That's his usual way of expressin' his pleasure, I believe. Here, here's
health to you, old boy, and happiness, and the best of luck."
That little ceremony being over, they turned in, Doctor Bartholomew,
his arm linked in Nigel's going with him to his bedroom, and, in the
half-dusk of the spluttering candles, they stood together at the
uncurtained window and looked out in silence upon the flames, the Frozen
Flames that Wynne had gone out to investigate. For quite ten minutes they
stood still. Then the doctor stirred himself and broke into a little
laugh.
"Well, well," he said comfortably, "whatever our friend Wynne is going to
do, I don't really think we need put any credence in the story that he
won't return, Nigel. So you can go to bed in comfort on that, can't you?"
Merriton nodded. Then he yawned and shut his eyes.
"What's that? Credence in the story? Of course not, Doctor. I'm not such
a fool as I may look. Wynne's playing a game on us, and at this moment
he is probably seated in Brellier's study having a laugh at the rest of
us, waitin' up for him anxiously, like a lot of scared old women.
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