“Pardon me,” he said, “but I didn’t say that.  The first part of the sentence I agree with entirely.  Those so-called flames are lit only by the hand of the Infinite.  And the Infinite is always mysterious, Sir Nigel.  But as to whether they have any bearing upon the disappearances of those two men is a horse of another colour.  We’ll look into that later on.  In coal-mines marsh gas is considered highly dangerous, and the miners call it fire-damp.  But that is by the way.  What enters into the immediate question is the fact that there is a patch of charred grass upon the Fens where you say the vanished man, Dacre Wynne’s footprints suddenly ended.  Hmm.”

He stopped speaking suddenly, and getting up again crossed over to the window.  He stood for a moment looking out of it, his brows drawn down, his face set in the stern lines that betokened concentration of thought.

Mr. Narkom and Merriton watched him with something of wonder in their eyes.  To Merriton, at any rate, who really knew so little of Cleek’s unique and powerful mind, the fact of a policeman having such extensive information was surprising in the extreme.

“You don’t think, then,” he said, breaking the silence that had fallen upon them, “that this—­er—­marsh gas could have caused the death of Wynne and Collins?  Burnt ’em alive, so to speak?”

Cleek did not move at this question.  They merely saw his shoulders twitch as though he didn’t wish to be bothered at the moment.

“Don’t know,” he said laconically, “and if that were true, where are the bodies?...  Gad!  Just as I thought!  Come here, gentlemen, this may interest you.  See that flame there!  It’s no more natural marsh gas than I am!  There’s human agency all right, Sir Nigel.  There’s natural marsh gas and there are—­other things as well.  Those marsh lights are being augmented.  But for what purpose?  What reason?  That’s the thing we’ve got to find out.”

CHAPTER XII

“AS A THIEF IN THE NIGHT—­”

The arrival of Dollops lighted a spark of great interest in the servants’ hall.  The newly engaged maids accepted him for his youth and sharp manners, as an innovation which they rather fancied than otherwise.  Borkins alone stood aloof.  It seemed to the man that here, in Dollops’ lithe, young form, in the very ginger of his carrotty hair, in the stridency of this cockney accent—­which Cleek had endeavoured to eradicate without a particle of success—­was the reembodiment of the older, shorter, more mature James Collins.  To hear him speak in that sharp, young voice of his was to make the hair upon one’s neck prick in supernatural discomfort.  It was as though James Collins had come back to life again in the form of this East Side youngster, who was so extremely unlike his drawling, over-pampered master.

But Dollops had been primed for his task, and set to work at it with a will.