Cleek frowned at the slight hesitation before the name. He didn't want
to take chances of any one guessing his identity and Borkins was still
half-way within the room, and probably had sharp ears. His sort of man
had!

"Not very," he responded, as the door closed behind the butler. "At least
that is, Sir Nigel,"--speaking in his natural voice--"it really was
pretty chilly coming down. Winter's setting in fast, you know. That your
man?"

He jerked his head in the direction of the closed door, and twitched an
enquiring eyebrow.

Merriton nodded.

"Yes," he said, "that's Borkins. Looks a trustworthy specimen,
doesn't he? For my part I don't trust him farther than I can see him,
Mr.--er--Headland (awfully sorry but I keep forgetting your name
somehow). He's too shifty-eyed for me. What do you think?"

"Tell you better when I've had a good look at him," responded Cleek,
guardedly. "And lots of honest men are shifty-eyed, Sir Nigel, and vice
versa. That doesn't count for anything, you know. Well, my dear Mr. Lake,
finding your part a bit too much for you?" he added, with a laugh,
turning to Mr. Narkom, who was sitting on the extreme edge of his chair,
mournfully fingering his collar, which was higher and tighter than the
somewhat careless affair which he usually adopted. "Never mind. As the
poet sings, 'All the world's a stage, and all the men and women, etc.'
You're simply one of 'em, now. Try to remember that. And remember, also,