Meanwhile, in some mysterious way the news of the crime had spread through the village, and although it was growing late--for it was past ten o'clock--a dozen or so of villagers came along. Also there arrived a number of soldiers under a smart sergeant, and to him Sir Frank explained what had happened. In the fainthearted way--for the mist was now like cotton-wool--the military and the civilians hunted through the marshes round the cottage, hoping to come across the assassin hiding in a ditch. Needless to say, they found no one and nothing, for it was worse than looking for a needle in a bundle of hay. The man had come out of the mist, and, after executing the deed, had vanished into the mist, and there was not the very slightest chance of finding him. Gradually, as it drew towards midnight, the soldiers went back to the Fort, and the villagers to their homes. But, along with the doctor and the constable, Hope and his military friend stopped on. They were determined to get at the root of the mystery, and when Mrs. Jasher became sensible she would be able to reveal the truth. “It's all of a piece with the sending of the emerald,” said Random to the artist, “and that is connected, as we know, with the death of Bolton.” “Do you think that this man who has struck down Mrs. Jasher is the same one who strangled Sidney Bolton?” “I should think so. Perhaps Mrs. Jasher sent the emerald after all, and this man killed her out of revenge.” “But how would he know that she had the emerald?” “God knows! She may have been his accomplice.” Archie knit his brows. “Who the devil can this mysterious person be?” “I can only reply as you have done, my friend. God knows.” “Well, I am certain that God will not let him escape this time. This will bring Gartley once more into notoriety,” went on Hope. “By the way, I saw one of the servants from the Pyramids here. I hope the fool won't go home and frighten Lucy's life out of her.” “Go to the Pyramids and see her,” suggested Sir Frank. “Mrs. Jasher is still unconscious, and will be for hours, the doctor tells me.” “It is too late to go to the Pyramids, Random.” “If they know of this new tragedy there, I'll bet they are not in bed.” Hope nodded. “All the same, I'll remain here until Mrs. Jasher can speak,” he said, and sat smoking with Random in the dining-room, as the most comfortable room in the house. Constable Painter camped, so to speak, in the drawing-room, keeping guard over the scene of the crime, and had placed the Chinese screen against the broken window to keep out the cold. In the bedroom Jane and Dr. Robinson looked after the dying woman. And dying she was, according to the young physician, for he did not think she would live much longer. Round the lonely cottage the sea-mist drifted white and thick, and the darkness deepened, until--as the saying goes--it could have been cut with a knife. Never was there so eerie and weary and sinister a vigil.