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 position as Lucian had been.
Disgusted at this result, he threw up his brief, and called upon Diana and Denzil, with whom he had previously made an appointment, to notify them of his inability to bring the matter to a satisfactory conclusion.
"There is not the slightest chance of finding the assassin of Mr. Vrain," said Link, after he had set forth at length his late failures. "The more I go into the matter the more I see it."
"Yet you were so confident of doing more than I," said Lucian quietly.
Link turned sulkily, after the fashion of a bad loser.
"I did my best," he retorted gloomily. "No man can do more.
Some crimes are beyond the power of the law to punish for sheer lack of proof.
This is one of them; and, so far as I can see, this unknown assassin will be punished on Judgment Day—not before."
"Then you don't think that Signor Ferruci is guilty?" said Diana.
"No.
He has had nothing to do with the matter; nor has Mrs. Vrain brought about the death in any way."
"You cannot say who killed my father?"
"Not for certain, but I suspect Wrent."
"Then why not find Wrent?" asked Diana bluntly.
"He has hidden his trail too well," began Link, "and—and——"
"And if you did find him," finished Denzil coolly, "he might prove himself guiltless, after the fashion of Mrs. Vrain and Ferruci."
"He might, sir; there is no knowing.
But since you think I have done so little, Mr. Denzil, let me ask you who it is you suspect?"
"Dr. Jorce of Hampstead."
"Pooh! pooh!" cried Link, with contempt. "He didn't kill the man—how could he, seeing he was at Hampstead on that Christmas Eve midnight, as I found out from his servants?"
"I don't suspect him of actually striking the blow," replied Lucian, "but I believe he knows who did." "Not he! Dr. Jorce has too responsible a position to mix himself up in a crime from which he gains no benefit."
"Why! what position does he hold?"
"He is the owner of a private lunatic asylum.
Is it likely that a man like him would commit a murder?"
"Again I deny that he did commit the crime; but I am certain, from the very fact of his friendship with Ferruci, that he knows more than he chooses to tell.
Why should the Italian be intimate with the owner of a private asylum—with a man so much beneath him in rank?"
"I don't know, sir. But if you suspect Dr. Jorce you had better see him when he comes back from his holidays—in a month."
"Where is he now?"
"In Italy, and the Count has gone with him."
Diana and Lucian looked at one another, and the former spoke:
"That is strange," she said. "I agree with Mr. Denzil, it is peculiar, to say the least of it, that an Italian noble should make a bosom friend of a man so far inferior to him in position.
Don't you think so yourself, Mr. Link?"
"Madam," said Link gravely, "I think nothing about it, save that you will never find out the truth.
I have tried my best, and failed; and I am confident enough in my own power to say that where I have failed no one else will succeed.
Miss Vrain, Mr. Denzil, I wish you good-day."
And with this bragging speech, which revealed the hurt vanity of the man, Mr. Link took his departure.
Lucian held his peace, for in the face of this desertion of a powerful ally he did not know what to say.
Diana walked to the sitting-room window and watched Link disappear into the crowd of passers-by.
At that she heaved a sigh, for with him—she thought—went every chance of learning the truth, since if he, an experienced person in such matters, turned back from the quest, there could assuredly be no help in any one not professional, and with less trained abilities.
Then she turned to Lucian.
"There is nothing more to be done, I suppose," said she, sighing again.
"I am afraid not," replied Lucian dismally, for he was quite of her opinion regarding the desertion of the detective.
"Then I must leave this unknown assassin to the punishment of God!" said Diana quietly. "And I can only thank you for all you have done for me, Mr. Denzil, and say"—she hesitated and blushed, then added, with some emphasis—"say au revoir."
"Ah!" ejaculated Denzil, with an indrawn breath of relief, "I am glad you did not say good-bye."
"I don't wish to say it, Mr. Denzil.
I have not so many friends in the world that I can afford to lose so good a one as yourself."
"I am content," said Lucian softly, "that you should think of me as your friend—for the present."
His meaning was so unmistakable that Diana, still blushing, and somewhat confused, hastened to prevent his saying more at so awkward a moment.