“I think more of your first notion, sir,” the inspector interrupted, with more than a tinge of approval in his tone. “As I said before, everything points the same way. You find Mrs. Fleetwood mixed up in the whole affair from start to finish.” Sir Clinton ignored this view of the case, and turned to Wendover. “Doesn't it seem rather out of proportion when you assume that Paul Fordingbridge would go the length of murder merely in order to keep the claimant out of the money and out of Foxhills?” he inquired gently. “It really seems carrying things a bit too far when you take that as a premise.” “Well, what better can you suggest?” Wendover demanded. “If I were set to make a guess, I think I'd hazard something of this sort,” the chief constable returned. “Suppose that friend Paul has been up to some hanky-panky under his power of attorney—malversation of some kind. He wouldn't dare to sell Foxhills; but he might safely dispose of securities. There was no audit, remember; the competent fellow managed it all himself. And so long as no claimant turned up he was all right; for none of the rest of them seemed to need money badly, and no one protested against the estate being left hanging in the wind. But, as soon as this claimant hove in sight, friend Paul looked like being ‘for it’ if the claimant could establish his case. Everything would come out then. That would be a good enough motive, wouldn't it?” “There's more in it than that, sir,” the inspector broke in. “If he'd got himself into Queer Street, it might be handy if he could disappear when things looked like getting too hot for him. Perhaps the whole of this”—he turned and waved his hand towards the mysterious footprints—“is simply a blind to cover his get-away. Perhaps it's just something left for us to scratch our heads over while he gets under cover, sir.” Sir Clinton seemed slightly amused by the picture the inspector had drawn. “I never held with head-scratching, inspector. It's a breach of good manners, and not even friend Paul shall tempt me to make a habit of it. I don't think he's very far away; but I doubt if you'll get your hands on him in a hurry. My impression is that he's gone to ground in a very safe hole.” The inspector seemed to be reminded of something. “By the way, sir, that new fellow who's turned up at Flatt's cottage must have come down by car, probably during the night. They've got the car in the boat-house beside the cottage; I saw its bonnet sticking out as I passed this morning.” “Very sensible of Mr. Aird, inspector, since he seems to shun being recognised by his old friends round about here. If he'd come by train, someone would have spotted him at the station.” Without paying further attention to the matter, Sir Clinton changed the subject.