The men, when they realized that Desmond had disappeared, were shamefaced, and came to Mrs. Warren’s cottage to offer their sympathy. They tried to atone for their past conduct, by inviting both Alan and his Uncle to stay in Marshfielden. But Alan refused. “No, we’ll stay here,” said he. “Mrs. Warren has made me very comfortable. But perhaps we’ll come and visit Marshfielden, if we may, and do our utmost to discover the perpetrator of this diabolical plot.” “Aye, do ’ee sur, do ’ee,” said the men, and Alan felt strangely cheered by their friendship. Sir John stayed with Alan for a fortnight, but as others had disappeared, so had Desmond, and no trace of him could be found. It was necessary for Sir John to return to town, in order that he might keep his business appointments and he asked Alan to accompany him. “I curse the day I ever sent you to Grimland,” said he over and over again. “Don’t upset yourself so, Uncle John! How could anyone have foreseen such a calamity. No, I’ll stay here, and perhaps I may be the means of unravelling the mystery.” Police from the Continent, detectives from America, Asiatic wizards and sorcerers all came to Marshfielden—but none solved the mystery. For days no one stirred out of doors, and when at length they did so, it was with faltering steps and bated breath. No one knew who would be the next victim of the strange power that pervaded the place. Summer came again! A year had passed and left its mark on the once peaceful English village. Many white crosses adorned the little churchyard, but of all the new ones, few really marked the last resting place of those whose names they bore. A tiny tombstone in the far corner, under a weeping ash, named the spot consecrated to the memory of little Jimmie Murlock, the first victim of the “Light”. Moll Murlock had gone out of her mind. The shock had turned her brain,—and when, one after another, she learned of the tragedies that were daily coming on the little village, her senses left her entirely, and she was taken to the Kiltown asylum. Dan lived alone, in the little cottage, his hair snow white, and his features old and wrinkled; and none of his comrades dared recall the past to his mind. The new vicar who had taken Mr. Winthrop’s place was very unpopular, and on Sundays the church was nearly half empty. Fear had turned their thoughts from Heaven, and while men openly cursed their God, the women whispered their curses in their hearts. Inspector Vardon was still investigating, but his reports to the Yard were all the same. “Nothing further to hand” and then came the day when he added “Fear this is beyond me” and the chiefs looked at each other in dismay, as they feared it would remain one of the unsolved mysteries of the day. They had no shrewder or cleverer man in their employ than Marcus Vardon.