“I know you’re down here to investigate the case, but I don’t think there’s any reason for you to start suspecting my friends,” he retorted, his eyes flashing.  “Doctor Bartholomew has a partner, if you want to know.  And also he’s supposed to be retired.  But he carries on for the love of the thing.  Best man ever breathed—­remember that!”

Cleek smiled to himself at the sudden onslaught.  The young pepper-pot!  Yet he liked him for the loyal defence of his friend, nevertheless.  There were all too few creatures in the world who found it impossible to suspect those whom they cared for, and who cared for them.

“Sorry to have given any offence, I’m sure,” he said, smoothly.  “None was meant, right enough, Sir Nigel.  But a policeman has an unpleasant duty, you know.  He’s got to keep his eyes and his ears open.  So if you find mine open too far, any time, just tip me the wink and I’ll shut ’em up again.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” said Merriton, mollified, and a trifle shamefaced at the outburst.  Then, with an effort to turn the conversation:  “But think of findin’ ’em both, Mr.—­er—­Headland!  Were they—­very awful?”

“Pretty awful,” returned Cleek, quietly; “eh, Mr. Lake?”

“God bless my soul—­yes!” threw in that gentleman, with a shudder.  “Now then, boys, if you don’t mind—­” He took the attitude of a casual acquaintance with his two assistants who helped to bear the burden.  “Come along inside.  This way—­that’s it.  Where did you say, Merriton?  Into the morning room?  All right.  Ah, Borkins has been getting things ready, I see.  That couch is a broad one.  Good thing, as there are two of ’em.”

“Two of ’em, sir?” exclaimed Borkins, suddenly throwing up his hands, his eyes wide with horror.  Mr. Narkom nodded with something of professional triumph in his look.

“Two of ’em, Borkins.  And the second one, if I don’t make any mistake, answers to the description of James Collins—­eh, Headland?”

Cleek gave him a sudden look that spoke volumes.  It came over him in a flash that Narkom had said too much; that it wasn’t the casual visitor’s place to know what a servant who was not there at the time of his visit looked like.

“At least—­that’s as far as I can make out from what Sir Nigel told me of him the other day,” he supplemented, in an effort to make amends.  “Now then, boys, put ’em there on the couch.  Poor things!  I warn you, Sir Nigel, this isn’t going to be a pleasant sight, but you’ve got to go through with it, I’m afraid.  The police’ll want identification made, of course.  Hadn’t you better ’phone the local branch?  Someone ought to be here in charge, you know.”

Merriton nodded.  He was so stunned at the actuality of these two men’s deaths, at the knowledge that their bodies—­lifeless, extinct—­were here in his morning room, that he had stood like an image, making no move, no sound.

“Yes—­yes,” he said, rapidly, waving a hand in Borkins’s direction.  “See that it’s done at once, please.  Tell Constable Roberts to come along with a couple of his men.  Very decent of these chaps to give you a hand, Mr. Lake.  That’s your man, Dollops, isn’t it, Headland?  Well, hadn’t he better take ’em downstairs and give ’em a stiff whisky-and-soda?  I expect the poor beggars have need of it.”