The days that followed brought them little light upon the matter. Wynne,
it proved, was a man apparently without relations, and devoid of friends.
The local police could make nothing of it. They had had such cases
before, and were perfectly willing to let the matter rest where it
was. Interest, once so high, began to flag. The thing dropped into the
commonplace, and was soon forgotten, together with the man who had caused
it.

But Nigel was far from satisfied. That he and Dacre Wynne were really
enemies, who had posed as friends made not a particle of difference.
Dacre Wynne had disappeared during the brief time that he was a guest in
Merriton's house. The subject did not die with the owner of Merriton
Towers. He spent many long evenings with Doctor Bartholomew talking the
thing over, trying to reconstruct it, probe into it, hunt for new clues,
new anything which might lead to a solution. But such talks always came
to nothing. Every stone had already been turned, and the dry dust of the
highway afforded little knowledge to Merriton.

Across the clear sky of his happiness a cloud had gloomed, spoiling for
a time the perfection of it. He could not think of marriage while the
mystery of Dacre Wynne's death remained unsolved. It seemed unthinkable.

Tony West told him he was getting morbid about it, and to have a change.

"Come up to London and see some of your friends," was West's advice. But
Merriton never took it.

'Toinette seemed the only person who understood how he felt, and the
knowledge of this only served to draw them closer together. She, too,