CHAPTER VIII

THE VICTIM


Dacre Wynne had vanished, leaving behind him no trace of mortal remains,
and only a patch of charred grass in the middle of the uninhabited Fens
to mark the spot. And Nigel Merriton, whose guest the man was, must of
necessity be told the fruitlessness of the searchers' self-appointed
task. The doctor volunteered to do it.

Tony West accompanied him as far as Nigel's, and then he suddenly
recollected that Merriton had locked it the night before. There was
nothing for it but to hammer upon the panels, or--pick the lock.

"And he'll be sleeping like a dead man, if I know anything of sleeping
draughts," said the doctor, shaking his head. "Got a penknife, West?"

West nodded. He whipped the knife out of his pocket and began
methodically to work at the worn lock with all the precision of an
experienced burglar. But the action brought no smile to his lips, no
little mocking jest to help on the job. There was something grim in the
set of West's lips, and in the tension of the doctor's slight figure.
Tragedy had stalked unnoticed into the Towers that evening and they had
become enmeshed in the folds of its cloak. They felt it in the cold
clamminess of the atmosphere, in the quiet peace of the long corridors.