many feet, both upon the path and amid the short grass which bounded it on

either side. Sometimes Holmes would hurry on, sometimes stop dead, and once he

made quite a little detour into the meadow. Lestrade and I walked behind him,

the detective indifferent and contemptuous, while I watched my friend with the

interest which sprang from the conviction that every one of his actions was

directed towards a definite end.


The Boscombe Pool, which is a little reed-girt sheet of water some fifty yards

across, is situated at the boundary between the Hatherley Farm and the private

park of the wealthy Mr. Turner. Above the woods which lined it upon the farther

side we could see the red, jutting pinnacles which marked the site of the rich

landowner’s dwelling. On the Hatherley side of the pool the woods grew

very thick, and there was a narrow belt of sodden grass twenty paces across

between the edge of the trees and the reeds which lined the lake. Lestrade

showed us the exact spot at which the body had been found, and, indeed, so

moist was the ground, that I could plainly see the traces which had been left

by the fall of the stricken man. To Holmes, as I could see by his eager face

and peering eyes, very many other things were to be read upon the trampled

grass. He ran round, like a dog who is picking up a scent, and then turned upon

my companion.


“What did you go into the pool for?” he asked.


“I fished about with a rake. I thought there might be some weapon or

other trace. But how on earth—”


“Oh, tut, tut! I have no time! That left foot of yours with its inward

twist is all over the place. A mole could trace it, and there it vanishes among

the reeds. Oh, how simple it would all have been had I been here before they

came like a herd of buffalo and wallowed all over it. Here is where the party

with the lodge-keeper came, and they have covered all tracks for six or eight

feet round the body. But here are three separate tracks of the same