"AS A THIEF IN THE NIGHT--"
The arrival of Dollops lighted a spark of great interest in the servants'
hall. The newly engaged maids accepted him for his youth and sharp
manners, as an innovation which they rather fancied than otherwise.
Borkins alone stood aloof. It seemed to the man that here, in Dollops'
lithe, young form, in the very ginger of his carrotty hair, in the
stridency of this cockney accent--which Cleek had endeavoured to
eradicate without a particle of success--was the reembodiment of the
older, shorter, more mature James Collins. To hear him speak in that
sharp, young voice of his was to make the hair upon one's neck prick in
supernatural discomfort. It was as though James Collins had come back to
life again in the form of this East Side youngster, who was so extremely
unlike his drawling, over-pampered master.
But Dollops had been primed for his task, and set to work at it with a
will.
"Been in these 'ere parts long, Mr. Borkins?" he queried as they all sat
at supper, and he himself munched bread and butter and fish paste with a
vigour that was lacking in only one quality--manners.
Borkins sniffed, and passed up his cup to the housekeeper.
"Before you were born, I dessay," he responded tartly.
"Is that so, Methuselah?" Dollops gave a little boyish giggle at sight
of the butler's face. "Well, seein' as I'm gettin' along in life,
you must be a good way parst the meridian, if yer don't mind my sayin'
so.... Funny thing, on the way down I run across a chap wot's visitin'
pals in this 'ere village, and 'e pulls me the strangest yarn as ever a
body 'eard. Summink to do wiv flames it were--Frozen Flames or icicles or
frost of some kind. But 'e was so full up of mystery that there weren't
no gettin' nuffin out er 'im. Any one 'ere tell me the story? 'E fair got
me curiosity fired, 'e did!"
A glance laden with sinister meaning flew around the table. Borkins
cleared his throat as every eye fastened itself upon him, and he swelled
visibly beneath his brass-buttoned waistcoat.
"If you're any wiser than you look, young man, you'll leave well alone,
and not go stickin' your fingers in other peoples' pie!" he gave out
sententiously. "Yes, there is a story--and a very unpleasant one, too.
If you use your eyes to-night and look out of the smoking-room window as
dusk comes on, you'll see the Frozen Flame for yerself, and won't want to
be arskin' me any fool questions about it. One of the servants 'ere--and
a rude, unmannerly London creetur 'e was too!--disappeared a while ago,
goin' out across the Fens after night-time when 'e was warned not to.
Never seen a sight of 'im since--though I'm not mournin' any, as you kin
see!"
"_Go on!_" Dollops' voice expressed incredulity, amazement, and an awed
interest that rather flattered the butler.
"True as I'm sittin' 'ere!" he responded grimly. "And before that a
friend of Sir Nigel's--a fine, big upstandin' man 'e were, name of
Wynne--went the same way. Got a little the worse for drink and laughed
at the story. Said 'e'd go out and investigate for 'imself. 'E never come
back from that day to this!"
"Gawd's truf! 'Ow orful! You won't find yer 'umble a 'ankerin' after the
fresh air come night-time!" broke in Dollops with a little shiver of
terror that was remarkably real. "I'll keep to me downy thank you, an' as
you say, Mr. Borkins, leave well enough alone. You're a wise gentleman,
you are!"
Borkins, flattered, still further expanded.
"I won't say as all you cockney chaps are the same as Collins," he
returned magnanimously, "for it takes all kinds ter make a world. If you
feels inclined some time, I'll walk you down to the Pig and Whistle and
you shall 'ave a word or two with a chap I know. 'E'll tell yer somethink
that'll make your 'air stand on end. You jist trot along ter me when
you're free, and we'll take a little stroll together."
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 again, softly, softly padding
across the room toward him. He saw the black shadows of stockinged feet
as they crossed the path of moonlight, and sucked in his breath. Man's
feet!... Whose?... Then something shook the bedstead with tremendous
force, but without sound. It was as if some object had been hurled
forcibly into its softness. The footsteps turned again, hurriedly this
time, and there was a sound of a deep-drawn breath--a breath full of
pent-up, passionate hatred. Then the figure ran lightly across the room,
and as it flashed for a moment through the bar of moonlight, Cleek looked
out from his safe hiding-place and--_saw_! The eyes were narrowed in the
ivory-tinted face, the jaw heavy and undershot as a bull-dog's, while a
dark coloured mustache straggled untidily across the upper lip. The
moonlight, cruelly clear, picked out the point of something sharp that
shone in one clenched hand, something that looked like a knife--that
_was_ a knife.
Then the figure vanished and the door closed noiselessly behind him.
Hmm. So this question of the Frozen Flame was as urgent as all that, was
it? To attempt to murder him, here--in the house of the Squire of
Fetchworth. He wriggled out of his hiding place, a little stiff from
the cramped position he had held, and guardedly lit his candle. Then he
surveyed the bed with set mouth and narrowed eyes. There was a sharp
incision through the clothes, an incision quite three inches long, that
had punctured the pillow which lay beneath them--the pillow that had
saved him his life--and buried itself in the mattress beneath. Gad! a
powerful hand that! He stood a moment thinking, pinching up his chin the
while. He had had his suspicions of Borkins, but the face that he had
seen in the moonlight was not the butler's face. _Whose, then, was it?_