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. Doctor Bartholomew's right, Mr. Headland. I _did_ fire a shot upon
the night of Dacre 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. Bartholomew 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. Headland, since I lived in India) is one of those
almost soundless little things, still, the sound of it reached him."

"Is it of small calibre?" asked Cleek, at this juncture.

Merriton nodded gravely.

"As you say, of small calibre. 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 obsequious; "will you bring it from the
left-hand drawer of my dressing table. Here is the key." He tossed over a
bunch of keys and they fell with a jangling sound upon the floor at
Borkins's feet.

"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, Merriton resumed:

"I'm not a superstitious man, Mr. Headland, but that old wives' 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 Wynne'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 Wynne'."

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. I picked up my revolver and, in a sort of
blind rage, fired at it throug