them up and down, and having taken stock of them, set two pewter tankards of frothing ale before them, took the money from Cleak, bit it, and then, with a nod, dropped it into the till and came back for a chat. Strangers, ain't you? She said, pleasantly, leaning on the bar and grinning at them. Yes, Cleak's voice was sharp, emphatic. Thought so, see fair and I take it? Yes, said Cleak again, and gulped down the rest of his ale, pushing the tankard toward her and nodding at it significantly. She sniffed and then laughed. One another, eh? Ain't wasting many words, are ye, matey? Who's the little one? Maining me, said Dollop's, bridling, none of your blarney air-miss, me and my mates, been on a walk-in tour, up from Lannan. Come up from Lannan, we have. You never did. Admiration mingled with disbelief in the barmaid's voice. A little stir of interest went round the crowded, smoky room, and someone called out, Lannan, have ye? Been walking a bit, matey. What brought you down here? And what are sailor men doing in Lannan, anyhow? What my folks is doing nowadays, looking for a job? Replied, Cleak, as he gulped down the second tankard and pushed it forward again to be replenished. Come from Southampton, we have. Go pass up to Lannan, because a pal told us there'd be work at the factories. But there weren't no work. Gord's truth. What are sailor men wanting with cloth-making and emmering tin pots? Them's the only job we was offered in Lannan.  No, Sammy and me, we says to each other, he took another drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. We says, this ain't no price for us. We'd just come over from Jamaica. Go on, travelling in foreign parts, was ye? This's an admiration from the barmaid. And we ain't seeing ourselves turning into landlubbers in no-sick spot as that. Pal told us there was an arbor down near a bat's. With a factory, what a sailor man might get work at and still hold his self-respect. So we walked here. What energy! Black whiskers, as dollops had called him, broke in at this juncture. His thin mouth opening in a grin that showed two rows of blackened teeth. Cleak twitched round sharply in his direction. Yeah, wasn't it? And funny enough, we've plenty more energy to come.  And any chance of a couple of men getting a bit of work to keep the blinking wolf from the door? Oh, tell us. A slight silence followed this. A silence in which man looked at man, and then back again at the ginger-headed lady behind the bar. She raised her eyebrows and nodded, and then went off into little giggles that shook her plump figure. A big man, Cleak, left to gave him the answer. Factory makes electric fittings and such like a shipsm abroad. He said, tersely. Apn you don't understand the business. Apn the Maristow on't want you. Apn you'll have to move on, I'ma thinkin'. Ha ha, apn I won't! Retorted, Cleak with a loud guffaw.  What's a blooming mystery, and where's the blooming boss? Better see him in the morning, supplemented black whiskers, truculently, he is busy now, works all night sometimes he does, but there is a vacancy or two I know for factory plans, been a bit of rioting and splitting of state secrets, but the fellas what did it are gone now, he laughed a trifle grimly, won't never come trouble in here again, pretty strict master is, but good work and good pay, and you can't ask for more that's what I says, through indolapses in his shrill voice. Now Kleeke all this time had been edging more and more in the direction of Borkins and his sinister companion, who were standing a little apart, but nevertheless were interested spectators of all that went on. Having at last obtained his object, he cast about for a subject of conversation, and picked the barmaid, whose rally is met with the approval of the entire company, and who was at that moment carrying on a spirited give and take conversation with the redoubtable dollops. Bit of a spore, ain't she, governor?  The butler whirled round and fixed him with a stare of haughty indignation.  He retorted angrily, for Kleeke had dug a friendly elbow into his ribs. Oh, all right, no offence, men, thought perhaps you was the boss by the look of you, but doubtless you ain't nothing to do with the factory at all, private gent, I take it. Then you take it wrong, retorted Borkins sharply, and I have something to do with the factory if you want to know. Like to show your good manners, I might be able to get you a job, and one for the little one as well, though I don't care for Londoners, as a rule. There's another of them up at the place where I live, I'm Ed Butler to Sir Nigel Meriton of Meriton Towers, if you're anxious to know who I am. His chest swelled visibly. In private I dabble a little in other things, and I've influence, you men can keep your mouth shut. Damn as a blinking dog, through in dollops, who was close by Kleeke's side, and both men nodded vigorously. Well, then, I'll see what I can do, mind you, I don't promise nothing, I'll think it over. Better come to me to-morrow, make it in the evening, for there's a hing-quest up at the towers. My master's been caught from murdering his friend, and I'll have to be about, then. I'll to-morrow evening, sir.  Anyone know you was what they calls well-connected. To-morrow it is then, we'll be here and grateful for your help. What's this about a murder? Thigh, was it? I'm happy at that sort of thing myself. He squared up a moment and made a mock of boxing dollops, which seemed to please the audience. That's the stuff, that's the stuff, matey! Called out a raw-boned man, who up to the present had remained silent. You're the man for us, I says, and the little and two. Rettneugung, if you were to taste a fight in, I'll please you. Remarked Borkin's in a low voice. Yes, mayner's right, you're the man for us. Good night all, time's up, I'm off.  Cleek looked at dollops, and both realised the importance of getting back to the towers before the arrival of Borkin's, in case that worthy should think, as was far from unlikely, of spying on their movements and checking up on Cleek's progress in letter-writing. It was going to require some quick work. Well, Sammy, better be moving back to our shelter in Roof and all the comforts of home! Began Cleek almost at once, and gulping down the last of his fourth tankard and slouching over to the doorway, a chorus of voices stalked him. Where are you sleeping? Under the ice-deck, bow off a mile from here, replied Cleek glibly and at a venture. The barmaid's brows knitted into a frown. A-stuck! she repeated, There ain't no A-stuck along this road from here to Fetchworth.  Cleek retrieved him herself at once. Ain't there? Well, what if there ain't? The place where I calls a A-stack, and what Lannaners calls a A-stack, too, is the nearest bit of shelter, what comes your way. Man are speaking, that's all. Oh, then I reckon you meanst a bar, and about a quarter of a mile up the road to our village. The barmaid smiled again. That's it. Good night. Good night, chorus'd the horse voices. The night outside was as black as a pocket. Better cut along by the fields, dollops, whispered Cleek as they took to their heels up the rough road. Got to pass him. This mist will help us. That was a near shave about the haystack, and nearly tripped us up there. Awful creature, that woman. It looks like a jellyfish came loose, threw in dollops with a snort. There's old Borkin' sir straight ahead. Here, info's this gap in this edge, and then across the field by the side of him. Weren't such a rough night, after all, was it, sir? Cleek sighed. One might almost have thought that he regretted the fact. No, dollops. He said softly, it was the calmest night of its kind I've ever experienced, but we've gleaned something from it. But what the devil has Borkin's got to do with this factory. Whatever it is, he's in it right up to the neck, and will have to dig around him pretty carefully. You'll help me, dollops, won't you? Can't do without you, you know. Always, sir, always. Breathe dollops in a husky whisper. Where you goes, I'm Ikin along by your side. You ain't ever gonna get rid of me. Good lad. And they redoubled their pace. End of chapter 19. Chapter 20 of The Riddle of the Frozen Flame by Mary E. Henshu and Thomas W. Henshu. First LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 20 At the Inquest. Thursday dawned in a blaze of sunshine, and after the bleak promise of the day before, the sky was a clear sapphire blue.  Here's murder at the very door of this ill-fated place, and we've got to see the thing out. He spun upon his heel, and went back again into the gloomy hall, as though the sight of the sunshine sickened him. His thoughts were with merit and shut away there in the village prison to await this day of reckoning, with, if the word should go against him, a still further day of reckoning ahead. A day when the cleverest brains of the law schools would be arrayed against him, and he would have to go through the awful tragedy of a trial in open court. What was a mere coroner's jury to that possibility? And too, perhaps in spite of evidence, they might let the boy off. There was a chance in that matter of the IOU, which he himself had found in the pocket of the dead man, and which was signed in the name of Lester Stark. Stark was due at the inquest today to give his side of the affair. There was a possible loophole of escape. Would Nigel be able to get through it? That was the question. The inquest was set for two o'clock. From eleven onward the great house began to fill with expectant and curious visitors. Reporters from local papers and one or two who represented the London press turned up their press cards as tickets of admittance. Petrie was stationed at the door to waylay casual strangers, but any who offered possible light upon the matter, eyewitnesses or otherwise, were allowed to enter. It was astonishing how many people there were who confessed to having seen things connected with the whole distressing affair. By one o'clock almost everyone was in place. At a quarter-past, Toonette Brelier arrived, dressed in black and with a heavy veil shrouding her pallor. She was accompanied by her uncle. Cleek met them in the hall. Upon sight of him, Toonette ran up and caught him by the arm. You are Mr. Headland, are you not? She stated, rather than asked, her voice full of agitation, her whole figure trembling. My name is Brelier, On Toonette Brelier. You have heard of me from Nigel, Mr. Headland. I am engaged to be married to him. This is my uncle with whom I live, Mr. Headland, Mr. Brelier. She made the introduction in a distraight manner, and the two men bowed. I am pleased to meet you, sir, said Brelier in his stilted English, but I could wish it were under happier circumstances. And I, murmured Cleek, taking in the trim contour and the keen eyes of this man who was to have been Meriton's father-in-law, if things had turned out differently, he found he rather liked his looks. There is nothing one can do. Brelier's voice was politely anxious, and he spread out his hands in true French fashion, then tugged at his closely clipped iron-grey beard. Anything that you know, Mr. Brelier, that would perhaps be of help, you can say in the witness-box. We are looking for people who know anything of the whole distressing tragedy. You can help that way and that way alone. For myself, he shrugged his shoulders, I don't for an instant believe Senaigel to be guilty. I can't somehow, and yet if you knew the evidence against him. A sore came suddenly from Toanette, and Brelier gently led her away. It was a terrible ordeal for her, but she had insisted on coming, fearing, hoping that she might be of use to Nigel in the witness-box. By the time they reached the great crowded room with its table set at the far end, its empty chairs, and the platform upon which the two bodies lay shrouded in their black coverings, she was crying, though plainly struggling for self-possession. Brelier found her a chair at the farther side of the room and stood beside her, while nearby Cleak saw the figure of Borkin's, clad in ordinary clothes. He tipped one respectful finger as Brelier passed him, and greeted him with a half-smile as one of whom he thoroughly approved. Then there was a little murmur of expectancy, as the group about the doorway parted to admit the prisoner. He came between two policemen, very pale, very haggard, greatly aged by the few days of his ordeal.  He was thinner, older. Already the grey showed in the hair about his temples. He walked stiffly, looking neither to right nor left, his head up, his hands handcuffed before him. Calm, dignified, a trifle grimly amused at the whole affair, though what this attitude cost him to keep up no one ever knew.  His face quivered as he recognized her voice. Then looking across the crowded room he saw her, and smiled. The jury filed in one after the other, twelve stout, hardy specimens of the country tradesmen, with a local doctor and a farmer or two sprinkled among the lump to leaven it. The coroner followed, having driven up in the latest thing in motor-cars, for he was going to do the thing properly as it was at the country's expense. Then the horrible proceedings began. After the preliminaries which followed the usual custom for the coroner seemed singularly devoid of originality, the bodies were uncovered, and a murmur of excited expectancy ran through the crowd. With morbid curiosity they pressed forward. The reporters started to scribble in their notebooks a little pale and perturbed for all their experience of such affairs.  Brellier exclaimed aloud in French, and for a moment covered his face with his hands, but Tonnet made no murmur, for she had not looked, would not look, upon the grim terrors that lay there. There was no need for that. The coroner spoke, attacking the matter in a business-like fashion, and leaning down from his slightly elevated position upon the platform, pointed a finger at the singed and blackened puncture upon the temple of the thing that was once Staker Winn. He pointed also to the wound in the head of Collins. It is apparent to all present, he began in his flat voice, that death has been caused in each case by a shot in the head, that the two men were killed similarly as something in the nature of a coincidence. The revolver that killed them was not the same in both cases. In that of Mr. Winn we have a bullet wound of an extremely small caliber. We have indeed the actual bullet. We also have, so we think, the revolver that fired the shot. In the case of James Collins there has been no proof and no evidence of anyone whom we know being concerned. Before we will take the case of the man, Staker Winn, first. He was killed by a revolver shot in the temple, and death was, or should have been, instantaneous. We will call the prisoner to speak first. He lifted a revolver from the table and held it in the hollow of his big palm. This revolver is yours, he said, peering up under his shaggy eyebrows into Meriton's face. It is! Very good! There has been, as you see, one shot fired from it, of the six chambers one is empty. He reached down and picked up a small something, and held it in the hollow of the other hand, advancing one against the other as he talked. Sir Nigel, I ask you, this we recognise as a bullet which belongs to this same revolver, the revolver which you have recognised and claimed as your own. It is identical with those that are used in the cartridges of your revolver, is it not? Meriton bent his head.  It is! Then I take it that as this bullet was extracted from the head of the dead man, and as this revolver which you gave to the police yourself, and from which you say that you fired a shot that night, that you are guilty of his murder. Is it not so? I am not guilty. Hmm. For a moment there was silence. Over the room came the sound of scratching pencils and pens, the shuffle of some one's foot, a swift intake of the breath, no more. Then the coroner spoke again. Tell us then, he said, your version of what took place that night.  Told it with fire and spirit, and even as the words fell from his lips, felt the sudden chill of disbelief that seemed to grip the room in its cold hand. Not a sound broke the recital. He had been given a fair hearing at all events, though in that community of hard-headed, unimaginative men there was not one that believed him. Save those few who already knew the story to be true. The coroner stopped fitting his fingers together as the firm voice faltered and was finally silent, and shot a glance at Meriton from under his shaggy brows. And you expect us to believe that story, Sir Nigel, knowing what we do about the bad blood between you and the dead man, and having here the evidence of our own eyes in this revolver bullet. I have told the truth, I can do no more. No man can, responded the coroner gravely, but it is that which I must admit I query. The story is so far-fetched, so utterly impossible for a rationally-minded being, but who must admit that he was not a rationally-minded being that night broke in a quick voice from across the room, and everyone turned to look into Dr. Bartholomew's seemed anxious face. Under the influence of drink and that devil incarnate-decker-win, a man couldn't be answerable for silence in the court, wrapped out the coroner, and the good doctor was forced to obey. Then the inquiry went on, the prisoner was told to stand down amid a chorus of protesting voices, for though the story was disbelieved, everyone who had come in contact with Meritan had formed an instant liking for him. No one wished to see him condemned as guilty, save those few who seemed determined to send him to the gallows. Three or four possible witnesses were called, but nothing of any importance was gleaned from them. Ben Borkins was summoned to the table.  He took his stand in front of the jury and prepared to answer the questions which were put to him by the coroner. That man's method seemed to have changed since his questioning of Sir Nigel, and he flung out his queries like a rapid-fire gun. Borkins came through the ordeal fairly well, all things considered. He told his story of what he had said he had seen that night in a comparatively steady voice, though he was of the type that is addicted to nervousness when appearing before people. Cleek at the back of the court, with Mr. Narkham on his right and Dollops on his left, waited for that one weak spot in the evidence, and saw with a smile how the coroner lit upon it. His opinion of that worthy went up considerably. You say you heard the man win groaning and moaning on the garden pathway after he was shot, and then practically saw him die. I did so. And yet a man killed in that fashion, hit in that particular portion of the temple, always dies instantaneously. Isn't that rather strange? Borkins went red. I have nothing to say, sir, simply what I heard. Hmm. Well, certainly the evidence does dovetail in, and the doctors may have been wrong in this instance. We can look into that evidence later. Stand down. Borkins stood down with something like a sigh of relief, and pushed his way back into his place, his friends nodding to him and congratulating him upon the way he had given his evidence. Then Tony West was called, and told all that he had to tell of his knowledge of the night's happenings in a rather irritated manner, as though the whole thing bored him utterly, and he couldn't for the life of him make out why any one even dreamed that old Nigel had murdered a man. He told the coroner something of this before he finished, and as he returned to his place a murmur of approval went up. His manner had taken the public fancy, and they would have liked to hear more of him. But there was another piece of evidence to be shown, and this took the form of a scrap of creased white paper. It was waved aloft in the coroner's hand so that everyone could see it. This, said the coroner, is an IOU found upon the dead man for two thousand pounds, and signed with the name of Lester Stark. An important piece of evidence this. Will Mr. Stark kind day come forward? There was a rustle at the back of the court, and Stark pushed his way to the front, his face rather red, his eyes a trifle shame-faced. As he came, Meritan was conscious of a quickening of his pulse, of a leap of his heart, though he loathed himself afterward for the sensation. His eyes went toward Clannette, and he saw that she was looking at him with all the love that was in her soul laid bare for him and all to see. It cheered him, as she meant it should. Then Stark took his place upon the witness-stand. This IOU belongs to you, I take it, said the coroner briskly. It does, sir. And it was made out two days before the prisoner met his death. The signature is yours. Stark bowed. His eyes sought Nigel's, and rested upon the pale-lined face with every appearance of concern. Then he looked back at the coroner. Dacre Wynne lent me that money two days before he came down to visit Meritan. No one knew of it except he and I. We had never been good friends, in fact I believe he hated me. My mother had been, well, kind to him in the old days, and I suppose he hadn't forgotten it. Anyhow, there was family difficulty. My Pato left some considerable debts, which we found we were obliged to face. There was a woman—oh, I needn't go into these family things in a place like this, Nida. Well, if I must, I must. But it's a loathsome job at best. There was a woman whom my father kept. When he died he left her two thousand pounds in his will. And he hadn't two thousand pounds to leave when his debts were cleared up. We had to face things—paid everything off and all that, and then at the last gasp that woman came and claimed the money. The lawyer said she was within her rights, we'd have to fork out. And I couldn't lay my hands upon the amount just then, because it had taken pretty nearly all we had to clear the debts off. So, you're borrowed from Mr. Wynne. Yes, I borrowed from Daker Wynne. I'd sooner have cut my right hand off than have done it, but I knew Meritan was going to be married, and I wouldn't saddle him with my bills. Don't look at me like that Nigel old chap—you know I couldn't. Tony West has only enough for himself, and I didn't want to go to loan sharks. So the maters suggested Daker Wynne.  It was beastly, but he promised to stump up. And he did. I'm working now on a paper to try and pay as much off as I can, and a cousin is keeping the mater until I can look after her myself. We've taken a little place out Chelsea way. That's all. Hmm, and you can show proof of this if the jury requires it? Put in the coroner at this juncture. I can hear now. He thrust his hand into his pocket, and drew out a sheaf of papers, tossing them in front of the coroner, who, after a glance at their contents, seemed to be satisfied that they gave the answer he sought. Thank you. And you have no revolver, Mr. Stark, even if you had reason for killing Mr. Wynne. Stark gave a little start of surprise. Even for killing him? You're not trying to intimate that I killed him, are you?  No, I have no revolver, Mr. Coroner, and I've nothing more to say. Then stand down, said the coroner, and, blessed as Stark, threaded his way back to the chair he had occupied during the proceedings, rather red in the face and with blazing eyes and tightly set lips. A stream of other witnesses came and gave their stories. Brelier told of how he had been rung up by Meritan to ask if there were any news of Wynne's arrival at the house. Told, in fact, all that he admitted to know of the night's affair, and ended up his evidence with the remark that nothing on earth or in heaven would make him believe that Sir Nigel Meritan was guilty of murder. Things were narrowing down. There was arrestlessness about the court. Time was getting on, and everything pointed one way. After some discussion with the jury, the foreman of it, a stout, pretentious fellow, rose to his feet and whispered a few hurried words to the coroner. That gentleman wiped his forehead with a silk handkerchief and looked about him. It had been a trying business altogether, he'd be glad of his supper. He got to his feet and turned to the crowded room. "'Gentlemen,' he said, in all this evidence that has been placed before us, I find not one loophole of escape for the prisoner, not one opening by which there might be a chance of passing any other verdict than that which I am compelled to pass now. Save only in the evidence of Borkin's, who tells that the dead man groaned and moaned for a minute or two after being shot. Yes, I must say, leaves me in some doubt as to the absolute accuracy of his story, but the main facts tally with what evidence we have and point in one direction. There is only one revolver in question, and that revolver of a peculiar make and bore. I have shown you the instrument here, also the bullet which was extracted from the dead man's brain. Is there no other person who would wish to give evidence before I am compelled to pronounce the prisoner guilty, and leave him to the hands of higher courts of justice? If there is, I beg of you to speak and speak at once. Time is short, gentlemen.' His voice ceased, and for a moment over the room there was silence. You could have heard a pin drop. Then came the scraping of a chair, a swiftly muttered, I will, I will, I have something to say. In a woman's voice, shrill with emotion, and Toinette Bailier stood up, slim and tall in her black frock, and with the veil thrown back from her pale face. She held something in her hand, something which she waved aloft for all to see. I, I have something to say, Mr. Coroner,' she said in a clear, high voice, Something to show you also, see. She pushed her way through the crowd that opened to admit her, gaping at her as she came rapidly to the coroner's table, and held out the object. It was a small-sized revolver, identical in every detail, to that which lay upon the coroner's table. That, she said, clearly, her voice rising higher and higher as she looked into Meritan's face for a single instant, and smiled wanly. That, Mr. Coroner, is a revolver identical with the one which you have there? It is the same make, the same bore, everything. So it is! For a moment the coroner lost his calm. He lifted an excited face to meet her eyes. Where did you get it, Miss Bailier? From the top drawer of the secretaire, in the little boudoir at Withersby Hall, she said calmly, Where it has always lain. You will find a shot missing. Everything the same, Mr. Coroner, everything the same. It belongs to some member of your household, Miss Bailier. She took a step backward and drew a sharp breath. Then her eyes were fixed upon Meritan's face. It belongs to me, she said. End of chapter 20.