Borkins, having been summoned, brought in some whisky and Merriton
remarked casually:

"Mr. Wynne has ventured out to try and discover the meaning of the Frozen
Flames, Borkins. He'll be back some time this evening--or rather morning,
I should say, for it's after midnight--and the other gentlemen and myself
are going to make a move for bed. Keep your ears peeled in case you hear
him. I sleep like the very old devil himself, when once I do get off."

Borkins, on hearing this, turned suddenly gray, and the perspiration
broke out on his forehead.

"Gone, sir? Mr. Wynne--gone--out _there_?" he said in a stifled voice.
"Oh my Gawd, sir. It's--it's suicide, that's what it is! And Mr.
Wynne's--gone!... 'E'll never come back, I swear."

Merriton laughed easily.

"Well, keep your swearing to yourself, Borkins," he returned, "and see
that the gentlemen's rooms are ready for 'em. Doctor Bartholomew has the
one next to mine, and Mr. West's is on the other side. I gave Mrs. Dredge
full instructions this morning.... Good-night, Borkins, and pleasant
dreams."

Borkins left. But his face was a dull drab shade and he was trembling
like a man who has received a terrible shock.

"There's a case of genuine scare for you," remarked Doctor Bartholomew
quietly, drawing on his pipe. "That man's nerves are like unstrung wires.
Hardly ever seen a chap so frightened in all the course of my medical