He spun round slowly upon his heel and faced the line of seated witnesses.  His eyes once more travelled over the group, face to face, eye to eye, until he paused suddenly and pointed at Borkins’s chalk-white countenance.

“That’s the man who probably did the job,” he said casually.  “Brellier’s right-hand man, that.  With a brain that might have been used for other and better things.”

The judge leaned forward upon his folded elbows, pointing his pen in Borkins’s direction.

“Then you say this man is part and parcel of the scheme, Mr. Cleek?” he queried.

“I do.  And a very big part, too.  But, let me qualify that statement by saying that if it hadn’t been for Borkins’s desire for revenge upon the man he served, this whole ghastly affair would probably never have been revealed.  Wynne would have vanished in the ordinary way, as Collins vanished afterward, and the superstitious horror would have gone on until there was not one person left in the village of Fetchworth who would have dared to venture an investigation of the flames.  Then the work at the factory would have continued, with a possibly curtailed payroll.  No need for high-handed pirates armed with revolvers then.  That was the end the arch-fiend was working for.  The end that never came.”

“H’m.  And may I ask how you discovered all this, before going into the case of Borkins?” put in the judge.

Cleek bowed.

“Certainly,” he returned.  “That is the legal right.  But I can vouch for my evidence, my lord.  I received it, you see, at first-hand.  This man Borkins engaged both the lad Dollops and myself as new hands for the factory.  We therefore had every opportunity of looking into the matter personally.”

“Gawdamercy!  I never did!” ejaculated Borkins, at this juncture, his face the colour of newly-baked bread.  “You’re a liar—­that’s what you are!  A drorin’ an innocent man into the beastly affair.  I never engaged the likes of you!”

“Didn’t you?” Cleek laughed soundlessly.  “Look here.  Remember the man Bill Jones, and his little pal Sammie Robinson, from Jamaica?” He writhed his features for a moment, slipped his hand into his pocket, and producing the black moustache that had been Dollops’s envy and admiration, stuck it upon his upper lip, pulled out a check cap from the other pocket, drew that upon his head, and peered at Borkins under the peak of it.  “What-o, matey!” he remarked in a harsh cockney voice.

“Merciful ’Eavens!” gasped out that worthy, covering his eyes with his hands, one more incredulous witness of Cleek’s greatest gift.  “Bill Jones it is! Gawd! are you a devil?”

“No, just an ordinary man, my dear friend.  But you remember now, eh?  Well, that does away with the need of the moustache, then.”  The clerk of the court, only too familiar with Cleek’s disregard of legal formality, frowned at this violation of dignity and raised his mace to rap for order and possibly to reprimand Cleek for his theatrical conduct but at that moment the detective pulled off the cap and moustache as though well pleased with his performance.  Cleek turned once more to the judge.