"But what the devil else can one do? What is there
definite to take hold of?"
That was the baffling feature of the business. As my cousin said, such
scent as there was had grown cold by this time, and one had to begin at
the beginning again. And so far there seemed to be no beginning. The
detectives of fiction might have found some clue to start a train of
logical and inevitable reasoning that led straight to the criminal, but
the detective of fact had utterly failed, and the brilliant young amateur
of fact was likewise completely at sea.
What good for instance had my visit to the Scollays done? I asked
myself. If they were innocent I had wasted my time. If they were guilty,
what had I discovered to bring it home to them? Absolutely nothing! And
the same with each inhabitant of that island whom I had seen. Some
cunning and powerful organisation was certainly at work, to the
detriment of my country, but the only point I had scored against them,
was that I had got into the place without their recognising me. At least
I presumed I had or I should scarcely still be alive to tell the
tale--unless they had grown either more merciful or more timid since I
was here last. And their continued immunity would scarcely be likely to
produce either of those effects.
The only specific thing I could think of looking for was the old man with
the tinted spectacles.
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