concerned, there is not a single trace. Not one single trace. Is it not
extraordinary?"

He doubled his fists.

"That luck!" he ground out angrily. "Again that luck!"

"What luck?" Tranter exclaimed.

"If that most unfortunate young man had not come here and made a fool of
himself last night, the police might have searched forever without
finding a clue. There is no clue here. And there was the rain. The very
elements sweep up after the passing of the Destroyer."

"What on earth do you mean?" Tranter cried.

"Hush!" said Monsieur Dupont.

"I am obliged to you, gentlemen," said the inspector. "Your evidence
will of course be required at the inquest, of which you will receive
notice. I need not detain you any longer."

The clergyman and the manager hurried away. Monsieur Dupont lingered at
the inspector's side, and Tranter strolled back with Copplestone.

"Well?" queried the inspector. "Not much doubt about it, is there?"

"You have a strong case," said Monsieur Dupont. "Very strong."

"You agree with it?"

Monsieur Dupont shrugged his shoulders.

"At all events, I am not in position, at present, to contradict it."

"You will have your work cut out to build up another one," said the
inspector complacently. "There isn't a trace."

"That is it," said the other sharply. "There is no trace. There is never
a trace." He lowered his voice cautiously. "One point I recommend to
you, as I have just recommended it to Tranter--that remark of Mr.
Delamere that there was no cry for help."

"What of it?" returned the inspector.

"It is the key," said Monsieur Dupont.

He moved on abruptly, and overtook Tranter.

CHAPTER XV

A BUILDER OF MEN

James Layton occupied two dingy rooms, in a dilapidated house, situated
between a church and a public-house, in as squalid and unwholesome a
street as any in the East End of London. In them he spent such time as
was left to him--and it was not much--after his active ministrations
among the denizens of the miserable neighborhood. They were scantily
furnished, and of comforts there were none. He denied himself anything
beyond the barest necessities of existence, with the exception of a few
books and pipes, which were the companions of his odd moments of
leisure, and he read and smoked in a hard wicker chair, destitute even
of a cushion. He ate sparingly, of food scarcely better than that on
which his neighbors subsisted, and drank little. His clothes were poor,
his s