maddened with something more than intoxication--if Merriton had told his
story truly, and Cleek believed he had. It was, in fact, in that very
smoking-room that the legend which had led up to the tragedy had been
told. Hmm. There certainly was much to be cleared up here while he was
waiting for that other business at the War Office to adjust itself. He
wouldn't find time hanging heavily upon his hands there was no doubt of
that, and the thought that this man who had come to him for help was a
one-time friend of Ailsa Lorne's, the one dear woman in the world, added
fuel to the fire of his already awakened interest.

He greeted Merriton with all the bored ennui of the part he had adopted,
during such time as he was under Borkins' watchful eye. Even Mr. Narkom
played his part creditably, and won a glance of approval from his justly
celebrated ally.

"Hello, old chap," said Cleek, extending a hand, and screwing a monocle
still farther into his left eye. "Awfully pleased to see you,
doncherknow. Devilish long journey, what? Beastly fine place you've
got here, I must say. What you think, Lake?"

Merriton gasped, bit his lip, and then suddenly realizing who the
gentleman thus addressing him was, made an attempt at the right sort of
reply.

"Er--yes, yes, of course," he responded, though somewhat at random, for
this absolutely new creature that Cleek had become rather took his breath
away. "Afraid you're very tired and all that. Cold, Mr.--er Headland?"

Cleek frowned at the slight hesitation before the name. He didn't want
to take chances of any one guessing his identity and Borkins was still
half-way within the room, and probably had sharp ears. His sort of man
had!

"Not very," he responded, as the door closed behind the butler. "At least
that is, Sir Nigel,"--speaking in his natural voice--"it really was
pretty chilly coming down. Winter's setting in fast, you know. That your
man?"

He jerked his head in the direction of the closed door, and twitched an
enquiring eyebrow.

Merriton nodded.

"Yes," he said, "that's Borkins. Looks a trustworthy specimen,
doesn't he? For my part I don't trust him farther than I can see him,
Mr.--er--Headland (awfully sorry but I keep forgetting your name
somehow). He's too shifty-eyed for me. What do you think?"

"Tell you better when I've had a good look at him," responded Cleek,
guardedly. "And lots of honest men are shifty-eyed, Sir Nigel, and vice
versa. That doesn't count fo