“They don’t appear to have been hurrying,” Sir Clinton said, examining the tracks at one point. “They seem just to have sauntered along, and once or twice they’ve halted for a moment. I expect they were talking something over.”
“The second man must have been a pretty big fellow to judge by the size of the footmarks,” Wendover ventured cautiously. “Apart from that, there’s nothing much to see.”
“No?” Sir Clinton retorted. “Only that his impressions are very shallow—much shallower than Fordingbridge’s ones. And his stride’s not longer than friend Paul’s, either. Also, the impression of the sole’s quite smooth—looks like crêpe-rubber soles or something of that sort. If so, there’s nothing to be got out of them. That kind of shoe’s sold by the thousand.”
Wendover made no reply, for at this moment he caught sight of the inspector plodding along the road above the beach. Sir Clinton whistled shrilly, and Armadale, catching sight of them, left the road and descended to the sands. In a few minutes he reached them, and Sir Clinton gave him a summary of the facts which had come to light since he had telephoned.
“There’s just one thing that’s turned up since I saw you last, sir,” the inspector reported in his turn. “I’ve had Flatt’s cottage watched, as you ordered; and there’s a third man there now. He keeps himself under cover most of the time; but I gave Sapcote a pair of good field-glasses, and he recognised the fellow as soon as he saw him—knew him quite well. His name’s Simon Aird. He used to be valet at Foxhills, but he got fired for some cause or other, and hasn’t been near Lynden Sands since. Then I asked the fishermen if they’d recognised the man who opened the door to them when they went to borrow the boat, and they recalled that it was Aird. They hadn’t thought anything about it, of course, until I questioned them.”
“Now, that’s something worth having,” Sir Clinton said appreciatively. “But let’s get on with the job in hand. That tide’s coming in fast; and, if we don’t hurry, it’ll be all over these tracks. We never seem to get any time to do our work thoroughly in this place, with all that water slopping up and down twice a day.”
They hurried along the beach, following the trail. It seemed to present nothing of particular interest until, as they drew near the old wreck, Sir Clinton’s eye ranged ahead and picked up something fresh.
“See that new set of tracks—a third man—coming out from behind the old wreck’s hull and joining the other two?” he asked, pointing as he spoke. “Keep well to the landward side as we come up to them, so as not to muddle them up with our own footprints. I think our best line would be to climb up on top of the wreck and make a general survey from above.”
They followed his advice; and soon all three had climbed to the deck of the hulk, from which vantage-point they could look down almost straight upon the meeting-point of the three trails.
“H’m!” said Sir Clinton reflectively. “Let’s take No. 3 first of all. He evidently came down from the road and took up a position where the hull of the wreck concealed him from the other two. The moon must have risen three or four hours before, so there would be light enough on the beach. You’d better make a rough sketch of these tracks, inspector, while we’re up here. We shan’t have much time before that tide washes everything out.”
The inspector set to work at once to make a diagram of the various tracks on the sand below, while Sir Clinton continued his inspection.
“No. 3 evidently hung about behind the wreck for a long while,” the chief constable pointed out. “You can see how the sand’s trampled at random as he shuffled around trying to keep himself warm during his waiting. Now we’ll suppose that Fordingbridge and No. 2 are coming up. Look at their tracks, squire. They came up almost under the lee of the wreck; and then they turned right round, as if they intended to retrace their steps. It looks as though they’d come to the end of their walk and meant to turn back. But they seem to have stood there for a while; for the prints are indistinct—which is just what happens if you stand long enough on wet sand. The water oozes, owing to the long displacement of the sand particles, and when you lift your foot it leaves simply a mass of mushy stuff where you stood, with no clean impression.”
He glanced again over the tracks before continuing.
“I’d read it this way. While they were standing there, with their backs to the wreck, No. 3 started into activity. He came out from the cover of the hull and walked up to where they were standing. He must have gone quietly, for they don’t seem to have turned to meet him. You see that, squire? Do you see anything else?”
Wendover was staring at the tracks with a puzzled look on his face. The inspector, who had just reached this point in his diagram, gave a smothered exclamation of surprise as he examined the sand below him. Wendover was the first to find his voice.
“Where’s the rest of Fordingbridge’s track?” he demanded. “It simply stops short there. He didn’t turn; he didn’t walk away; and—damn it, he can’t
