Borkins, standing at the smoking-room window—­a favourite haunt of his from which he was able to see without too ostensibly being seen—­noted their coming up the broad driveway, with something of disfavour in his look.  Merriton had given him certain directions only the night before, and Borkins was a keen-sighted man.  Also, the little fat johnny at any rate, didn’t quite look the type of man that the Merriton’s were in the habit of entertaining at the Towers.

However, he opened the door with a flourish, and told the gentlemen that “Sir Nigel is in the drorin’-room,” whither he led them with much pomp.

Cleek took in the place at a glance.  Noted the wide, deep hallway; the old-fashioned outlines of the house, smartened up freshly by the hands of modern workmen; the set of each door and window that he passed, and stowed away these impressions in the pigeon-holes of his mind.  As he proceeded to the drawing-room he set out in his mind’s eye the whole scene of that night’s occurrence as had been related to him by Sir Nigel.  There was the smoking-room door, open and showing the type of room behind it; there the hall-stand from which Dacre Wynne had fatefully wrenched his coat and hat, to go lurching out into oblivion, half-drunk and maddened with something more than intoxication—­if Merriton had told his story truly, and Cleek believed he had.  It was, in fact, in that very smoking-room that the legend which had led up to the tragedy had been told.  Hmm.  There certainly was much to be cleared up here while he was waiting for that other business at the War Office to adjust itself.  He wouldn’t find time hanging heavily upon his hands there was no doubt of that, and the thought that this man who had come to him for help was a one-time friend of Ailsa Lorne’s, the one dear woman in the world, added fuel to the fire of his already awakened interest.

He greeted Merriton with all the bored ennui of the part he had adopted, during such time as he was under Borkins’ watchful eye.  Even Mr. Narkom played his part creditably, and won a glance of approval from his justly celebrated ally.

“Hello, old chap,” said Cleek, extending a hand, and screwing a monocle still farther into his left eye.  “Awfully pleased to see you, doncherknow.  Devilish long journey, what?  Beastly fine place you’ve got here, I must say.  What you think, Lake?”

Merriton gasped, bit his lip, and then suddenly realizing who the gentleman thus addressing him was, made an attempt at the right sort of reply.

“Er—­yes, yes, of course,” he responded, though somewhat at random, for this absolutely new creature that Cleek had become rather took his breath away.  “Afraid you’re very tired and all that.  Cold, Mr.—­er Headland?”

Cleek frowned at the slight hesitation before the name.  He didn’t want to take chances of any one guessing his identity and Borkins was still half-way within the room, and probably had sharp ears.  His sort of man had!