“And this from our sceptical disbeliever, boys!” struck in Tony West, raising his hands in mock horror.  “Nigel, m’lad, you’ve made an early conversion.  The good doctor has a sneaking belief in the story.  How now, son?  What’s your plan of action?”

“Half an hour’s wait more, and then to bed,” said Merriton, tossing back his head and setting his jaw.  “I offered Wynne a bed in the first place, but he saw fit to refuse me.  If he hasn’t made use of this opportunity to turn in at the Brelliers’ place, I’ll eat my hat.  What about a round of cards, boys, till the time is up?”

So the cards were produced, and the game began.  But it was a half-hearted attempt at best, for everyone’s ear was strained for the front-door bell, and everyone had an eye half-cocked toward the window.  Before the half hour was up the game had fizzled out.  And still Dacre Wynne did not put in an appearance.

Borkins, having been summoned, brought in some whisky and Merriton remarked casually: 

“Mr. Wynne has ventured out to try and discover the meaning of the Frozen Flames, Borkins.  He’ll be back some time this evening—­or rather morning, I should say, for it’s after midnight—­and the other gentlemen and myself are going to make a move for bed.  Keep your ears peeled in case you hear him.  I sleep like the very old devil himself, when once I do get off.”

Borkins, on hearing this, turned suddenly gray, and the perspiration broke out on his forehead.

“Gone, sir?  Mr. Wynne—­gone—­out there?” he said in a stifled voice.  “Oh my Gawd, sir.  It’s—­it’s suicide, that’s what it is!  And Mr. Wynne’s—­gone!...  ’E’ll never come back, I swear.”

Merriton laughed easily.

“Well, keep your swearing to yourself, Borkins,” he returned, “and see that the gentlemen’s rooms are ready for ’em.  Doctor Bartholomew has the one next to mine, and Mr. West’s is on the other side.  I gave Mrs. Dredge full instructions this morning....  Good-night, Borkins, and pleasant dreams.”

Borkins left.  But his face was a dull drab shade and he was trembling like a man who has received a terrible shock.

“There’s a case of genuine scare for you,” remarked Doctor Bartholomew quietly, drawing on his pipe.  “That man’s nerves are like unstrung wires.  Hardly ever seen a chap so frightened in all the course of my medical career.  He’s either had experience of the thing, or he knows something about it.  Whichever way it is, he’s the most terrified object I’ve ever laid eyes on!”

Merriton broke into a laugh.  But there was not much merriment in it, rather a note of uneasiness which made Tony West glance up at him sharply.

“Best place for you, old chap, is your bed,” he said, getting to his feet and laying an arm across Nigel’s shoulders.  “Livin’ down here does seem to play the old Harry with one’s nerves.  I’m as jumpy as a kitten myself.  Take it from me, Wynne will return, Nigel, and when he does he’ll see to it that we all hear him.  He’ll probably break every pane of glass in the place with a stone, and play a devil’s dance upon the knocker.  That’s his usual way of expressin’ his pleasure, I believe.  Here, here’s health to you, old boy, and happiness, and the best of luck.”