He
heard, with throbbing pulses, approaching footsteps in the hall. His head
was swimming, his feet seemed loaded with lead so that he could not rise.
Then, across the space from where Cleek stood, the revolver in one hand
and the tiny black object that had nested in a dead man's brain in the
other, came the sound of his voice, speaking in clear, concise sentences.
He could see the doctor's grave face over the curve of Mr. Narkom's fat
shoulder. For a moment the world swam. Then he caught the import of what
Cleek was saying.
"The bullet is the same as those in your revolver, Sir Nigel," he said,
concisely. "I am sorry, but I must do my duty. Constable Roberts, here is
your prisoner. I arrest this man for the murder of Dacre Wynne!"
CHAPTER XVII
IN THE CELL
What followed was like a sort of nightmare to Merriton. That he should be
arrested for the murder of Dacre Wynne reeled drunkenly in his brain.
Murderer! They were calling him a murderer! The liars! The fools! Calling
him a murderer, were they? And taking the word of a crawling worm like
Borkins, a man without honour and utterly devoid of decency, who could
stand up before them and tell them a story that was a tissue of lies.
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