Dollops’ countenance widened into a delighted grin.

Later, Dollops, in the act of laying out Cleek’s clothes for dinner, while Cleek himself unpacked leisurely and made the braces that held the mirror of the dressing-table gay with multi-coloured ties, gave out the news of his promised visit to the Pig and Whistle with the august Borkins with something akin to triumph.

“That’s right, lad, that’s right.  Get friendly with ’em!” returned Cleek with a pleased smile.  “I’ve an idea we’re going to have a pretty lively time down here, if I’m not much mistaken.  Stick to that chap Borkins as you would to glue.  Don’t let him get away from you.  Follow him wherever he goes, but don’t let the other servants in the place slip out from your watchful eye, either.  Those Frozen Flames want looking into.  I have grave suspicions of Borkins.  His sort generally knows more than almost any other sort, and he appeared to be sizing me up pretty carefully.  I shouldn’t wonder at all, if he had an idea already that I am not the ’man about town’ I appear to be.  It will be rotten luck if he has....  Time I got into my togs, boy....  Here, just hand me that shirt, will you?”

That night certainly proved an even more exciting one than Cleek had prophesied.  The household retired early, as country households are apt to do, but Cleek, however, did not undress.  He sat at his window, which faced upon the Fens, watching the trail of the flames dancing across the horizon of night, and trying to solve the riddle that he had come to find the answer to.

He heard the church clock in the distance chime out the hour of twelve; and still he sat on.  The peace of the quiet night stole over him, filling his active brain with a restfulness that had been foreign to it for some time in the stress of his busy life in London.  He felt glad he had taken up this case, if only for the view of the countryside at night, the stillness of the untrod marshes, and the absolute absence of every living thing at this hour.

The clock chimed one, and he heeded it not.  Two—­half-past—.  Of a sudden he sat bolt upright, then got noiselessly to his feet and glided across the floor to where his bed stood—­a monstrous black object with heavy canopy and curtains, a relic of the Victorianism in which this house was born.  He moved like a cat, absolutely without sound, fleet, sure.  His fingers found the coverlet and he tore it down, tumbling the clothes and pushing down the pillow so that it looked as if he himself lay there, peacefully sleeping beneath the sheltering blankets....  Then, still noiseless, panther-like, he slid his lithe figure under the bed....  Then the noise came again.  Just the whisper of footsteps in the wide hall, and then—­his door opened soundlessly and for a moment the footsteps stopped.  He could feel a presence in the room.  If it were Dollops the lad would give some sign.  If not—­He lay still, scarcely breathing in the enveloping darkness.  The footsteps came