“We don’t.”  It was Merriton who spoke, rather curtly, for the remark sounded inane to his ears.

“It is no fair you ass, it’s—­God knows what!  That’s the point of the whole affair.  What are those flames, and where do they come from?  That part of the Fens is uninhabited, a boggy, marshy, ghostly spot which no one in the whole countryside will cross at night.  The story goes that those who do—­well they never come back.”

“Oh, go easy, Nigel!” struck in Tony West with a whistle of pretended astonishment.  “Champagne no doubt, but—­”

“It’s the truth according to the villagers, anyhow!” returned Merriton, soberly.  “That is how the story goes, my lad, and you chaps asked me for it.  Those Frozen Flames—­it’s the villagers’ name, not mine—­they say are supernatural phenomena, and any one, as I said before, crossing the place near them at night disappears clean off the face of the earth.  Then a new flame appears, the soul of the johnny who has ’gone out’.”

“Any proof?” inquired Doctor Bartholomew suddenly, stroking his beard, and arching his bushy eyebrows, as if trying to sympathize with his host’s obvious half belief in the story.

Nigel wheeled and faced him in the dim light.  The pupils of his eyes were a trifle dilated.

“Yes, so I understand.  Short time back a chap went out—­fellow called Myers—­Will Myers.  He was a bit drunk, I think, and thought he’d have a shot at makin’ the village busybodies sit up and give ’em something to talk about.  Anyhow, he went.”

“And he came back?” Unconsciously a little note of anxiety had crept into Tony West’s voice.

“No, on the contrary, he did not come back.  They searched for his body all over the marshes next day, but it had disappeared absolutely, and the chap who told me said he saw another light come out the next night, and join the rest of ’em....  There, there’s your story, Lester, make what you like of it.  I’ve done my bit and told it anyway.”

For a moment there was silence.  Then Stark shook himself.

“Gad, what an uncanny story!  Turn up the lights someone, and dispel this gloom that seems to have settled on everyone!  What do you make of it?”

Suddenly Wynne’s great, bulky figure swung free from the shadows.  There were red glints in his eyes and a sneer curled his heavy lips.  He sucked his cigar and threw his head back.

“What I make of it is a whole lot of old women’s damn silly nonsense!” he announced in a loud voice.  “And how a sensible, decent thinkin’ man can give credence to the thing for one second beats me completely!  Nigel’s head was always full of imaginations (of a sort) but how you other chaps can listen to the thing—­Well, all I can say is you’re the rottenest lot of idiots I’ve ever come across!”

Merriton shut his lips tightly for a moment, and tried hard to remember that this man was a guest in his house.  It was so obvious that Wynne was trying for a row, Doctor Bartholomew turned round and lifted a protesting hand.