“Not exactly,” Sir Clinton answered, with a faintly ironical smile. “As you would say, doctor, exposure doesn't mark a man's wrist—at least not so quick as all that.” Rafford acknowledged the dig good-humouredly and accompanied them to the garden gate as they went out. “I hope I haven't started you on a wild-goose chase, inspector,” he said on parting. “But I suppose that sort of thing's all in your day's work, anyhow.” Armadale digested this in silence as the car spun along towards Foxhills; then at last he uttered his views in a single sentence: “That young fellow strikes me as uncommonly jaunty.” And having liberated his soul, he kept obstinately silent until they had reached their destination. “This is the place, I think,” Sir Clinton said a few minutes later, pulling his car up on the Foxhills avenue at a point where a side-road led off towards a little cottage among some trees. “I can see the constable in the garden.” Getting out of the car, they made their way along the by-lane for a short distance, and, as they came to the garden gate, Armadale hailed the constable. Sapcote had been sitting on a wooden chair beside the body, reading a newspaper to while away the time; but at the sound of the inspector's voice he rose and came forward along the flagged path. “Things have been left just as they were, I suppose?” Armadale demanded. Sapcote confirmed this and at once fell into the background, evidently realising that he had nothing to report which would interest the inspector. He contented himself with following the proceedings of his superior with the closest interest, possibly with a view to retailing them later to his friends in the village. Armadale stepped up the paved path and knelt down beside the body, which was lying—as the doctor had described it—face downwards with the arms extended above the head. “H'm! Looks as if he'd just stumbled and come down on his face,” the inspector commented. “No signs of any struggle, anyhow.” He cast a glance at the paved path. “There's not much chance of picking up tracks on _that_,” he said disparagingly. Wendover and Sir Clinton had come round to the head of the body and the chief constable bent down to examine the wrists. Armadale also leaned over; and Wendover had some difficulty in getting a glimpse over their shoulders. Constable Sapcote hovered uncertainly in the rear, evidently anxious to see all he could, but afraid to attract the inspector's attention by pushing forward. Wendover inferred that Armadale must have a reputation as a disciplinarian. “There seem to be marks of a sort,” the inspector admitted grudgingly, after a brief study of the skin. “Whether they mean anything in particular's another matter. He might have had a fall at the gate and banged his wrists against a bar; and then he might have got up and staggered on until he fell here and died.” Sir Clinton had been studying the marks with more deliberation. He shook his head at the inspector's suggestion.