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Updated: June 19, 2025
This way that's it. Where did you say, Merriton? Into the morning room? All right. Ah, Borkins has been getting things ready, I see. That couch is a broad one. Good thing, as there are two of 'em." "Two of 'em, sir?" exclaimed Borkins, suddenly throwing up his hands, his eyes wide with horror. Mr. Narkom nodded with something of professional triumph in his look. "Two of 'em, Borkins.
He glowered round upon each of them in turn, his sneering lips showing the pointed dogs' teeth behind them, his whole arrogant personality brutally awake. "Who'll take it on? You Merriton? Fifty pounds, man, that I don't get back safely and report to you chaps at twelve o'clock to-night." Merriton's flushed face went a shade or two redder, and he took an involuntary step forward.
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.
A stream of other witnesses came and gave their stories. Brellier told of how he had been rung up by Merriton to ask if there were any news of Wynne's arrival at the house. Told, in fact, all that he admitted to know of the night's affair, and ended up his evidence with the remark that "nothing on earth or in heaven would make him believe that Sir Nigel Merriton was guilty of murder."
"This I.O.U. belongs to you, I take it?" said the coroner, briskly. "It does, sir." "And it was made out two days before the prisoner met his death. The signature is yours?" Stark bowed. His eyes sought Nigel's and rested upon the pale, lined face with every appearance of concern. Then he looked back at the coroner. "Dacre Wynne lent me that money two days before he came down to visit Merriton.
There was barely space for another person to enter in comfort, and when the news went round in the street that Sir Nigel Merriton, late of the army, was being tried for his life, and that things were going pretty black against him, all London seemed to turn out with a morbid curiosity to hear the sentence of death passed.
Merriton gave him a shove, and he fell back upon Wynne, emitting a portentous groan. "What the devil ?" began that gentleman, in a testy voice. Tony grinned. "Nigel was ever thus!" he murmured, with uplifted eyes.
After that they can take 'em to the village mortuary if they like. But I've one or two things I'd like to ask you Merriton, and one or two things I want to examine. Gad! it's a beastly task, boys. That sheet's big enough, thank fortune! Cross the pitchforks, Petrie, and make a sort of stretcher out of them, that way. That's right. Now then, forward.... Gad! what a morning!"
"Is it of small calibre?" asked Cleek, at this juncture. Merriton nodded gravely. "As you say, of small calibre. You can see it for yourself. Borkins" he turned toward the man, who was standing by the doorway, his hands hanging at his sides, his manner a trifle obsequious; "will you bring it from the left-hand drawer of my dressing table. Here is the key."
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.
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