“Why should she, sir?”
“Ah! now you are asking more than I can tell you. Only Mrs. Jasher can explain, and it seems to me that she will die.”
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?”