“H’m.  And quite enough, too, I should say,” broke in Cleek, as the man finished.  “It sounds true enough, believe me, from your lips, and I know you for an honourable man; but—­what sort of a credence do you think an average jury is going to place upon it?  D’you think they’d believe you?” He shook his head.  “Never.  They’d simply laugh at the whole thing, and say you were either drunk or dreaming.  People in the twentieth century don’t indulge in superstition to that extent, Sir Nigel; or, at least, if they do, they let their reason govern their actions as far as possible.  It’s a tall story at best, if you’ll forgive me for saying so.”

Merriton’s face went a dull, sultry red.  His eyes flamed.

“Then you don’t believe me?” he said, impatiently.

Cleek raised a hand.

“I don’t say that for one moment,” he replied.  “What I say is:  ’Would a judge and jury believe you?’ That is the question.  And my answer to it is, ‘No.’  You’ve had every provocation to take Dacre Wynne’s life, so far as I can learn, every provocation, that is, that a man of unsound mentality who would stoop to murder could have to justify himself in his own eyes.  Things look exceedingly black against you, Sir Nigel.  You can swear to this statement as far as your part in it is concerned, Doctor Bartholomew?”

“Absolutely,” said the doctor, though plainly showing that he felt it was no business of the supposed Mr. Headland’s.

“Well, that’s good.  But if only there had been another witness, someone who actually saw this thing done, or who had heard the pistol-shot—­not that I’m doubting your word at all, Doctor—­it might help to elucidate matters.  There is no one you know of who could have heard—­and not spoken?”

At this juncture Borkins came quietly into the room, holding the little revolver in his right hand, and handed it to Cleek.

“If you please, sir,” he said, impassively, and with a quick look into Merriton’s grave face, “I heard.  And I can speak, if the jury wants me to, I don’t doubt but what my tale would be worth listenin’ to, if only to add my hevidence to the rest.  That man there”—­he pointed one shaking forefinger at his master’s face, and glowered into it for a moment “was the murderer of poor Mr. Wynne!”

CHAPTER XVI

TRAPPED!

“You damned, skulking liar!”

Merriton leapt forward suddenly, and it was with difficulty that Cleek could restrain him from seizing the butler round the throat.

“Gently, gently, my friend,” interposed Cleek, as he neatly caught Merriton’s upthrown arm.  “It won’t help you, you know, to attack a possible witness.  We’ve got to hear what this man says, to know whether he’s speaking the truth or not—­and we’ve got to go into his evidence as clearly as we go into yours....  You’re perfectly right, Doctor, I am a policeman, and I’m down here for