y all realized how exceedingly
drunk the man was. He had come to the dinner in a state of partial
intoxication, which merely made him bad-tempered, but now the spirits
that he had partaken of so plentifully was burning itself into his very
brain.

Doctor Bartholomew took a step toward him.

"Dash it all!" he said under his breath and addressing no one in
particular, "he can't go like that. Can't some of us stop him?"

"Try," put in Lester Stark sententiously, having had previous experiences
of Wynne's mood, so Doctor Bartholomew did try, and got cursed for his
pains. Wynne was struggling into his great, picturesque cloak, a sinister
figure of unsteady gait and blood-shot eye. As he went to the hall and
swung open the front door, Merriton made one last effort to stop him.

"Don't be a fool, Wynne," he said anxiously. "The game's not worth the
candle. Stay where you are and I'll put you up for the night, but in
Heaven's name don't venture out across the Fens now."

Wynne turned and showed him a reddened, congested face from which the
eyes gleamed evilly. Merriton never forgot that picture of him, or the
sudden tightening of the heart-strings that he experienced, the sudden
sensation of foreboding that swept over him.

"Oh--go to hell!" Wynne said thickly. And plunged out into the darkness.

CHAPTER VI

A SHOT IN THE DARK

The church clock, some distance over Herne's Hill which lies at the back
of Merriton Towers, broke the half silence that had fallen upon the
little group of men in the warm smoking room with twelve sonorous,
deep-throated notes. At sound of them Merriton got to his feet and
stretched his hands above his head. A damper had fallen over the spirits
of his guests after Wynne had gone out into the night on his foolish
errand, and the fury against him that had stirred Nigel's soul was
gradually wearing off.

"Well, Wynne said twelve, didn't he?" he remarked, with a sort of
half-laugh as he surveyed the grave faces of the men who were seated in
a semi-circle about him, "and twelve it is. We'll wait another half hour,
and then if he doesn't come we'll make a move for bed. He'll be playing
some beastly trick upon us, you may be sure of that. What a horrible
temperament the man has! He was supposed to be putting up with the
Brelliers to-night--old man Brellier was decent enough to ask him--and
possibly he'll simply turn in there and laugh to himself at the picture
of us chaps sitting here in th