The Riddle of the Frozen Flame, Mary E. Hanshew and Thomas W. Hanshew [reading fiction .txt] 📗

fool had attempted three months back. He couldn't bet on another man's chance of life, like he would on a race-horse!

"You'll be a fool if you go, Wynne," he said, as quietly as his excitement would permit. "As my guest I ask you not to. The thing may be all rubbish—possibly is—but I'd rather you took no chances. Who it is that hides out there and kills his victims or smuggles them away I don't know, but I'd rather you didn't, old chap. And I'm not betting on a fellow's life. Have another drink man, and forget all about it."

Wynne took this creditable effort at reconciliation with a harsh guffaw. He crossed to Nigel and put his big, heavy hands upon the slim shoulders, bending his flushed face down so that the eyes of both were almost upon a level.

"You little, white-livered sneak," he said in a deep rumbling voice that was like thunder in the still room. "Pull yourself together and try to be a man. Take on the bet or not, whichever you like. You're savin' up for the housekeepin' I suppose. Well, take it or leave it—fifty pounds that I get back safe in this house to-night. Are you on?"

Merriton's teeth bit into his lips until the blood came in the effort at repression. He shook Wynne's hands off his shoulders and laughed straight into the other man's sneering face.

"Well then go—and be damned to you!" he said fiercely. "And blame your drunken wits if you come to grief. I've done my best to dissuade you. If you were less drunk I'd square the thing up and fight you. But I'm on, all right. Fifty pounds that you don't get back here—though I'm decent enough to hope I'll have to pay it. That satisfy you?"

"All right." Wynne straightened himself, took an unsteady step forward toward the door, and it was then that they all realized how exceedingly drunk the man was. He had come to the dinner in a state of partial intoxication, which merely made him bad-tempered, but now the spirits that he had partaken of so plentifully was burning itself into his very brain.

Doctor Bartholomew took a step toward him.

"Dash it all!" he said under his breath and addressing no one in particular, "he can't go like that. Can't some of us stop him?"

"Try," put in Lester Stark sententiously, having had previous experiences of Wynne's mood, so Doctor Bartholomew did try, and got cursed for his pains. Wynne was struggling into his great, picturesque cloak, a sinister figure of unsteady gait and blood-shot eye. As he went to the hall and swung open the front door, Merriton made one last effort to stop him.

"Don't be a fool, Wynne," he said anxiously. "The game's not worth the candle. Stay where you are and I'll put you up for the night, but in Heaven's name don't venture out across the Fens now."

Wynne turned and showed him a reddened, congested face from which the eyes gleamed evilly. Merriton never forgot that picture of him, or the sudden tightening of the heart-strings that he experienced, the sudden sensation of foreboding that swept over him.

"Oh—go to hell!" Wynne said thickly. And plunged out into the darkness.

CHAPTER VI A SHOT IN THE DARK

The church clock, some distance over Herne's Hill which lies at the back of Merriton Towers, broke the half silence that had fallen upon the little group of men in the warm smoking room with twelve sonorous, deep-throated notes. At sound of them Merriton got to his feet and stretched his hands above his head. A damper had fallen over the spirits of his guests after Wynne had gone out into the night on his foolish errand, and the fury against him that had stirred Nigel's soul was gradually wearing off.

"Well, Wynne said twelve, didn't he?" he remarked, with a sort of half-laugh as he surveyed the grave faces of the men who were seated in a semi-circle about him, "and twelve it is. We'll wait another half hour, and then if he doesn't come we'll make a move for bed. He'll be playing some beastly trick upon us, you may be sure of that. What a horrible temperament the man has! He was supposed to be putting up with the Brelliers to-night—old man Brellier was decent enough to ask him—and possibly he'll simply turn in there and laugh to himself at the picture of us chaps sitting here in the mornin' and waitin' for his return!"

Doctor Bartholomew shook his white head with a good deal of obstinacy.

"I think you're wrong there Nigel. Wynne is a man of his word, drunk or sober. He'll come back, no doubt. Unless something has happened to him."

"And this from our sceptical disbeliever, boys!" struck in Tony West, raising his hands in mock horror. "Nigel, m'lad, you've made an early conversion. The good doctor has a sneaking belief in the story. How now, son? What's your plan of action?"

"Half an hour's wait more, and then to bed," said Merriton, tossing back his head and setting his jaw. "I offered Wynne a bed in the first place, but he saw fit to refuse me. If he hasn't made use of this opportunity to turn in at the Brelliers' place, I'll eat my hat. What about a round of cards, boys, till the time is up?"

So the cards were produced, and the game began. But it was a half-hearted attempt at best, for everyone's ear was strained for the front-door bell, and everyone had an eye half-cocked toward the window. Before the half hour was up the game had fizzled out. And still Dacre Wynne did not put in an appearance.

Borkins, having been summoned, brought in some whisky and Merriton remarked casually:

"Mr. Wynne has ventured out to try and discover the meaning of the Frozen Flames, Borkins. He'll be back some time this evening—or rather morning, I should say, for it's after midnight—and the other gentlemen and myself are going to make a move for bed. Keep your ears peeled in case you hear him. I sleep like the very old devil himself, when once I do get off."

Borkins, on hearing this, turned suddenly gray, and the perspiration broke out on his forehead.

"Gone, sir? Mr. Wynne—gone—out there?" he said in a stifled voice. "Oh my Gawd, sir. It's—it's suicide, that's what it is! And Mr. Wynne's—gone!... 'E'll never come back, I swear."

Merriton laughed easily.

"Well, keep your swearing to yourself, Borkins," he returned, "and see that the gentlemen's rooms are ready for 'em. Doctor Bartholomew has the one next to mine, and Mr. West's is on the other side. I gave Mrs. Dredge full instructions this morning.... Good-night, Borkins, and pleasant dreams."

Borkins left. But his face was a dull drab shade and he was trembling like a man who has received a terrible shock.

"There's a case of genuine scare for you," remarked Doctor Bartholomew quietly, drawing on his pipe. "That man's nerves are like unstrung wires. Hardly ever seen a chap so frightened in all the course of my medical career. He's either had experience of the thing, or he knows something about it. Whichever way it is, he's the most terrified object I've ever laid eyes on!"

Merriton broke into a laugh. But there was not much merriment in it, rather a note of uneasiness which made Tony West glance up at him sharply.

"Best place for you, old chap, is your bed," he said, getting to his feet and laying an arm across Nigel's shoulders. "Livin' down here does seem to play the old Harry with one's nerves. I'm as jumpy as a kitten myself. Take it from me, Wynne will return, Nigel, and when he does he'll see to it that we all hear him. He'll probably break every pane of glass in the place with a stone, and play a devil's dance upon the knocker. 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. Heigho! I'm tired.... You're interested in firearms, Doctor. Here's my little pet, my sleepin' companion, you understand, that has been with me through many a hot campaign." He leaned over and took a little revolver out of the drawer of the little cabinet that stood by the bedside. The doctor, who had a remarkably fine collection of firearms, handled it with practised hands, remarked upon its good points, cocked the tiny thing, and then lifting his head looked Nigel straight in the eyes.

"I see you keep it loaded, my boy," he said quietly.

Merriton laughed.

"Yes. Habit, I suppose. One needed a loaded revolver in the jungle where every black man's hand was against you. Nice little toy, isn't it?"

"Yes. Looks very business-like, too."

"It is. Twice now it has saved my life. I owe it a good turn.... Well," laying the thing down upon the top of the cabinet and turning to the doctor with a smile. "I suppose you'll be turning in now. Pleasant dreams, old chap, and plenty of 'em. If you hear anything of Wynne—"

"I'll let you know," broke in the doctor, returning the smile affectionately. "Good-night."

He turned and went out through the door to his own room, the next one along the hall.

Nigel, after hesitating a moment, strode over to the window. It was still as black as a pocket outside, for dawn was not due for some hours yet, and against the darkness the flames still danced their nightly revel. He shook his fist at them and then broke into a harsh laugh as the thought of Dacre Wynne came to him again. Dash the fellow! He was always, in some way or another, intruding upon his privacy, whether it was mental or otherwise. Then, as he looked, it seemed as though a fresh flame suddenly flashed out in the velvet darkness to the left of the others. To his excited fancy it looked bigger, brighter, newer! But that was impossible! The Fens were uninhabited.

He watched the light for a moment or two, and then suddenly, obsessed with a strange fear, strode across the room and picked up the tiny revolver.

"Damn it! I'm going silly!" he exclaimed angrily, and throwing the window open took aim, his brain on fire with the champagne and the excitement of the evening. "Now let's see if you'll go, you infernal little devil!"

His finger touched the trigger, the thing spoke softly—that was one of its chief attractions for Nigel—and spat forth a little jet of flame. And as it did so, his brain cleared like magic. He laughed and shook himself as though out of a trance into which he had fallen. The light was still there. What a fool he was, potting at glow-worms like a madman! He shut the window with a bang and started to undress, and then went over to the door as he heard the doctor's voice outside.

"Thought I heard a shot, Nigel, what—?"

"You did. I'm a silly ass and have been potting at those beastly flames," returned Merriton, shamefacedly. "For Heaven's sake, don't tell the other fellows. They'll think I've gone loony. And for a moment I believe I had. But there's no harm done."

"Potting at those flames!" The doctor's voice was almost concerned. Then he shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, well, there's nothing in it! I must say I've taken a chance shot now and again at a bird myself from my bedroom before now. Still, get to bed, Nigel, like a good fellow, and have some sleep. Here, give me the pistol. You'll be potting at me before I know where I am. I'll take it into my room, thank you!"

"Right you are!" Merriton's laugh rang more normally and the doctor nodded with pleasure. "Good-night, Doctor."

"Good-night."

Then the door closed again, and