d his head a little higher and clasped
the edge of the table more firmly.

"Now," said Cleek, 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." Borkins'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 Borkins's face, and was gone again. He cleared
his throat nervously before replying:

"I felt on me honour to--Sir Nigel, sir," he returned at length. "A man
stands by his master, you know--if 'e's a good one; and though we'd 'ad
words before, I didn't bear 'im no malice. And I didn't want the old
'ouse to come to disgrace."

"So you waited until things looked a little blacker for him, and then
decided to cast your creditable scruples to the wind?" said Cleek, the
queer little one-sided smile travelling up his cheek. "I take it that you
had had what you term 'words' since that fatal date?"

Borkins nodded. He did not like this cross-examination, and his
nervousness was apparent in voice and look and action.

"Yes, sir."

"H'm. 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?"

Borkins twitched up his head suddenly, his eyes fear-filled, his face
turned suddenly gray.

"I--I--What can you know about me, but that I 'ave been in the employment
of this family nearly all my life?" he returned, taken off his guard by
Cleek's remark. "I'm only a poor, honest workin' man, sir, been in the
same place nigh on to twenty years and--"

"And hoping you can hang on another twenty, I dare say!" threw in Cleek,
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 Dacre Wynne, 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. Headland," returned Doct