Part 4 (1/2)
”You'll be a fool if you go, Wynne,” he said, as quietly as his excitement would permit. ”As my guest I ask you not to. The thing may be all rubbish-possibly is-but I'd rather you took no chances. Who it is that hides out there and kills his victims or smuggles them away I don't know, but I'd rather you didn't, old chap. And I'm not betting on a fellow's life. Have another drink man, and forget all about it.”
Wynne took this creditable effort at reconciliation with a harsh guffaw. He crossed to Nigel and put his big, heavy hands upon the slim shoulders, bending his flushed face down so that the eyes of both were almost upon a level.
”You little, white-livered sneak,” he said in a deep rumbling voice that was like thunder in the still room. ”Pull yourself together and try to be a man. Take on the bet or not, whichever you like. You're savin' up for the housekeepin' I suppose. Well, take it or leave it-fifty pounds that I get back safe in this house to-night. Are you on?”
Merriton's teeth bit into his lips until the blood came in the effort at repression. He shook Wynne's hands off his shoulders and laughed straight into the other man's sneering face.
”Well then go-and be d.a.m.ned to you!” he said fiercely. ”And blame your drunken wits if you come to grief. I've done my best to dissuade you. If you were less drunk I'd square the thing up and fight you. But I'm on, all right. Fifty pounds that you don't get back here-though I'm decent enough to hope I'll have to pay it. That satisfy you?”
”All right.” Wynne straightened himself, took an unsteady step forward toward the door, and it was then that they all realized how exceedingly drunk the man was. He had come to the dinner in a state of partial intoxication, which merely made him bad-tempered, but now the spirits that he had partaken of so plentifully was burning itself into his very brain.
Doctor Bartholomew took a step toward him.
”Dash it all!” he said under his breath and addressing no one in particular, ”he can't go like that. Can't some of us stop him?”
”Try,” put in Lester Stark sententiously, having had previous experiences of Wynne's mood, so Doctor Bartholomew did try, and got cursed for his pains. Wynne was struggling into his great, picturesque cloak, a sinister figure of unsteady gait and blood-shot eye. As he went to the hall and swung open the front door, Merriton made one last effort to stop him.
”Don't be a fool, Wynne,” he said anxiously. ”The game's not worth the candle. Stay where you are and I'll put you up for the night, but in Heaven's name don't venture out across the Fens now.”
Wynne turned and showed him a reddened, congested face from which the eyes gleamed evilly. Merriton never forgot that picture of him, or the sudden tightening of the heart-strings that he experienced, the sudden sensation of foreboding that swept over him.
”Oh-go to h.e.l.l!” Wynne said thickly. And plunged out into the darkness.
CHAPTER VI
A SHOT IN THE DARK
The church clock, some distance over Herne's Hill which lies at the back of Merriton Towers, broke the half silence that had fallen upon the little group of men in the warm smoking room with twelve sonorous, deep-throated notes. At sound of them Merriton got to his feet and stretched his hands above his head. A damper had fallen over the spirits of his guests after Wynne had gone out into the night on his foolish errand, and the fury against him that had stirred Nigel's soul was gradually wearing off.
”Well, Wynne said twelve, didn't he?” he remarked, with a sort of half-laugh as he surveyed the grave faces of the men who were seated in a semi-circle about him, ”and twelve it is. We'll wait another half hour, and then if he doesn't come we'll make a move for bed. He'll be playing some beastly trick upon us, you may be sure of that. What a horrible temperament the man has! He was supposed to be putting up with the Brelliers to-night-old man Brellier was decent enough to ask him-and possibly he'll simply turn in there and laugh to himself at the picture of us chaps sitting here in the mornin' and waitin' for his return!”
Doctor Bartholomew shook his white head with a good deal of obstinacy.
”I think you're wrong there Nigel. Wynne is a man of his word, drunk or sober. He'll come back, no doubt. Unless something has happened to him.”
”And this from our sceptical disbeliever, boys!” struck in Tony West, raising his hands in mock horror. ”Nigel, m'lad, you've made an early conversion. The good doctor has a sneaking belief in the story. How now, son? What's your plan of action?”
”Half an hour's wait more, and then to bed,” said Merriton, tossing back his head and setting his jaw. ”I offered Wynne a bed in the first place, but he saw fit to refuse me. If he hasn't made use of this opportunity to turn in at the Brelliers' place, I'll eat my hat. What about a round of cards, boys, till the time is up?”
So the cards were produced, and the game began. But it was a half-hearted attempt at best, for everyone's ear was strained for the front-door bell, and everyone had an eye half-c.o.c.ked toward the window. Before the half hour was up the game had fizzled out. And still Dacre Wynne did not put in an appearance.
Borkins, having been summoned, brought in some whisky and Merriton remarked casually:
”Mr. Wynne has ventured out to try and discover the meaning of the Frozen Flames, Borkins. He'll be back some time this evening-or rather morning, I should say, for it's after midnight-and the other gentlemen and myself are going to make a move for bed. Keep your ears peeled in case you hear him. I sleep like the very old devil himself, when once I do get off.”
Borkins, on hearing this, turned suddenly gray, and the perspiration broke out on his forehead.
”Gone, sir? Mr. Wynne-gone-out there?” he said in a stifled voice. ”Oh my Gawd, sir. It's-it's suicide, that's what it is! And Mr. Wynne's-gone!... 'E'll never come back, I swear.”
Merriton laughed easily.