Want to know what those flames are, eh?"
"Well, rather!"
"Well, well, just to think that you've actually been losing sleep on it!
Shows what asses we human beings are, doesn't it? No offence meant, of
course. As for you, Mr. Narkom--or Mr. Gregory Lake, as I must remember
to call you for the good of the cause--I'm ashamed of you, I am indeed!
You ought to know better, a man of your years!"
"But the flames, Cleek, the flames!" There was a tension in Merriton's
voice that spoke of nerves near to the breaking point. Instantly Cleek
was serious. He reached out a hand and laid it upon the young man's
shoulder. Merriton was trembling, but he steadied under the grip, just
as it was meant that he should.
"See here," Cleek said, bluntly, "you oughtn't to work yourself up into
such a state. It's not good for you; you'll go all to pieces one of these
days. Those flames, eh? Why I thought any one knew enough about natural
phenomena to answer that question. But it seems I'm wrong. Those flames
are nothing more nor less than marsh gas, Sir Nigel, evolved from the
decomposition of vegetation, and therefore only found in swampy regions
such as this.
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