"Thought I heard a shot, Nigel, what--?"

"You did. I'm a silly ass and have been potting at those beastly flames,"
returned Merriton, shamefacedly. "For Heaven's sake, don't tell the other
fellows. They'll think I've gone loony. And for a moment I believe I had.
But there's no harm done."

"Potting at those flames!" The doctor's voice was almost concerned. Then
he shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, well, there's nothing in it! I must say
I've taken a chance shot now and again at a bird myself from my bedroom
before now. Still, get to bed, Nigel, like a good fellow, and have some
sleep. Here, give me the pistol. You'll be potting at me before I know
where I am. I'll take it into my room, thank you!"

"Right you are!" Merriton's laugh rang more normally and the doctor
nodded with pleasure. "Good-night, Doctor."

"Good-night."

Then the door closed again, and the house dropped once more into
stillness. In ten minutes Merriton tumbled into bed. He slept like a
log.... He hadn't seen the doctor drop that sleeping draught into that
last whisky while Tony West kept him talking. That was why he slept.

Later on, however, his shame at his own foolishness in firing his pistol
at mere flames of the night was the cause of grave difficulty. For when
he related the story of the whole affair to Cleek's master mind he _left
that out_! And very nearly was it his own undoing, for strange was to be
the outcome of that shot in the night.