"You've fairly made my flesh creep with your beastly story!" he said, in a rather high-pitched voice. "Might have reserved it until morning--after my _debut_ in this haunt of spirits, Borkins. Consider my nerves. India's made a hash of 'em. Get back to bed, man, and don't worry over my investigations. I swear I won't venture out, to-night at any rate. Perhaps to-morrow I may have summoned up enough courage, but I've no fancy for funerals yet awhile. So you can keep your pleasant little reminiscences for another time, and I'll give you my word of honour that I'll do nothing rash!" Borkins gave a sigh of relief. He passed his hand over his forehead, and his eyes--rather shifty, rather narrow, pale blue eyes which Merriton had instinctively disliked (he couldn't tell why)--lightened suddenly. "Thank Gawd for that, sir!" he said, solemnly. "You've relieved my mind on that score. I've always thought--your poor uncle, Sir Joseph Merriton--and those flames there might 'ave been the reason for his disappearance, though of course--" "What's that?" Merriton turned round and looked at him, his brow furrowed, the whole personality of the man suddenly awake. "My uncle, Borkins? How long have these--er--lights been seen hereabouts? I don't remember them as a child." "Oh, mostly always, I believe, sir; though they ain't been much noticed before the last four years," replied Borkins. "I think--yes--come August next. Four years--was the first time my attention was called to 'em." Merriton's laugh held a note of relief. "Then you needn't have worried. My uncle has been missing for a little more than _five_ years, and that, therefore, when he did disappear the flames obviously had nothing to do with it!" Borkins's wrinkled, parchment-like cheeks went a dull, unhealthy red. He opened his mouth to speak and then drew back again. Merriton gave him a keen glance. "Of course, how foolish of me. As you say, sir, impossible!" he stammered out, bowing backward toward the door. "I'll be getting back to my bed again, and leave you to finish your rest undisturbed. I'm sorry to 'ave troubled you, I'm sure, sir, only I was afraid something 'ad 'appened." "That's all right. Good-night," returned Merriton curtly, and turned the key in the lock as the door closed. He stood for a moment thinking, his eyes upon the winking, flickering points of light that seemed dimmer in the fast growing light. "Now why did he make that bloomer about dates, I wonder? Uncle's been gone five years--and Borkins knew it. He was here at the time, and yet why did he suggest that old wives' tale as a possible solution of the disappearance? Borkins, my lad, there's more behind those watery blue eyes of yours than men may read. Hmm! ... Now I wonder why the deuce he lied to me?" CHAPTER III SUNSHINE AND SHADOW