“Is it of small calibre?” asked Cleek, at this juncture.

Merriton nodded gravely.

“As you say, of small calibre.  You can see it for yourself.  Borkins”—­he turned toward the man, who was standing by the doorway, his hands hanging at his sides, his manner a trifle obsequious; “will you bring it from the left-hand drawer of my dressing table.  Here is the key.”  He tossed over a bunch of keys and they fell with a jangling sound upon the floor at Borkins’s feet.

“Very good, Sir Nigel,” said the man and withdrew, leaving the door open behind him, however, as though he were afraid to lose any of the story that was being told in the quiet morning room.

When he had gone, Merriton resumed: 

“I’m not a superstitious man, Mr. Headland, but that old wives’ tale of the Frozen Flames, and the new one coming out every time they claimed another victim, seemed to have burnt its way into my brain.  That and the champagne together, and then close upon it Dacre Wynne’s foolish bet to find out what the things were.  When I went up to my room, and after saying good-night to the doctor here, closed the door and locked it, I then crossed to the window and looked out at the flames.  And as I looked—­believe it or not, as you will—­another flame suddenly sprang up at the left of the others, a flame that seemed brighter, bigger than any of the rest, a flame that bore with it the message:  ’I am Dacre Wynne’.”

Cleek smiled, crookedly, and went on stroking his chin.

“Rather a fanciful story that, Sir Nigel,” he said, “but go on.  What happened?”

“Why, I fired at the thing.  I picked up my revolver and, in a sort of blind rage, fired at it through the open window; and I believe I said something like this:  ’Damn it, why won’t you go?  I’ll make you go, you maddening little devil!’ though I know those weren’t the identical words I spoke.  As soon as the shot was fired my brain cleared.  I began to feel ashamed of myself, thought what a fool I’d look in front of the boys if they heard the story; and just at that moment Doctor Bartholomew knocked at the door.”

Here the doctor nodded vigorously as thought to corroborate these statements, and made as if to speak.

Cleek silenced him with a gesture.

“And then—­what next, Sir Nigel?”

Merriton cleared his throat before proceeding.  There was a drawn look upon his face.

“The doctor said he thought he had heard a shot, and asked me what it was, and I replied:  ‘Nothing.  Only I was potting at the flames.’  This seemed to amaze him, as it would any sane man, I should think, and as no doubt it is amazing you, Mr. Headland.  Amazing you and making you think, ‘What a fool the fellow is, after all!’ Well, I showed the doctor the revolver in my hand, and he laughingly said that he’d take it to bed with him, in case I should start potting at him by mistake.  Then I got into bed, after making him promise he wouldn’t breathe a word to anybody of what had occurred, as the others would be sure to laugh at me; and—­that’s all.”