"
"Is it of small calibre?" asked Cleek, at this juncture.
Merriton nodded gravely.
"As you say, of small calibre. You can see it for yourself. Borkins"--he
turned toward the man, who was standing by the doorway, his hands hanging
at his sides, his manner a trifle obsequious; "will you bring it from the
left-hand drawer of my dressing table. Here is the key." He tossed over a
bunch of keys and they fell with a jangling sound upon the floor at
Borkins's feet.
"Very good, Sir Nigel," said the man and withdrew, leaving the door open
behind him, however, as though he were afraid to lose any of the story
that was being told in the quiet morning room.
When he had gone, Merriton resumed:
"I'm not a superstitious man, Mr. Headland, but that old wives' tale of
the Frozen Flames, and the new one coming out every time they claimed
another victim, seemed to have burnt its way into my brain. That and the
champagne together, and then close upon it Dacre Wynne's foolish bet to
find out what the things were. When I went up to my room, and after
saying good-night to the doctor here, closed the door and locked it,
I then crossed to the window and looked out at the flames.
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