he clues so much that I do not know which one to
take."

"It seems to me that I have pursued each clue until fate or circumstance
clipped it short," retorted Lucian, nettled by this injustice. "Mrs.
Vrain has defended herself successfully, much in the same way as Count
Ferruci has done. Your only chance of getting at the truth lies in
discovering Wrent; and unless Rhoda helps you there, I do not see how
you can trace the man."

"I am of a different opinion," said Link, lying freely to conceal his
doubts of success in the matter. "As you have failed through lack of
experience, I shall attempt to unravel this skein."

"You attempted to do so before, and gave it up because of the tangle,"
said Lucian with quiet irony. "And unless you discover more than I have
done, you will dismiss the matter again as impossible. So far as I can
see, the mystery of Vrain's death is more of a mystery than ever, and
will never be solved."

"I'll make one last attempt to unriddle it, however," answered Link,
with a confidence he was far from feeling, "but, of course--not being
one of your impossible detectives of fiction--I may fail."

"You are certain to fail," said Lucian decisively, and with this
disheartening prophecy he left Link to his task of--apparently--spinning
ropes of sand.

Whether it was that Link was so doubtful of the result as to extend
little energy in the search, or whether he really found the task
impossible of accomplishment, it is difficult to say, but assuredly he
failed as completely as Lucian predicted. With outward zeal he set to
work; interviewed Lydia and the Italian, to make certain that their
defence was genuine; examined the Pegall family, who were dreadfully
alarmed by their respectability being intruded upon by a common
detective, and obtained a fresh denial from Baxter & Co.'s saleswoman
that Ferruci was the purchaser of the cloak. Also he cross-questioned
Mrs. Bensusan and her sharp handmaid in the most exhaustive manner, and
did his best to trace out the mysterious Wrent who had so much to do
with the matter. He even called on Dr. Jorce at Hampstead, to satisfy
himself as to the actual time of Ferruci's arrival in that neighbourhood
on Christmas Eve. But here he received a check, for Jorce had gone
abroad on his annual holiday, and was not expected back for a month.

In fact, Link did all that a man could do to arrive at the truth, only
to find himself, at the end of his labours, in the same positio