Narkom.
"Good fellows--those three," he said with a smile. "What more can you ask
than that? Straight ahead for us, Mr. Narkom. Sir Nigel tells me the
patch of charred grass lies in a direct line with the edge of the Fens
where we started our search. I'm keen to have a look at it."
Mr. Narkom nodded, and walked on, poking here and there with his stout
walking stick. Cleek did likewise. They rarely spoke, simply pushed and
poked and trod the grass down; searching, searching, searching, as had
those other men upon the night of Dacre Wynne's disappearance. But they
had searched in vain for any clue which would lead to the elucidation of
the mystery.
Suddenly Cleek stopped. He pointed a little ahead of him with his walking
stick.
"There you are!" said he briskly. "The patch of charred grass." He strode
up to it, stopped and bent his eyes upon it, then suddenly exclaimed:
"Look here! Below at the roots the fresh grass is springing up in little
tender green shoots. That patch'll disappear shortly. And"--he stopped
and sucked in his breath, wheeling round upon Mr.
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