Cleek lifted a restraining hand.

“Don’t let it do anything so foolish as that to you, old man,” he interposed.  “Give ’em rope to hang themselves, lots of rope.  This is just the opportunity they want.  Give orders for nothing to be done.  Let ’em have a good run for their money, and by-and-by you’ll have ’em so they’ll eat out of your hand.  There’s nothing like patience in this sort of a job.  They’re bound to get careless soon, and then will be your chance.”

“I wish I could feel as confident about it as you do,” returned Mr. Narkom, with a shake of the head.  “But you’ve solved so many unsolvable riddles in your time, man, so I suppose I’ll just have to trust your judgment, and let your opinion cheer me up.  Still....  Ah, Borkins! lunch ready?  I must say I don’t like eating the food of a man I’ve just placed in prison, but I suppose one must eat.  And there are a few very necessary enquiries to be gone into before the coroner’s inquest to-morrow.  The men have been up from the local morgue, haven’t they?”

Borkins, who had tapped discreetly upon the door and then put in a sleek head to announce lunch, came a little farther into the room and replied in the affirmative.  Save for a slight light of triumph which seemed to flicker in his close-set eyes, and play occasionally about his narrow lips, there was nothing to show in his demeanour that such an extremely large pebble as his master’s conviction for murder had caused the ripples to break on the smooth surface of his life’s tenor.

Cleek blew a cloud of smoke into the air and swung one leg across the other with a sort of devil-may-care air that was part of his Headland make-up in this piece.

“Well,” said he, off-handedly, “all I can say is, I wouldn’t like to be in your master’s shoes, Borkins.  He’s guilty—­not a doubt of it; and he’ll certainly be called to justice.”

“You think so?” An undercurrent of eagerness ran in Borkins’s tone.

“Most assuredly I do.  Not a chance for him—­poor beggar.  He’ll possibly swing for it, too!  Pleasant conjecture before lunch, I must say.  And we’ll have it all cold if we don’t look sharp about it, Lake, old chap.  Come along.”

...  They spent the afternoon in discussing the case bit by bit, probing into it, tearing it to ribbons, analysing, comparing, rehearsing once more the scene of that fateful night when Dacre Wynne had crossed the Fens, and, according to everyone’s but Borkins’s evidence, had never returned.  By evening Mr. Narkom, note-book in hand, was suffering with writer’s cramp, and complained of a headache.

As Cleek rose from this private investigation and stretched his hands over his head, he gave a sudden little laugh.