There was the smoking-room door, open and showing the type of room behind
it; there the hall-stand from which Dacre Wynne had fatefully wrenched
his coat and hat, to go lurching out into oblivion, half-drunk and
maddened with something more than intoxication--if Merriton had told his
story truly, and Cleek believed he had. It was, in fact, in that very
smoking-room that the legend which had led up to the tragedy had been
told. Hmm. There certainly was much to be cleared up here while he was
waiting for that other business at the War Office to adjust itself. He
wouldn't find time hanging heavily upon his hands there was no doubt of
that, and the thought that this man who had come to him for help was a
one-time friend of Ailsa Lorne's, the one dear woman in the world, added
fuel to the fire of his already awakened interest.

He greeted Merriton with all the bored ennui of the part he had adopted,
during such time as he was under Borkins' watchful eye. Even Mr. Narkom
played his part creditably, and won a glance of approval from his justly
celebrated ally.

"Hello, old chap," said Cleek, extending a hand, and screwing a monocle
still farther into his left eye. "Awfully pleased to see you,
doncherknow. Devilish long journey, what? Beastly fine place you've
got here, I must say. What you think, Lake?"

Merriton gasped, bit his lip, and then suddenly realizing who the
gentleman thus addressing him was, made an attempt at the right sort of
reply.

"Er--yes, yes, of course," he responded, though somewhat at random, for
this absolutely new creature that Cleek had become rather took his breath
away. "Afraid you're very tired and all that. Cold, Mr.--er Headland?"