“Charred grass.  And the end of the footprints!” It was the doctor who spoke—­in a queer voice sharp with excitement.  “There has been a fire here or something.  And—­Wynne went no farther, apparently.  The ground about it is as marshy as ever, and my own footprint is perfectly clear....  What the dickens do you make of it, eh?”

But there was no answer forthcoming.  Every man stood still staring down at this strange thing with wide eyes.  For what the doctor said was absolute truth.  The footsteps certainly did end here, and in a patch of charred grass as big round as a small table.  What did it mean?  What could it mean, but one thing?  Somehow, somewhere, Wynne had vanished.  It was incredible, unbelievable, and yet—­there was the evidence of their own eyes.  From that spot onward the ground was wholly free of the footprints of any man, woman, or child.  No mark disturbed the sodden mud of it.  And yet—­right here, where the grasses seemed to grow tallest, this patch was burnt off and withered as though with sudden heat.

Tony West straightened himself.

“If I didn’t think the whole business was a pack of lies spun into a bigger one by a lot of village gossips, I’d—­I’d begin to imagine there was something in the story after all!” he said, getting to his feet and looking at the white faces about him.  “It’s—­it’s devilish uncanny, Doctor!”

“It is that.”  The doctor drew a long breath and stroked his beard agitatedly.  “It’s so devilish uncanny that one hardly knows what to believe.  If this thing had happened in the East one might have looked at it with a more fatalistic eye.  But here—­in England, no man in his senses could believe such a fool’s tale as that which Nigel told us to-night.  And yet—­Wynne has gone, vanished!  Never a trace of him, though we’ll search still farther for a while, to make sure!”

They separated at once, radiating out from that sinister spot and searched and searched and searched.  Not a footprint was to be found beyond the spot, not a trace of any living thing.  There was nothing for it but to go back to Merriton Towers and tell their tale to Nigel.

“Old Wynne has gone, and no mistake,” said Tony West, as the men began slowly to retrace their steps across the marshlands, their faces in the pale light of the early morning looking white and drawn with the excitement and strain of the night.  “What to make of it all, I don’t know.  Apparently old Wynne went out to see the Frozen Flames and—­the Frozen Flames have swallowed him up, or burnt him up, one or the other.”

“And yet I can’t hold any credence in the thing, no matter how hard I try!” said the doctor, shaking his head gravely, as they trudged on through the mud and mire.  “And if Wynne isn’t found—­well, there’ll be the deuce to pay with the authorities.  We’ll have to report to the police first thing in the morning.”

“Yes, the village constable will take the matter up, and knowing the story, will put entire faith in it, and that’s all the help we’ll get from him!” supplemented West with a harsh laugh.  “I know the sort....  Here’s the Towers at last, and if I don’t make a mistake, there’s the face of old Borkins pressed against the window!”