She was, however, anxious to learn if Brendon could explain what had happened.

“Have you ever met with any such thing before?” she asked.

“No case is quite like another.  They all have their differences.  I think that Captain Redmayne, who has suffered from shell shock, must have been overtaken by loss of reason.  Shell shock often produces dementia of varying degrees—­some lasting, some fleeting.  I’m afraid your uncle went out of his mind and, in a moment of madness, may have done a dreadful thing.  Then he set out, while he was still insane, to cover up his action.  So far as we can judge, he took away his victim and meant apparently to throw him into the sea.  I feel only too sure that your husband has lost his life, Mrs. Pendean.  You must be prepared to accept that unspeakable misfortune.”

“It is hard to accept,” she answered, “because they were good friends again.”

“Something of which you do not know may have cropped up between them to upset Redmayne.  When he comes to his senses, he will probably think the whole thing an evil dream.  Have you a portrait of your husband?”

She left the room and returned in a few moments with a photograph.  It presented a man of meditative countenance, wide forehead, and steadfast eyes.  He wore a beard, mustache and whiskers, and his hair was rather long.

“Is that like him?”

“Yes; but it does not show his expression.  It is not quite natural—­he was more animated than that.”

“How old was he?”

“Not thirty, Mr. Brendon, but he looked considerably older.”

Brendon studied the photograph.

“You can take it with you if you wish to do so.  I have another copy,” said Mrs. Pendean.

“I shall remember very accurately,” answered Brendon.  “I am tolerably certain that poor Mr. Pendean’s body was thrown into the sea and may already be recovered.  That appears to have been Captain Redmayne’s purpose.  Can you tell me anything about the lady to whom your uncle is engaged?”

“I can give you her name and address.  But I have never seen her.”

“Had your husband seen her?”

“Not to my knowledge.  Indeed I can say certainly that he never had.  She is a Miss Flora Reed and she is stopping with her mother and father at the Singer Hotel, Paignton.  Her brother, my uncle’s friend in France, is also there I believe.”

“Thank you very much.  If I hear nothing further, I go to Paignton this evening.”

“Why?”

“To pursue my inquiry and see all those who know your uncle.  It has puzzled me a little that he has not already been found, because a man suffering from such an upset of mind could make no successful attempt to evade a professional search for long.  Nor, so far as we know, has he apparently attempted to escape.  After going to Berry Head early this morning, he returned to his lodgings, ate a meal, left his motor bicycle, and then went out again—­still in his tweed suit with the red waistcoat.”