Though the sergeant did his best to reassure her, he was by no means easy in his own mind. The road from Tavistock to Ashburton is far from safe, especially for night motoring. It is terribly hilly and winding and at night extraordinarily deserted. An accident might easily happen and in such lonely country, hours might pass before its discovery. The sergeant at once called a colleague and the two men started off on motor bicycles to investigate. About eight miles out on the moor they came to Mr. Berlyn’s car standing close up to the side of the road, as if drawn out of the way of passing traffic. It was heavily coated with dew and looked as if it had been there for hours. The engine and radiator were cold and there was no sign of either of its occupants. At the side of the road was a patch of gravelly soil mixed with peat, and across it, leading from the road out over the moor, were two lines of footsteps. The prints were not sufficiently sharp to give detailed impressions, but the sergeant had no doubt as to whom they belonged. He tried to follow them over the moor, but the grass was too rough to allow of this. But he soon realised what had happened. Three-quarters of a mile across the moor, in the direction in which the footsteps pointed, lived the senior partner of the Veda Company, Colonel Domlio. His was the only house in the neighbourhood, and it was, therefore, natural that if from a breakdown of the car or other reason the travellers had got into difficulties, they should go to him for help. But the house was not approached from the road on which they were travelling. The drive started from that which diverged at Two Bridges and led northwards to Moretonhampstead. To have gone round by the road would, therefore, have meant a walk of nearly five miles, whereas fifteen minutes would have taken them across the moor. It was evident that they had adopted the latter course. And therein lay their fate. Some quarter of a mile from the road were a number of those treacherous, vivid green areas of quagmire, to stumble into which is to run the risk of a horrible death. They were not quite in the direct line to the house, but in one of the mists which come up so frequently and unexpectedly it would not have been difficult for the men to lose their way. The sergeant at once knocked up Colonel Domlio, only to learn that he had not seen or heard of either. When the car was examined, the cause of the stoppage was discovered. A short circuit had developed in the magneto, which interfered with the sparking to such an extent that the cylinder charges could not be ignited. French was a good deal disappointed by the account. He had hoped that he was onto the solution of his problem, but now he doubted it. That Berlyn had murdered Pyke and sent off his body in the crate had seemed at first sight a promising theory. But French could see no evidence of foul play in the story. It read merely as a straightforward narrative of an unfortunate mishap.