h the open window; and I believe I said
something like this: 'Damn it, why won't you go? I'll make you go, you
maddening little devil!' though I know those weren't the identical words
I spoke. As soon as the shot was fired my brain cleared. I began to feel
ashamed of myself, thought what a fool I'd look in front of the boys if
they heard the story; and just at that moment Doctor Bartholomew knocked
at the door."

Here the doctor nodded vigorously as thought to corroborate these
statements, and made as if to speak.

Cleek silenced him with a gesture.

"And then--what next, Sir Nigel?"

Merriton cleared his throat before proceeding. There was a drawn look
upon his face.

"The doctor said he thought he had heard a shot, and asked me what it
was, and I replied: 'Nothing. Only I was potting at the flames.' This
seemed to amaze him, as it would any sane man, I should think, and as no
doubt it is amazing you, Mr. Headland. Amazing you and making you think,
'What a fool the fellow is, after all!' Well, I showed the doctor the
revolver in my hand, and he laughingly said that he'd take it to bed
with him, in case I should start potting at _him_ by mistake. Then I
got into bed, after making him promise he wouldn't breathe a word to
anybody of what had occurred, as the others would be sure to laugh at
me; and--that's all."

"H'm. And quite enough, too, I should say," broke in Cleek, as the man
finished. "It sounds true enough, believe me, from your lips, and I know
you for an honourable man; but--what sort of a credence do you think an
average jury is going to place upon it? D'you think they'd believe you?"
He shook his head. "Never. They'd simply laugh at the whole thing, and
say you were either drunk or dreaming. People in the twentieth century
don't indulge in superstition to that extent, Sir Nigel; or, at least,
if they do, they let their reason govern their actions as far as
possible. It's a tall story at best, if you'll forgive me for saying so."

Merriton's face went a dull, sultry red. His eyes flamed.

"Then you don't believe me?" he said, impatiently.

Cleek raised a hand.

"I don't say that for one moment," he replied. "What I say is: 'Would a
judge and jury believe you?' That is the question. And my answer to it
is, 'No.' You've had every provocation to take Dacre Wynne's life, so far
as I can learn, every provocation, that is, that a man of unsound
mentality who would stoop to murder could have to justify h