Sir Clinton ignored the interruption.
“Let’s take the tracks as we find them. After No. 3 came up behind the others, it’s clear enough that No. 2 and No. 3 went off side by side, down towards the sea. Even from here you can see that they were in company, for sometimes the tracks cross, and No. 2 has his prints on top of No. 3, whereas farther on you see No. 3 putting his feet on top of No. 2’s impression. Have you finished with that jotting of yours, inspector? Then we’ll go and follow these tracks down the beach to the tide edge.”
He dropped neatly down from the wreck as he spoke, and waited for the others to rejoin him.
“Both No. 2 and No. 3 must have been wearing crêpe-rubber shoes or something of that sort,” the inspector remarked, stooping over the tracks. “And they’ve both got fairly big feet, it seems.”
“No. 3 seems to have been walking on his toes,” Wendover pointed out. “He seems to have dug deeper with them than with his heels. And his feet are fairly parallel instead of having the toes pointing outwards. That’s how the Red Indians walk,” he added informatively.
Sir Clinton seemed more interested in the general direction of the tracks. Keeping to one side of them, he moved along the trail, scanning the prints as he went. Armadale, moving rather more rapidly on the other side of the route, came abruptly to a halt as he reached the edge of the waves. The rest of the trail had been obliterated by the rising tide.
“H’m! Blank end!” he said disgustedly.
Sir Clinton looked up.
“Just as well for you, inspector, perhaps. If you’d hurried along at that rate at low tide you’d have run straight into the patch of quicksand, if I’m not mistaken. It’s just down yonder.”
“What do you make of it, sir?”
“One might make a lot of it, if one started to consider the possibilities. They may have walked off along the beach on the part that’s now swamped by the tide. Or they may have got into a boat and gone home that way. All one really knows is that they got off the premises without leaving tracks. We might, of course, hunt along the waterline and try to spot where they came up on to high-and-dry ground; but I think they’re fairly ingenious, and most likely they took the trouble to walk on shingle above the tidemark if they came ashore. It’s not worth wasting time on, since we’ve little enough already. Let’s get back to the meeting-point.”
He led the way up the beach again.
“Reminds one a bit of Sam Lloyd’s ‘Get off the Earth’ puzzle, doesn’t it?” he suggested, when they came back to the point where the three tracks met. “You can count your three men all right, and then—flick!—there are only two. How do you account for it, squire?”
Wendover scrutinised the tracks minutely.
“There’s been no struggle, anyhow,” he affirmed. “The final tracks of Fordingbridge are quite clear enough to show that. So he must have gone voluntarily, wherever he went to.”
“And you explain his going—how?”
Wendover reflected for a moment or two before answering.
“Let’s take every possibility into account,” he said, as his eyes ranged over the sand. “First of all, he didn’t sink into the sand in any normal way, for the surface isn’t disturbed. Secondly, he didn’t walk away, or he’d have left tracks. That leaves only the possibility that he went off through the air.”
“I like this pseudo-mathematical kind of reasoning, squire. It sounds so convincing,” Sir Clinton commented. “Go ahead. You never fail to combine interest with charm in your expositions.”
Wendover seemed untouched by the warmth of this tribute.
“If he went off through the air, he must have managed it either by himself or with the help of the other two; that’s self-evident. Now it’s too far for him to have jumped backwards on to the wreck and climbed up it; we can rule that out. And it’s hardly likely that he was enough of a D. D. Home to manage a feat of levitation and sail up into the air off his own bat. So that excludes the notion that he vanished completely, without any extraneous assistance, doesn’t it?”
“ ‘He who has truth at his heart need never fear the want of persuasion on his tongue’—Ruskin,” quoted Sir Clinton, with the air of reading from a collection of moral maxims. “You’ve made the thing crystal-clear to me, squire, with the exception of just one or two trifling points. And these are: First, why did that very solid and unimaginative Mr. Paul Fordingbridge take to romping with his—presumably—grown-up pals? Second, why didn’t he return home after these little games? Third, where is he now? Or, if I may put it compendiously, what’s it all about? At first sight it seems almost abnormal, you know, but I suppose we shall get accustomed to it.”
Armadale had been examining the tracks on the sand without paying Wendover even the courtesy of listening to him. He now broke in.
“If you’ll look at No. 3’s tracks, sir, you’ll find that they’re quite light up to the point where he came directly behind Fordingbridge; and then they get deeply marked on the stretch leading down to the sea.”
“That’s quite correct, inspector,” Sir Clinton agreed. “And if you look again you’ll find that when they’re light, the toes turn out to a fair extent; but on the heavier part of the track No. 3 walked—as Mr. Wendover pointed out—like a Red Indian. Does that interest you?”
The inspector shook his head.
“I don’t quite get it, sir.”
“Ever been in France, inspector?”
“Just for a trip, sir.”
“Ah, then you may not have chanced to come across Père François, then. If you met him, he might have helped you a bit in explaining these levitation affairs.”
Wendover pricked up his ears.
“Who’s your French friend, Clinton?”
“Père François? Oh, he was one of the pioneers of aviation, in a way; taught men to fly, and all that. ‘Get off the Earth’ was his
