uncomfortable, anxious. The doctor was a little ahead of the rest of
them, Tony West came second, the others straggled a pace or two behind.
Suddenly the doctor stopped and gave a hasty exclamation:

"Good Heavens above!"

They ran up to him clustering around him in their eagerness, and
their torches lent their rays to make the thing he gazed at more
distinguishable, while another mile away at least, the flames twinkled
dimly, and slowly went out one by one as though the finger of dawn had
snuffed them like candle-ends.

"What the devil is it?" demanded Tony West, getting to his knees and
peering at the spot with narrowed eyes.

"Charred grass. And the end of the footprints!" It was the doctor who
spoke--in a queer voice sharp with excitement. "There has been a fire
here or something. And--Wynne went no farther, apparently. The ground
about it is as marshy as ever, and my own footprint is perfectly
clear.... What the dickens do you make of it, eh?"

But there was no answer forthcoming. Every man stood still staring down
at this strange thing with wide eyes. For what the doctor said was
absolute truth. The footsteps certainly _did_ end here, and in a patch of
charred grass as big round as a small table. What did it mean? What could
it mean, but one thing? Somehow, somewhere, Wynne had vanished. It was
incredible, unbelievable, and yet--there was the evidence of their own
eyes. From that spot onward the ground was wholly free of the footprints
of any man, woman, or child. No mark disturbed the sodden mud of it. And
yet--right here, where the grasses seemed to grow tallest, this patch was