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If you values your life at any price at all don't go out, sir, and investigate them. Don't! You're a dead man in the morning if you do." "What's that?" Merriton swung round and looked into the weak, rather watery, blue eyes of his butler. "What the devil do you mean, Borkins, talkin' a lot of rot? What are those flames, anyway?
"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.
Borkins looked at Cleek, and his look quite plainly conveyed the meaning that he wished the detective to notice how violent Sir Nigel could be on occasions, but if Cleek saw this he paid not the slightest heed. "Speak as briefly as you can, please, and give as little offence," he cut in, in a sharp tone, and Borkins resumed: "At last I saw Sir Nigel and the Doctor and Mr.
It's been a devilish uncanny business from first to last, and not much to my taste. Now, I like a decent robbery or a nice, quick-fingered forger that wants a bit of huntin' up. You know, even detectives have their particular favourites in the matter of crime, Borkins, and a beastly murder isn't exactly in my line." Borkins laughed respectfully, rubbing his hands together.
If he knew anything, then he was a past master in the art of repression. On the other hand perhaps he didn't and there was really no reason why he should. Eavesdropping was a common enough fault with the best of servants, and curiosity a failing of most men. Borkins might be and possibly was absolutely innocent of any knowledge of last night's affair.
Bartholomew, whom everyone respected and few did not love, and who was in attendance at most of the bachelor spreads in London and out of it, as being a dry old body with a wit as fine as a rapier-thrust, and a fund of delicate, subtle humour, made up the little party. The solemn front door bell of Merriton Towers clanged, and Borkins, very pompous and elegant, flung wide the door.
"Have the morning-room door thrown open and the sofa pulled out from against the wall. My friends have been for a walk across the Fens, and have found something. You can see them coming up the drive. What d'you make of it?" "Gawd! a haccident, Sir Nigel," said Borkins, in a shaky voice. "'Adn't I better tell Mrs. Mummery to put the blue bedroom in order and 'ave plenty of 'ot water?..." "No."
If he had looked back once when the big gate shut, he might have changed his mind upon that score. With white face pressed close against the glass of the smoking-room window, which looked directly out upon the front path, stood Borkins, watching them as though he were watching a line of ghosts on their nightly prowl.
"'E 'asn't been back since last night, so far as I could make out." "Last night?" Merriton sat bolt upright in bed and ran his fingers through his hair. "What the dickens do you mean?" "Collins went out last night, sir, to fetch your papers. Leastways that was what he said he was goin' for," responded Borkins patiently, "and so far as I knows he 'asn't returned yet.
"Your statement against this man Borkins ?" "Is as strong a one as ever was made," said Cleek. "It was Borkins who in a fit of malicious rage, no doubt conceived the idea of interfering with his master's work to the extent of inventing the means to have Sir Nigel Merriton wrongly convicted of the murder of Dacre Wynne.
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