He felt puzzled by events
and still more puzzled by his own psychology, which seemed incapable
of reacting as usual to the stimulus of mystery and the challenge of
a problem, apparently ineluctable.
He felt that his wits were playing him false and, instead of
cleaving some bold and original way to the heart of a difficulty, as
was his wont, he could see no ray of light thrown by the candle of
his own inspiration. Inspiration, in fact, he wholly lacked. Once
only in the past--after an attack of influenza--had he felt so
barren of initiative as now, so feeble and ineffective.
He fell asleep at last, thinking not of the vanished sailor, but
Jenny Pendean. That she must suffer at her uncle's sudden death was
natural and he had not been surprised to learn of her collapse. For
she was sensitive; she had lately been through a terrible personal
trial; and to find herself suddenly associated with another tragedy
might well induce a nervous breakdown. Who would come to the rescue
now? To whom would she look? Whither would she go?
Mark was early astir and with Inspector Damarell he organized an
elaborate search system for the day.
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