feet.” He drew out a lens and lay down upon his waterproof to have a

better view, talking all the time rather to himself than to us. “These

are young McCarthy’s feet. Twice he was walking, and once he ran swiftly,

so that the soles are deeply marked and the heels hardly visible. That bears

out his story. He ran when he saw his father on the ground. Then here are the

father’s feet as he paced up and down. What is this, then? It is the

butt-end of the gun as the son stood listening. And this? Ha, ha! What have we

here? Tiptoes! tiptoes! Square, too, quite unusual boots! They come, they go,

they come again—of course that was for the cloak. Now where did they come

from?” He ran up and down, sometimes losing, sometimes finding the track

until we were well within the edge of the wood and under the shadow of a great

beech, the largest tree in the neighbourhood. Holmes traced his way to the

farther side of this and lay down once more upon his face with a little cry of

satisfaction. For a long time he remained there, turning over the leaves and

dried sticks, gathering up what seemed to me to be dust into an envelope and

examining with his lens not only the ground but even the bark of the tree as

far as he could reach. A jagged stone was lying among the moss, and this also

he carefully examined and retained. Then he followed a pathway through the wood

until he came to the highroad, where all traces were lost.


“It has been a case of considerable interest,” he remarked,

returning to his natural manner. “I fancy that this grey house on the

right must be the lodge. I think that I will go in and have a word with Moran,

and perhaps write a little note. Having done that, we may drive back to our

luncheon. You may walk to the cab, and I shall be with you presently.”


It was about ten minutes before we regained our cab and drove back into Ross,

Holmes still carrying with him the stone which he had picked up in the wood.