"
"I will see you to-morrow," promised Mark; then he rejoined the
inspector and their car went on its way.
A surprise and a keen disappointment awaited them at Dartmouth. The
day's work had produced no result whatever. Not a trace of Robert
Redmayne was reported from anywhere and Inspector Damarell offered
the former solution of suicide. But Brendon would not hear it now.
"He is no more dead this time than he was six months ago," he
answered; "but he has some system of disguise, or concealment, that
utterly defeats the ordinary methods of a man hunt. We must try
bloodhounds to-morrow, though the scent is spoiled now and we can
hardly hope for any useful results."
"Perhaps he'll write from Plymouth again as he did before,"
suggested the inspector.
Weary and out of spirits, Mark left the police station and went to
his hotel. To be baffled was an experience not new to him and thus
far he felt no more tribulation than a great cricketer, who
occasionally fails and retires for a "duck," knowing that his second
innings may still be told in three figures; but what concerned him
was the double failure on the same case.
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