Cleek nodded, and the queer little one-sided smile travelled up his cheek.

“Certainly, my dear Lake.  I’d be delighted.  Sir Nigel, of course, has other business to attend to.  It’s ten minutes to ten now.  If you’re going you’d better step lively.  Ah,” as Dollops’s figure appeared in the doorway, “if you’ll excuse me, Sir Nigel, I’ll just have a word or two with my man.”  His voice dropped several tones as he addressed the boy and they moved away together.  “Mr. Lake and I are going out for a walk across the Fens.  Petrie and Hammond will be there at ten.  I’d like you to join ’em.  Better nip along now.”

“Yessir.”

“And—­Dollops”—­he beckoned him back and bent his head to the lad’s ear, speaking in a voice that none heard but the one it was intended for—­“keep a sharp look-out.  I had a narrow escape last night.  Someone tried to stab me in bed but he got my pillow instead—­”

“Gawdamercy, Guv’nor!—­”

“Ssh.  And there’s no need to worry.  I’m still here, you see.  But keep your eyes and your ears open, and if you see any strange men hanging around, report to me at once.”

Dollops’s usually pale, freckled countenance went a shade paler, and he caught at Cleek’s arm as though he were loath to let it go.

“But, sir,” he whispered in a hoarse undertone, “you won’t go a-knocking about alone, will yer?  If anythin’ were to ’appen to you—­I—­I’d go along and commit that there ‘harum-scarum’ wot the Japanese are so fond o’ doin’—­on the spot!”

Cleek could barely restrain a laugh.  The whispered conversation had taken the merest fraction of a minute and, during it, he had had full view of the green baize door which led down to the servants’ quarters.  Borkins had gone through it some time before.  Then he heard the butler’s deep, measured tones in the garden, and caught sight of him talking to one of the grooms in the courtyard.  He heaved something like a sigh of relief.

Dollops left, and Cleek then rejoined the two men who stood talking together in low, earnest tones.

“Now,” said he, briskly, “if you’re ready, Mr. Lake, I am.  Let us be off.  Sir Nigel, I hope by dinner time to have some sort of news to impart to you, whether good or ill remains to be seen.  By the way, have you, in your employ, a dark, square-faced individual, with close-set eyes and a straggling moustache?  Rather undershot, too, I believe?  It would be interesting to me to know.”

Merriton considered for a moment.

“Tell you the truth, Mr. Headland, I can’t fit the description in anywhere among the people here,” he said after a pause.  “Dimmock’s fairish—­though he has got a moustache, but it’s a military one, and Borkins is, of course, smooth shaven.  The other men are clean-shaved, too, except for old Doughty, the head gardener, and he wears a full, gray beard.  Why?”

Cleek shook his head.

“Nothing important.  I was only just wondering.  Now then, Lake, you’ll be late if you loiter any longer, and our—­er—­friends will be waiting.  Good-bye, Sir Nigel, and good luck.  Lunch at one-fifteen, I take it?”