gone, and no mistake," said Tony West, as the men began
slowly to retrace their steps across the marshlands, their faces in the
pale light of the early morning looking white and drawn with the
excitement and strain of the night. "What to make of it all, I don't
know. Apparently old Wynne went out to see the Frozen Flames and--the
Frozen Flames have swallowed him up, or burnt him up, one or the other."

"And yet I can't hold any credence in the thing, no matter how hard
I try!" said the doctor, shaking his head gravely, as they trudged on
through the mud and mire. "And if Wynne isn't found--well, there'll be
the deuce to pay with the authorities. We'll have to report to the police
first thing in the morning."

"Yes, the village constable will take the matter up, and knowing the
story, will put entire faith in it, and that's all the help we'll
get from _him_!" supplemented West with a harsh laugh. "I know the
sort.... Here's the Towers at last, and if I don't make a mistake,
there's the face of old Borkins pressed against the window!"

He ran ahead of the others and took the great stone steps two at a time.
But Borkins had opened the door before he reached it. His eyes stared,
his mouth sagged open.

"Mr. Wynne, sir? You found 'im?" he asked hoarsely.

"No. No trace whatever, Borkins. Where's your master?"

"Sir Nigel, sir? 'E's asleep, and snorin' like a grampus. This'll be a
shock to 'im sir, for sure. Mr. Wynne--_gone_? 'T ain't possible!"

But Tony had pushed by him and thrown open the smoking-room door. The
warm, heated atmosphere came to them comfortingly. He crossed to the
table, picked up a decanter and slopped out a peg of whisky. This he
drank off neat. After that he felt better. The other men straggled in
after him. He faced them with set lips.

"Now," said he, "to tell Nigel."

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