 Chapter 26 of The Riddle of the Frozen Flame by Mary E. Hanshaw and Thomas W. Hanshaw This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 26 Justice and Justification The courtroom was crowded on every side. There was barely space for another person to enter in comfort, and when the news went round in the street that Sir Nigel Meritan, 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. Petri, stationed at the door, spent most of his time waving a white-gloved hand and shaking his head until he felt that it would shortly tumble off his neck and roll away upon the pavement. Mr. Narcombe had given him instructions that if anyone of any importance in the affair in question should turn up, he was to admit him, but to be adamant in every other case, and so the cue of morbid-minded women and idle men grew long and longer, and the clamour louder and louder, until the tempers of the police on guard grew very short and the crowd was handled more and more firmly. The effect of this began to tell. Slowly it thinned out, and the people turned once more into the strand, sauntering along with their heads half the time over their shoulders, while Petri stood and mopped his face and wondered what had become of Mr. Cleek, or if he had turned up in one of his many aliases and he hadn't recognised him. Like as not, that's what's happened. He told himself, stuffing his thumbs into his policeman's belt and setting his feet apart. But what gets over me is not a sight of icing of young dollops, and where Mr. Cleek is, well, that there young fellow is bound to be too. Case is drawing to a close, I reckon, by this time. I wouldn't be in that young Lord's shoes. He shook his head at the thought and fell to considering the matter and in a most sympathetic frame of mind, if the truth be told. Half an hour passed, another sped by. The crowd now worried him very little, and judging from one or two folk that drifted out of the courtroom with rather pale faces and set mouths, as though they had heard something that sickened them and were going to be out of it before the end came, Petri began to think that that end was approaching very near. And he hadn't seen Mr. Cleek go into the place or dollops either. Funny thing that. In his phone message that morning Mr. Cleek had said he would be at the court sharp at one, and it was half past two now. Well, he was sorry the Governor hadn't turned up in time. He'd be disappointed, no doubt, and after all the telephoning and hunting up of directories that he himself had done personally that very morning Mr. Cleek would be feeling rather off it if he turned up too late. Petri took a few steps up and down and his eyes roamed the strand leisurely. He came to a sudden halt as a red limousine, the red limousine he knew so well, twirled up to the pavement's edge, stopped in front of him with a grinding of brakes, a door flashed open, and he heard the sound of a sharp order given in that one unmistakable voice. Mr. Cleek was there, followed by dollops close at his heels, and looking as though they had torn through hell itself to get there in time. Petri took a hurried step forward and swung back the big iron gate still farther. In time, Petri, Cleek asked breathlessly, just about, sir, near shave, though, from what I see of the people are coming out, heard the case had gone against, sir Nigel, sir. Poor chap. There, you, dollops! But dollops was gone in his master's wake, in his arms a huge ungainly bundle that looked like a stove-pipe wrapped up in brown paper, gone through the courtroom door without so much as passing the time of day with an old pal. Petri felt distinctly hurt about it, and sauntered back to his place with his smile gone, while Cleek, hurrying through the crowded courtroom and passing by the sheer power of his name the various court officials who would have stopped him, stopped only as he reached the space before the judge's bench. Already the jury were filing in one by one and taking their seats. The black cap lay beside Mr. Justice Granger's spectacles, a sinister emblem, having its response in the white-faced man who stood in the dock, awaiting the verdict upon his life. Cleek saw it all in one glance and then spoke. Your lordship! he said, addressing the judge who looked at him with raised eyebrows. May I address the court? The barristers arose, scandalised at the interruption, knowing not whether advantage for prosecution or defence lay in what this man had to say. The clerk of the court stood aghast, ready to order the court officers to eject the interloper who dared interrupt the course of the majestic law. All stood poised for a breathless moment, held in check by the power of the man Cleek, or by uncertainty as to the action of the judge. A tense pause, and then the court broke the silence. You may speak. Your lordship, may it please the court? said Cleek. I have evidence here which will save this man's life. I demand to show it to the court. The barristers, held in check by the stern practice of the English law, which, unlike American practice, does not allow counsel to be cloud the issue with objection and technical argument, remained motionless. They knew Cleek, and knew that here was the crisis of the case they had presented so learnedly. This is an unusual occurrence, sir, at last spoke the judge, and you are distinctly late. The jury has returned, and the foreman is about to pronounce the verdict. What is it you have to say, sir? Your lordship, it is simply this. Cleek threw back his head. The prisoner at bar, he pointed to Meryton, who at the first sound of Cleek's voice had spun round a sudden hope finding birth in his dull eyes, is innocent. Also, he switched round upon his heel and surveyed the courtroom. I beg of your lordship that you will immediately give orders for no person to leave this court. The instigator of the crime is before my eyes. Perhaps you do not know me, but I have been at work upon this case for some time, and am a colleague of Mr. Narcombe of Scotland Yard. My name is Cleek, Hamilton Cleek. I have your permission to continue. A murmur went up round the crowded courtroom. The judge nodded. He needed no introduction to Cleek. The gentleman of the jury will be seated, declared the court. The clerk will call Hamilton Cleek as a witness. This formality accomplished, the judge indicated that he himself would question this crucial eleventh hour witness. Mr. Cleek, he began, you say this man is innocent. We will hear your story. Cleek motioned to dollops who stood at the back of the court and instantly the lad pushed his way through the crowd to his master's side carrying the long, ungainly burden in his arms. Meanwhile, at the back of the room a commotion had occurred. The magic name of that most magical of men, Hamilton Cleek detective, had wrought what Cleek had known it would. Someone was pushing for the door with all the strength that was in him, but already the key had turned, and Hammond as guardian held up his hand. Cleek knew, but for the time said nothing, and the crowd had hidden whoever it was from the common view. He simply motioned dollops to lay his burden upon the table and then spoke once more. Malud, he said clearly, may I ask a favour of the court? I should be obliged if you would call every witness in this matter here simultaneously. Set them out in a row, if you will, but call them now. Thanks. The judge motioned to the clerk, and through the hushed silence of the court the dull voice strewn out, Antony West, William Borkins, Leicester Stark, Gustave Preilier, Miss Antoinette Preilier, Dr Bartholomew, and so on through the whole list. As each name was called, the owner of it came forward and stood in front of the judge's high desk. A most unusual proceeding, sir, said that worthy, again settling the spectacles upon his nose and frowning down at Cleek, but knowing who you are, I appreciate your lordship's kindness. Now, then, all there? That's good, and at least every one of them is here. No chance of slipping away now. Now for it. He turned back to the table with something of suppressed eagerness in his movements, and low murmur of excitement went up round the crowded courtroom. Rapidly he tore off the wrappings from the long, snake-like bundle and held one of the objects up to view. Allow me to draw your attention to this, he said, in a loud, clear voice, every note of which carried to the back of the long room. This, as you possibly know, sir, is a piece of electric tubing made for the express purpose of conveying safely delicate electric warings that are used for installations, so that they may not be damaged in transit from the factory to the agent who sells them. You would like to see the wirings, I know. For answer, he whipped open the joints of one of the tubes, set it upon end, and from inside the narrow casing came a perfect shower of golden sovereigns clattering to the floor and across the table in front of the astonished clock's eyes. The judge sat up suddenly and rubbed his eyes. God bless my soul! He began and then subsided into silence. The eyes of young Sir Nigel Meritan nearly leapt from their sockets with astonishment and every man in the crowd was gaping. Cleak laughed. Rather of a surprise, I must admit, isn't it? He said, with a slight shrug of the shoulders. And no doubt you're wondering what all this has to do with the case in hand. Well, that'll come along all in good time. Golden sovereigns, you see, carefully stacked up to fill the little tubing to its capacity and thousands of them done the same, too. There's a perfect fortune down there in that factory at Salt Fleet. Mr. Narcombe, he turned round and surveyed the superintendent with mirthful eyes. What about these bank robberies now, eh? I told you something would crop up. You see, it has. We've discovered the hiding place of the gold and the prime leader in the whole distressing affair. The rest ought to be easy. He whipped round suddenly toward the line of witnesses, letting his eyes travel over each face in turn. Past Tony West's reddened countenance, past Dr. Bartholomew's pale intensity, past Borkin's standing very straight and white and frightened looking, then, of a sudden, he let forward his hand clamped down upon someone's shoulder and his voice exclaimed triumphantly, And here the beauty is! Then, before the astonished eyes of the crowd of spectators, stood Mr. Gustave Brelier, writhing and twisting in the clutch of the firm fingers and spitting forth fury in a Flemish patois that would have struck Clicke dead on the spot if words could kill. A sudden din arose. People pressed forward, the better to see and hear, exclaiming loudly, condemning, criticizing. The judges' frail, old hand brought silence at last and Antoinette Brelier came forward from her place and clutched Clicke by the arm. It cannot be, Mr. Clicke, she said piteously. I tell you, my uncle is the best of men, truly. He could never have done this thing that you accuse him of. And the worst of devils, that I can thoroughly endorse, my dear young lady, returned Clicke with a grim laugh. I am sorry for you, very, but at least you will have consolation in your future husband's release. That should compensate you. Here, officer, take hold of this man. We'll get down to brass tacks now. Take hold of him and hold him fast, for a more slippery snake never was created. All right, Sir Nigel, it is all right, lad. Sit down. This is going to be a long story, but it's got to be told. Fetch chairs for the witnesses, constable, and don't let any of them go yet. I want them to hear this thing through. In his quick, easy manner, he seemed suddenly to have taken command of the court, and knowing that he was Hamilton Clicke, and that Clicke would use his own methods or none, Mr. Justice Granger took the wisest course and let him alone. When all was in readiness, Clicke settled down to the story. He was the only man left standing, a straight, slim figure, full of that controlled power and energy that is so often possessed by a small but perfect machine. He bowed to the judge with something of the theatrical in his manner, and then rested one hand upon the clerk's table. Now, naturally, you are wanting to hear the story," he said briskly, and I'll make it as brief as possible. But I warn you there's a good deal to be told, and afterward there'll be work for Scotland Yard, more work than perhaps they'll care about, but that is another story. To begin with, the jury, my Lord, was undoubtedly from all signs about to convict the prisoner upon a charge of murder. A murder of which he was entirely innocent. You have heard Meritan's story. Believe me, every word of it is true. Circumstantial evidence, to the contrary, notwithstanding. In the first place, Dacre Wynne was shot through the temple at the instigation of that man there. He pointed to Bailier, standing pale and still between two constables, foully shot as many others had been similarly done to death, because they had ventured forth across the fens at night, and were likely to investigate this man's charming little midnight movements further than he cared about. To creatures of his like, human life is nothing compared to what it can produce. Men and women are a means to an end, and that end the furtherance of his own wealth, his own future. The epitome of prehistoric selfishness, is it not? Club the next man that comes along, and steal from his dead body all that he has worked for. Oh, a pretty sort of a tale this is, I promise you. What's that, my lord? What has the frozen flame to do with all this? Why, the answer to that is as simple as A-B-C. The frozen flames, or that most natural of phenomena, marsh gas, of which I won't weary you with an explanation, arose from that part of the fens where the rotting vegetation was at its worst. What more natural, then, than that this human fiend should endeavour to shape even this thing to his own ends. The villagers had always been superstitious of these lights, but their notice had never been particularly called to them before the story of the frozen flames had been carefully spread from mouth to mouth by Brelier's tools. Then one man, braver than the rest, ventured forth and never came back. The story gained credence even with the more educated few. Another unwilling to conform to public opinion did likewise, and he, too, went into the great unknown. The list of Brelier's victims, supposed, of course, to be burned up by the frozen flames, grew fairly lengthy in the four years that he has been using them as a screen for his underhanded work. A guard, and I've seen one of the men myself during a little midnight encounter that I had with him, went wandering over that part of the district armed with a revolver. The first sight of a stranger caused him to use his weapon. Meanwhile, behind the screen of the lights the bank robbers were bringing in their gold by motor and hiding the sacks down in a network of underground passageways that I also discovered and traversed. They ran by devious ways, both to a field in Salt Fleet conveniently near the factory and by another route up to the back kitchen of Merit and Tars. You'll admit that when I discovered this to be the case I felt pretty uneasy about Sir Nigel's innocence, but a still further search brought to light another passage, which ran straight into the study of Withersby Hall, occupied by the Brelier's, and was hidden under the square rug in front of the fireplace. A nice convenient little spot for our friend here to carry on his good work. Just a few words to say that he didn't want to be disturbed in his study. A locked door, a rug moved, and there you are. He was free from all prying eyes to investigate the way things were going and to personally supervise the hiding of the gold. While outside upon the fence men were being killed like rats, because one or two of them chose to use their intelligence and wanted to find out what the flames really were. They found out all right, poor devils, and their widows waited for them in vain. And what does he do with all this gold, you ask? Why, ship it by using an electrical factory where he makes tubings and fittings and a good deal of mischief to boot. The sovereigns are hidden, as you have seen, and are shipped out at night in fishing boats loaded below the watermark. I've helped with the loading myself, so I know. I'll root for Belgium, where his equally creditable brother Adolf receives the tubes and invariably ships them back as being of the wrong gauge. Look here. He stopped speaking for a moment and, stepping forward, lifted up another tubing from the table and untharsened it at one of the joints. Then he held it up for all to see. See that stuff in there? That's tungsten. Perhaps you don't all know what tungsten is. Well, it's a valuable commodity that is mined from the earth and which is used expressly in the making of electric lamps. A good friend Adolf, like his brother, has the same twist of brain. Instead of keeping the tubes, he returns them with the rather thin excuse that they are of the wrong gauge and fills them with this tungsten from the famous tungsten mines for which Belgium holds first place in the world. And so the stuff is shipped in absolutely free of duty while our friend here unloads it, supplies the raw material to one or two firms in town trading under the name of Jonathan Brent. You see, I've got the whole fact, Spaelier, and uses some himself for this factory which is the blind for his other trading ideas. Very clever, isn't it? The judge nodded. I thought he would agree so, my lord. Even crime can have its clever side, and more often than not the criminal brain is the cleverest which the world produces. How was I? Ah, yes, the shipping of the stuff to Belgium. You see, Spaelier's clever there. He knows that the sudden appearance of all this gold at his own bank would arouse suspicions, especially as the robberies have been so frequent. So he determines that it is safer out of the country and as the exchange of British gold is high he makes money that way. Turns his hand to everything, in fact. He laughed. But now we are turning our hands to him and the law will have it told, penny for penny, life for life. You've come to the end of your resources, Spaelier, when you engaged those two strange workmen. Or better still, your accomplice did it for you. You didn't know they were clique and his man, did you? You didn't know that on that second night after we'd worked there at the factory for you, we investigated that secret passage in the field outside Salt Fleet Road. You didn't know that while you walked down that passage in the darkness with your man Jim Dobbs, or dirty Jim, to give him the sobriquet by which he is known among your employees, that we were hidden against the wall. Opposite to that first little niche where the bags of sovereigns stood, and that though I hadn't seen you, something in your voice struck a note of familiarity in my memory. You didn't know that then? Well, perhaps it's just as well, because I might not be here now to tell this story and to hand you over to justice. End of Chapter 26 Chapter 27 of the Riddle of the Frozen Flame by Mary E. Handshugh and Thomas W. Handshugh. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 27 The Solving of the Riddle For the sake of the bon Dieu, man, seize your cruel mockery! Said Brelie suddenly in a husky voice, as the clerk rose to quell the interrupted flow of oratory, and the court banged his mace for quiet. You didn't think of the cruel mockery of God's good world, which you were helping so successfully to ruin. Continue the detective speaking to the court, but at Brelie, each word pointed as a barb, each pause more pregnant with scorn than the spoken words had been. You didn't think of that, did you? Oh, no! You gave no thought to the ruined home and the weeping wife, the broken-hearted mother and the fatherless child. That was outside your reckoning altogether. And, if here say be true, and in this case I believe it is, you even went so far as to kill a defenceless woman who had been brave enough to wander out across that particular part of the fence, just to see what those flames really were. And yet, your lordship, this man howls for mercy! He paused a moment and passed a hand wearily over his forehead. The telling of the tale was not easy, and the expression of Toonette Brelie's tear-misted eyes added to the difficulty of it. But he knew he must spare no detail in fairness to the man who stood in the dock, in fairness to the law he served and in whose service he had unraveled this riddle which at first had seemed so inexplicable. Then the judge spoke. The court must congratulate you, Mr. Cleak, he said in his fine metallic voice, upon the very excellent and intricate work you have done on this case. Believe me, the law appreciates it, and I, as one of its humble exponents, must add my admiration to the rest. Permit me, however, to ask one or two questions. In the first place, before we proceed further with the case, I should like you to give me any explanation that you can, relative to the matter of what the prisoner here has told us with regard to the story of the frozen flame. This gentleman has said that the story goes that whenever a new victim had been claimed by the flames that he completely vanishes and that another flame appears in amongst its fellows. The prisoner has declared this to be true, in fact has actually sworn upon oath that he has seen this thing with his own eyes the night that Dayka Wynne was killed. I confess that upon hearing this I had my strong suspicions of his veracity. Can you explain it any clearer? Cleak smiled trifle whimsically, then he nodded. I can. Shortly after I made my discovery of the secret passage that led out upon the fence, the entrance to it, by the way, was marked by a patch of charred grass about the size of a small round table. You remember, dollops, I asked you if you noticed anything then, that lifted up if one had keen enough eyes to discover it and reveal the trapdoor beneath. Dollops and I set out on another tour of investigation. We were determined to take a sporting chance on being winged by the watchful guards and have a look round behind those flames for ourselves. We did this. It happened that we slipped the guard unobserved, having knowledge, you see, of at least part of the whole diabolical scheme, and getting within range of the flames without discovery or, for that matter, seeing any one about, we got down on our hands and knees and dug into the earth with our pen knives. What suggested this plan to you? Cleek smiled and shrugged his shoulders. Why, I had a theory, you see, and, like you, I wanted to find out if Meritan were telling the truth about that other light he had seen or not. This was the only way. Marsh gas was there in plenty, though there is no heat from the tiny flames as you know, from which fact, no doubt, our friend Brelier derived the very theatrical name for them. But the light of which Meritan spoke, I took to be something bigger than that. And I had noticed, too, that here and there among the flames danced brilliant patches that seemed, well, more than natural. So our pen knives did the trick. Dollops was digging when something suddenly exploded and shot up into our faces with a volume of gassy smoke. We sprang back, throwing our arms up to shield our eyes, and, after the fumes had subsided, returned to our task. The pen knife had struck a bladder filled with gas, which sunk into the ground, produced the larger lights. The one of which Sir Nigel had seen upon the night that wind disappeared. Even more clever, isn't it? I wonder whose idea it originally was. He spun round slowly upon his heel and faced the line of seated witnesses. His eyes once more traveled over the group, face to face, eye to eye, until he paused suddenly and pointed at Borkin's chalk-white countenance. That's the man who probably did the job, he said casually, Brelier's right-hand man that, with a brain that might have been used for other and better things. The judge leaned forward upon his folded elbows, pointing his pen in Borkin's direction. Then you say this man is part and parcel of the scheme, Mr. Gleek? he queried. I do, and a very big part, too. But let me qualify that statement by saying that if it hadn't been for Borkin's desire for revenge upon the man he served, this whole ghastly affair would probably never have been revealed. Win would have vanished in the ordinary way, as Collins vanished afterward, and the superstitious horror would have gone on until there was not one person left in the village of Fetchworth who would have dared to venture an investigation of the flames. Then the work at the factory would have continued with a possibly curtailed payroll. No need for high-handed pirates armed with revolvers, then. That was the end the arch-fiend was working for, the end that never came. Hmm, and may I ask how you discovered all this before going into the case of Borkin's, put in the judge? Gleek bowed. Certainly, he returned, that is the legal right, but I can vouch for my evidence, my lord. I received it, you see, at first hand. This man Borkin's engaged both the lad Dollops and myself as new hands for the factory. We therefore had every opportunity of looking into the matter personally. God, emergency! I never did! ejaculated Borkin's at this juncture, his face the colour of newly baked bread. You were a liar! That's what you are, a drawer in an innocent man into the beastly affair. I never engaged the likes of you. Didn't you? Gleek laughed soundlessly. Look here. Remember the man Bill Jones and his little pal Sammy Robinson from Jamaica? He writhed his features for a moment, slipped his hand into his pocket, and producing the black moustache that had been Dollops's envy and admiration, stuck it upon his upper lip, pulled out a checked cap from the other pocket, drew that upon his head, and peered at Borkin's under the peak of it. Wow, matey! he remarked in a harsh cockney voice. Merciful Evans! gasped out that worthy, covering his eyes with his hands, one more incredulous witness of Gleek's greatest gift. Bill Jones, it is! God, are you a devil? No, just an ordinary man, my dear friend. But you'll remember now, eh? Well, that does away with the need of the moustache, then. The clerk of the court, too familiar with Gleek's disregard of legal formality, frowned at this violation of dignity, and raised his mace to rap for order, and possibly to reprimand Gleek for his theatrical conduct. But at that moment the detective pulled off the cap and moustache, as though well pleased with his performance. Gleek turned once more to the judge. My lord, he said serenely, you have seen the man Bill Jones, and the impersonator of Sammy Robinson is there. He pointed to Dollops. Well, this man Borkin's, or Pigger, as he calls himself when doing his private work, engaged Dollops and me in place of two hands in the factory who had been given to too much tongue wagging, and in consequence had met with prompt punishment. God only knows what it was. We worked there for something just under a fortnight. Dollops, with his usual knack for making friends in the right direction, chummed up to one of the men whom I have already named Jim Dobbs. He finally asked him to come and help with the loading up of the boats, and gave him the chance of making a little overtime by simply keeping his mouth shut as to what went on. I managed to get on the job too, and we did it three times in that fortnight, and a jolly difficult task we found it, I don't mind saying, but I felt that evidence was necessary. And while in the employ of the master we carried on many investigations, and still in his service I made this rough map of the varied turnings of the secret passage and the places to which they led. You can get a better idea of the ground if you glance at it. He handed it up to the high desk, and paused a moment as the judge surveyed it through his spectacles. The passage at Merritton Towers and also at Withersby Hall, who conveniently placed near that particular part of the fence, and therefore chosen by Bralier for his work, are both of ancient origin dating back, I should say, to the time of the Civil War. Whose idea it was to connect the two passages up, I could not say, or when Borkin's got into the pay of Bralier and played false to a family that he had served for twenty years. But the fact remains the two passages are linked up and then continued at great labour in another direction to that field which lies off the Salt Fleet Road and just at the back of the factory. And thus was made a convenient little subway for the carrying on of nefarious transactions of the kind which we have discovered. And how did you discover that Bralier was the master in question, put in the judge at this juncture? He happened to come to the factory one day while we were at work upon our machines. Someone said, Crikey, here's the master, funny for him to be prowling round at this hour of the day, nights more to his liking. I could hardly contain myself when I saw who it was, even though I had already discovered the passage to Withersby Hall. I had not yet realised that Jonathan Brent and Bralier were one and the same, though I discovered that the former had a perfectly legitimate office in London, in Leddenhall Street. But when I saw him I knew. After that I wasted no time. Since then we've been having a pretty scramble to get safely away without giving any clues to the other men, and to put Scotland Yard upon their track. They are down there now, and have got every man of them, I dare swear. And I hope they are keeping my friend Black Whiskers for me to deal with. That is the cause of my lateness at the hearing of the case. You can fully understand how impossible it was to be here any earlier. The judge nodded. Your statement against this man, Borkins. Is as strong a one as ever was made, said Clique. 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 Meritan wrongly convicted of the murder of Dacre Winn. You have seen the revolver, the peculiar make of which caused it to be the chief evidence in this gruesome tragedy. Here is the genuine one. He drew the little thing from his pocket, and, reaching up, placed it in the judge's outstretched hand. That gentleman gave a gasp as he laid eyes upon it. Identical with this one, which belongs to the prisoner! He said almost excitedly. Exactly. The same colonial French make, you see. This particular one belongs, by the way, to Miss Brelier. Miss Brelier? Something like a thrill ran through the crowded courtroom. In the silence that followed, you could have heard a pin drop. That is correct. She will tell you that she always kept it in an unused drawer in her secretary, locked away with some papers. She had not looked at it for months until the other day, when she happened to examine one of those papers, and therefore went to the drawer and unlocked it. The revolver, lying there, drew her attention. Knowing that it was the same as the one owned by her fiancée, Sir Nigel Meritan, and figuring so largely in this case, she took it out and idly examined it. One of the bullets was missing. This rather aroused her curiosity, and when I questioned her afterward about it, when the inquest was over, and she had brought it forward and shown it to the coroner, who, quite naturally, after the explanation given by Mr. Brailleur, gave it back to her as having no dealings with the case, she told me that she could not absolutely recollect her uncle telling her that he had killed the dog with it. A small thing, but rather important. And you say that this man Borkin's arranged this revolver so as to point to the prisoner's guilt, Mr. Cleek asked the judge. I say that the Mandaker win was actually killed with that identical revolver which you hold in your hand, my lord. And the construction I put upon it is this. Borkin's hated his master, but the long story of that does not concern us here. And upon the night of the quarrel he was listening at the door and hearing how things were shaping themselves began as he himself has told you in his evidence to think that there would soon be trouble between Sir Nigel and Mr. Wynn if things went on as they had been going. Therefore, when he was told that Mr. Wynn had gone out across the fence in a drunken rage to investigate the meaning of the frozen flames, the idea entered Borkin's mind. He knew his master's revolver, had seen it slipped under his pillow more often than not of an evening when Sir Nigel went to bed. Here Borkin saw his life's opportunity of getting even. He knew, too, of Miss Brelier's revolver. Must have known, else why should this particular instrument be used upon this particular night in place of the usual type of revolver which Brelier's guards carried and by which poor Collins undoubtedly met his death. So we will take it that he knew of this little instrument here and upon hearing of Wynn's proposed investigations he dashed to the back kitchen of the towers which was rarely used by the other servants as being so one of them told me so dark and damp that it fair gave him the creeps. Therefore Borkin's had his way unmolested and it did not take him long knowing the turnings of the underground passage as he did from constant use to communicate with Withersby Hall. To which guard he told his tale I do not know, but since we have taken the whole crowd to find out later any way he must have told someone else of his desire for private vengeance and the thing worked. When poor Wynn met his death it was at the point of a pistol which had lain unused in the secretariat Withersby Hall for some little time. I have not been able to find the actual spot where the body of Wynn and later on Collins was first concealed but I have no doubt that they were brought from that spot to be discovered by us. It was very necessary for the body of Wynn to be discovered since the bullet in his brain was fired from Miss Pralier's revolver. It was all part of the plot against Sir Nigel. How bitter was that plot is evidenced by the removal of the bodies to the place they were discovered on the fence. No very pleasant job for any man. Cleek whirled suddenly upon Hawkins who stood with bent head and pallid face biting his lips and twisting his hands together while Cleek's voice broke the perfect silence of the court. But thus taken by surprise he lifted his head and his mouth opened. The judge raised his hand. Is this true, my man? He demanded. Hawkins' face went an ugly, purplish red. For a moment it looked as though he were going to have an apoplectic fit. Yes! Damn you all! Yes! He replied venomously. That's how I did it. Though God alone knows how he come to find it out. But the game's up now and it's no more use, a lion. Never a truer word spoken returned Cleek with a little triumphant smile. I must admit, your lordship, that upon that one point I was a little shaky. Hawkins has irrefutably proved that my theory was correct. I must say I am indebted to him. Again the little smile looped up one corner of his face. And I have but just a little bit more of the tale to tell. And then I must leave the rest of it in your infinitely more capable hands. The reason why I mistrusted the story of the revolver quite upon examination, that instrument belonging to Miss Prélier was a little too clean and well-oiled to have been out of use for a matter of five months or so. The worthy user of it had cleaned and polished it up so as to be sure of its action and re-oiled it. So the dog's story was exploded almost at its birth. The rest was easy to follow up and knowing the position of things between Hawkins and his master from both sides, so to speak, I began to put two and two together. Hawkins has this moment most agreeably told me that my answer to the sum is correct. But things worked in well for him, I must say. That so Nigel should actually fire a shot upon that very night was a stroke of pure luck for the servant who hated him, and it made his chance of fabricating the whole plot against Nigel a good deal easier. Whether he would have stolen the revolver had that shot at the frozen flames for which Nigel has been so sorely tried, never been fired, I cannot say, but that, doubtless, would have been the course he would have taken. Luck favoured him upon that dreadful night, but now that luck has changed. His own action has been his undoing. If he had not given vent to this feeling of hatred that he cherished in his heart for a master who was of such different stuff of which he himself was made, the whole infernal plot might never have been revealed, and yet who can tell? My lord and gentleman of the jury, the tale is told. Justice has been done an innocent man, and the rest of its doing lies in your capable hands. I ask your permission to be seated. His voice trailed off into silence, and across the court a murmur arose like the harm of some giant airplane growing gradually nearer and nearer. A sort of strangled sob came from the back of Cleeke's chair, and he turned his head to smile into Toanette's wet eyes. In their depths, gratitude and sorrow were inexplicably mingled. His hand went out to her. She ran toward him from her place, and in spite of judge and jury, in spite of the order of the law, knelt down there at his side, and pressed her warm lips against his hand. Chapter 28 Toward Morning The flower in Cleeke's buttonhole was jauntily erect. His immaculately garbed figure fitted in perfectly with every detail of the whole scene of which he was apart. He looked and was the exquisitely turned-out man about town. Only his eyes told of other things, and they, as the organ swelled to the sounds of the wedding march, lighted up with something that spoke of the man within, rather than the man without. He turned from his position at the altar where he was fulfilling his duties as best man to Sennigiel Merriton and glanced back over the curve of his shoulder to where a girl sat, bending forward in the empty pew, her face alight, her eyes beneath the curving hat-brim swimming with tears. She nodded as he saw her and smiled, the promise of their future together curving the sweet lips into gracious womanly lines. Behind her, on guard as usual, and gay in a gorgeous garment of black-and-white checks, white waistcoat and flaming scarlet buttonhole, white dollops, faithfully watching while Cleek assisted at the ceremony that was uniting two souls in one, and casting aside for ever the smirch of a name that must rankle in the heart of her who had owned it in common with the man who had so nearly wrought her soul's desolation. Then it was all over. The organ swelled once more with its tidings of joy. Upon her husband's arm, Twanette passed down the tiny aisle, tears running down her cheeks unchecked and mingling with the smiles that chased each other like sunbeams across her happy face. Cleek was at the porch waiting for them as they came out. He reached forth a hand to each. Good luck, and God bless you both! He said, This is a fitting end, Meritan, and a new and glorious beginning. And every moment of it, every second of it, we owe to you, Mr. Cleek, returned Sennigel in a deep happy voice. Time alone can show our gratitude. I can't. Cleek bowed, and his hand went out suddenly to Ailsa Lorne, who had stolen up beside him, went out and caught her hand and held it in a grip that hurt. I know, boy, and one day in the glad future I shall call upon you, who knows, to attend a similar ceremony on my behalf. And in which Mr. Narcom here has promised to act as best man, with dollops to bolster him up if he should be attacked with nerves. Now, be off with you, and be happy. We'll see you later at the tyres, Meritan. Goodbye to you both. The door closed, the engine started, dollops sprang back, and they were off. The boy turned suddenly, looked at Cleek and Ailsa, standing there in the sunshine of the little porch, at Mr. Narcom, chuckling quietly behind them, and remarked, Gold, I don't know which is the best, Weddings or funerals, strut I don't. Yes, snivels at both like a blinking fall for cold in his head. And when it comes to your time, Governor, Well, if you don't let me mark a third at the funny moon, Oh, can me hurry scurry on your weary doorstep. And jolly good riddance to bad rubbish, too. End of The Riddle of the Frozen Flame by Mary E. Henshu and Thomas W. Henshu. Recording by Ruth Golding.