“What’s that?” Merriton swung round and looked into the weak, rather watery, blue eyes of his butler.  “What the devil do you mean, Borkins, talkin’ a lot of rot?  What are those flames, anyway?  And why in heaven’s name shouldn’t I go out and investigate ’em if I want to?  Who’s to stop me?”

“I, your lordship—­if I ever ’as any influence with ’uman nature!” returned Borkins, vehemently.  “The story’s common knowledge, Sir Nigel, sir.  Them there flames is supernatural.  Frozen flames the villagers calls ’em, because they don’t seem to give out no ’eat.  That part of the Fens in unin’abited and there isn’t a soul in the whole village as would venture anywhere near it after dark.”

“Why?”

“Because they never comes back, that’s why, sir!” said Borkins. “’Tisn’t any old wives’ tale neither.  There’s been cases by the score.  Only a matter of six months ago one of the boys from the mill, who was somewhat the worse for liquor, said he was a-goin’ ter see who it was wot made them flames light up by theirselves, and—­he never came back.  And that same night another flame was added to the number!”

“Whew!  Bit of a tall story that, Borkins!” Nevertheless a cold chill crept over Merriton’s bones and he gave a forced, mirthless laugh.

“As true as the gospel, Sir Nigel!” said Borkins, solemnly.  “That’s what always ’appens.  Every time any one ventures that way—­well, they’re a-soundin’ their own death-knell, so to speak, and you kin see the new light appear.  But there’s never no trace of the person that ventured out across the Fens at evening time.  He, or she—­a girl tried it once, Lord save ’er!—­vanishes off the face of the earth as clean as though they’d never been born.  Gawd alone knows what it is that lives there, or what them flames may be, but I tells you it’s sheer death to attempt to see for yourself, so long as night lasts.  And in the morning—­well, it’s gone, and there isn’t a thing to be seen for the lookin’!”

“Merciful powers!  What a peculiar thing!” Despite his mockery of the supernatural, Merriton could not help but feel a sort of awe steal over him, at the tale as told by Borkins in the eeriest hour of the whole twenty-four—­that which hangs between darkness and dawn.  Should he go or shouldn’t he?  He was a fool to believe the thing, and yet—­He certainly didn’t want to die yet awhile, with Antoinette Brellier a mere handful of yards away from him, and all the days his own to cultivate her acquaintance in.

“You’ve fairly made my flesh creep with your beastly story!” he said, in a rather high-pitched voice.  “Might have reserved it until morning—­after my debut in this haunt of spirits, Borkins.  Consider my nerves.  India’s made a hash of ’em.  Get back to bed, man, and don’t worry over my investigations.  I swear I won’t venture out, to-night at any rate.  Perhaps to-morrow I may have summoned up enough courage, but I’ve no fancy for funerals yet awhile.  So you can keep your pleasant little reminiscences for another time, and I’ll give you my word of honour that I’ll do nothing rash!”