He watched the light for a moment or two, and then suddenly, obsessed with a strange fear, strode across the room and picked up the tiny revolver.

“Damn it!  I’m going silly!” he exclaimed angrily, and throwing the window open took aim, his brain on fire with the champagne and the excitement of the evening.  “Now let’s see if you’ll go, you infernal little devil!”

His finger touched the trigger, the thing spoke softly—­that was one of its chief attractions for Nigel—­and spat forth a little jet of flame.  And as it did so, his brain cleared like magic.  He laughed and shook himself as though out of a trance into which he had fallen.  The light was still there.  What a fool he was, potting at glow-worms like a madman!  He shut the window with a bang and started to undress, and then went over to the door as he heard the doctor’s voice outside.

“Thought I heard a shot, Nigel, what—?”

“You did.  I’m a silly ass and have been potting at those beastly flames,” returned Merriton, shamefacedly.  “For Heaven’s sake, don’t tell the other fellows.  They’ll think I’ve gone loony.  And for a moment I believe I had.  But there’s no harm done.”

“Potting at those flames!” The doctor’s voice was almost concerned.  Then he shrugged his shoulders.  “Oh, well, there’s nothing in it!  I must say I’ve taken a chance shot now and again at a bird myself from my bedroom before now.  Still, get to bed, Nigel, like a good fellow, and have some sleep.  Here, give me the pistol.  You’ll be potting at me before I know where I am.  I’ll take it into my room, thank you!”

“Right you are!” Merriton’s laugh rang more normally and the doctor nodded with pleasure.  “Good-night, Doctor.”

“Good-night.”

Then the door closed again, and the house dropped once more into stillness.  In ten minutes Merriton tumbled into bed.  He slept like a log....  He hadn’t seen the doctor drop that sleeping draught into that last whisky while Tony West kept him talking.  That was why he slept.

Later on, however, his shame at his own foolishness in firing his pistol at mere flames of the night was the cause of grave difficulty.  For when he related the story of the whole affair to Cleek’s master mind he left that out!  And very nearly was it his own undoing, for strange was to be the outcome of that shot in the night.

CHAPTER VII

THE WATCHER IN THE SHADOW

But if Merriton slept, the others of the little party did not.  After his door had closed upon him they appeared from their rooms, and met by arrangement once more in the study.  Doctor Bartholomew—­a little late at having waited and listened for the outward result of his drug in Nigel’s comforting snore—­joined the group with an anxious face.  There was no laughter now in the pleasant, heated smoking room.  Every face there wore a look that bordered closely upon fear.