'Young men do not murder each other on account of a few high words,' said Mr. Penwyn. 'I dare say Mr. Clissold will give a satisfactory account of himself when the proper time comes. No one in their right senses could suspect a gentleman of such a crime—a common robbery, with violence, on the high road. In the race week, too, when a place is always running over with ruffians of every kind.' 'I beg your pardon, sir,' said the superintendent, 'but that's the curious part of the case. The footsteps of the murderer have been traced. Mr. Penwyn was shot at from behind a hedge, you see, and the print of the sole looks like the print of a gentleman's boot—narrow, and a small heel; nothing of the clodhopper about it. The ground's a bit of marshy clay just there, and the impression was uncommonly clear.' Churchill Penwyn looked at the man thoughtfully for a moment, with that penetrating glance of his which was wont to survey an adverse witness in order to see what might be made of him—the glance of a man familiar with the study of his fellow-men. 'There are vagabonds enough in the world who wear decently made boots,' he said, 'especially your racing vagabonds.' He made all necessary inquiries about the inquest, and then adjourned to one of the chief hotels, crowded with racing men, though not to suffocation, as at the Summer Meeting. 'You'll watch the case in the interests of the family, of course,' he said to Mr. Pergament. 'I should like you to do what you can for this Mr. Clissold, too. There can be no ground for his arrest.' 'I should suppose not—he and James were such friends.' 'And then the empty purse shows that the murder was done for gain. My cousin may have won money, or have been supposed to have won, on the racecourse, and may have been watched and followed by some prowling ruffian—tout, or tramp, or gipsy.' 'It's odd that Mr. Clissold refused to account for his time last night.' 'Yes, that is curious; but I feel pretty sure the explanation will come when he's pressed.' And then the gentlemen dined together comfortably. A little later on, Mr. Pergament got up to go out. 'There are the last melancholy details to be arranged,' he said; 'have you any wish on that point, as his nearest relation?' 'Only that his own wishes should be respected.' 'His father and mother are buried at Kensal Green. I dare say he would rather be there than at Penwyn.' 'One would suppose so.' 'Then I'll go and see about the removal, and so on,' said Mr. Pergament, taking up his hat. 'By the way—perhaps, before it is too late, you would like to see your cousin?' Churchill gave a little start, almost a shudder. 'No,' he said, 'I never went in for that kind of thing.' CHAPTER XI. 'WHAT, THEN, YOU KNEW NOT THIS RED WORK INDEED?'