“And a damned sight too much, too, you liar!” threw in Merriton, furiously, his face convulsed with passion, the veins on his temple standing out like whipcords.  “Why, the whole story’s a fake.  And if it were true, tell me how I could get Wynne’s body out of the way so quickly, and without any one hearing me, when every man in that smoking room, from their own words, and from those of the doctor here, was at that moment straining his ears for any possible sound?  The smoking room flanks straight on the drive, Mr.—­er—­Headland—­” He caught himself up just in time as he saw Cleek’s almost imperceptible signal, and then went on, his voice gaining in strength and fury with every word:  “I’m not a giant, am I?  I couldn’t have lifted Wynne alive and with his own assistance, much less lift him dead when he’d be a good sight heavier.  Why, the thing’s a tissue of lies, I tell you—­a beastly, underhanded, backbiting tissue of lies, and if ever I get out of this thing alive, I’ll show Borkins exactly what I think of him.  And why you should give credence to the story of a lying servant, rather than to mine, I cannot see at all.  Would I have brought you here, you, a man whose name—­” And even in the excitement which had him in its grip Nigel felt Cleek’s will, powerful, compelling, preventing his giving away the secret of his identity, preventing his telling that it was the master mind among the criminal investigators of Europe which was working on this horrible affair.

He went on, still in a fury of indignation, but with the knowledge of Mr. Headland’s true name still locked in his breast.  “Did I bring you here as a friend and give you every opportunity to work on this strange business, to have you arraign me as a murderer?  Do not treat me as a suspect, Mr. Detective.  I am not on trial.  I want this thing cleared up, yes; but I am not here to be accused of the murder of a man who was a guest in my own house, by the very man I brought in to find the true murderer.”

“You haven’t given me time to say whether I accuse you or not, Sir Nigel,” replied Cleek, patiently.  “Now, if you’ll permit me to speak, we’ll take up this man’s evidence.  There are gaps in it that rather badly want filling up, and there are thin places which I hardly think would hold water before a judge and jury.  But he swears himself a witness, and there you are.  And as for believing his word before yours—­who fired the shot, Sir Nigel?  Did he, or did you?  I am a representative of the Law and as such I entered your house.”

Merriton made no reply, simply held his head a little higher and clasped the edge of the table more firmly.

“Now,” said Cleek, turning to the butler and fixing him with his keen eyes.  “You are ready to swear that this is true, upon your oath, and knowing that perjury is punishable by law?”

“Yes, sir.”  Borkins’s voice was very low and rather indistinct.

“Very well.  Then may I ask why you did not immediately report this matter to the rest of the party, or to the police?”