Once they had done so, he ceased his endless, ear-piercing whistle and turned to his companion, his hand reaching out suddenly and catching the sleeve nearest him.

“That was Borkins!” he said in a muttered undertone, as the two figures in front swung away into the shadows.  “Did you see his face, lad?”

“I did,” responded Dollops, with asperity.  “And a fine specimen of a face it were, too!  If I were born wiv that tacked on to me anatomy, I’d drown meself in the nearest pond afore I’d ’ave courage to survive it....  Yus, it was Borkins all right, Guv’nor, and the other chap wiv him, the one wiv the black whiskers and the lanting jor—­”

“Hush, boy!  Not so loud!” Cleek’s voice cut into the whispered undertone, a mere thread of sound, but a sound to be obeyed.  “I recognized him, too,” interrupted Cleek.  “My friend of the midnight visit, and the plugged pillow.  I’m not likely to forget that face in a day’s march, I can promise you.  And with Borkins!  Well, that was to be expected, of course.  The next thing to consider is—­what the devil has a common sailor or factory-hand to do with a chap like Dacre Wynne?  Or Merriton, for that matter.  I never heard him say he’d any interest in factories of any kind, and I dare swear he hasn’t.  And yet, what’s this dark stranger—­as the fortune-tellers say—­doing, poking his nose into the affair, and trying to murder me, just because I happen to be down here to investigate the question of the Frozen Flames?...  Bit of a problem, eh, Dollops?  Frozen Flames, Country Squires, Dark Strangers who are sailormen, and a butler who has been years in the family service; there you have the ingredients for quite a nice little mix-up.  Now, I wonder where those two are bound for?”

“’Pig and Whistle’,” conjectured Dollops.  “Leastways, tha’s where old Black Whiskers is a-makin’ for.  Got friend Borkins in tow as well ternight, so things ought ter be gittin’ interestin’.  Gawd! sir, if you don’t looka fair cut-throat I an’t ever seen one.

“Makes me blood run cold jist ter squint at yer, it does!  That there moustache ‘ud git yer a fortin’ on the stage, I swear.  Mr. Narkom’d faint if ‘e saw yer, an’ I’m not so certing I wouldn’t do a bunk meself, if I met yer in a dark lane, so to speak.  ’Ow yer does the expression fair beats me.”

Cleek laughed good-humouredly.  The something theatrical in his make-up was gratified by the admiration of his audience.  He linked his arm through the boy’s.

“Birthright, Dollops, birthright!” he made answer, speaking in a leisurely tone.  “Every man has one, you know.  There is the birthright of princes—­” he sighed.  “Your birthright is a willing soul and an unwavering loyalty.  Mine?  A mere play of feature that can transform me from one man into another.  A poor thing at best, Dollops, but....  Hello!  Lights ahead!  What is it, my pocket guide-book?”

“’Pig and Whistle’,” grunted Dollops in a husky voice, glad of an excuse to hide his pleasure at Cleek’s appreciation of his character.