a semi-circle about him, "and twelve it is. We'll wait another half hour,
and then if he doesn't come we'll make a move for bed. He'll be playing
some beastly trick upon us, you may be sure of that. What a horrible
temperament the man has! He was supposed to be putting up with the
Brelliers to-night--old man Brellier was decent enough to ask him--and
possibly he'll simply turn in there and laugh to himself at the picture
of us chaps sitting here in the mornin' and waitin' for his return!"

Doctor Bartholomew shook his white head with a good deal of obstinacy.

"I think you're wrong there Nigel. Wynne is a man of his word, drunk or
sober. He'll come back, no doubt. Unless something has happened to him."

"And this from our sceptical disbeliever, boys!" struck in Tony West,
raising his hands in mock horror. "Nigel, m'lad, you've made an early
conversion. The good doctor has a sneaking belief in the story. How now,
son? What's your plan of action?"

"Half an hour's wait more, and then to bed," said Merriton, tossing back
his head and setting his jaw. "I offered Wynne a bed in the first place,
but he saw fit to refuse me. If he hasn't made use of this opportunity
to turn in at the Brelliers' place, I'll eat my hat. What about a round
of cards, boys, till the time is up?"

So the cards were produced, and the game began. But it was a half-hearted
attempt at best, for everyone's ear was strained for the front-door bell,
and everyone had an eye half-cocked toward the window. Before the half
hour was up the game had fizzled out. And still Dacre Wynne did not put
in an appearance.