He reflected for a moment, and then turned to the fisherman. “Would you mind going into Lynden Sands village for me? Thanks. I want some candles—anything up to a couple of dozen of them. And a plumber's blow-lamp, if you can lay your hands on one.” The fisherman seemed taken aback by this unexpected demand. “Candles, sir?” he inquired, gazing eastward to where the golden bar of the dawn hung on the horizon. “Yes, candles—any kind you like, so long as you bring plenty. And the blow-lamp, of course.” “The ironmonger has one, sir.” “Knock him up, then, and quote me for the price—Sir Clinton Driffield—if he makes any difficulty. Can you hurry?” “I've got a bicycle here, sir.” “Splendid! I know you won't waste time, Mr. Wark.” The fisherman hurried off in search of his cycle; and in a very short time they saw him mount and ride away in the direction of the village. The inspector was obviously almost as puzzled as Wark had been, but he apparently thought it best to restrain his curiosity about the candles and blow-lamp. “I think we'll leave your second patrol to watch the road, inspector, while we go down on to the beach. I suppose that's the rock you were speaking about?” “Yes, sir. You can't see the body from here. The rock's shaped rather like a low chesterfield, with its back to this side, and the body's lying on what would be the seat.” Sir Clinton glanced towards the bar of gold in the east which marked the position of the sun below the horizon. “I don't want to go blundering on to the sands at random, inspector. What about a general survey first of all? If we climb this dune at the back of the road, we ought to get some rough notion of how to walk without muddling up the tracks. Come along!” A few seconds took them to the top of the low mound. By this time the dawn-twilight had brightened, and it was possible to see clearly at a fair distance. Sir Clinton examined the beach for a short time without making any comment. “That must be my own track, coming along the beach from the village, sir. The one nearest the water. I kept as close to the waves as I could, since the tide was falling and I knew I was sticking to ground that must have been covered when Billingford came along.” “What about the fishermen?” Sir Clinton asked. “I made them keep to the road, so as to leave no tracks.” Sir Clinton approved with a gesture, and continued his inspection of the stretch of sand below. “H'm!” he said at last. “If clues are what you want, inspector, there seem to be plenty of them about. I can make out four separate sets of footprints down there, excluding yours; and quite possibly there may be others that we can't see from here. It's lucky they aren't all muddled up together. There's just enough crossing to give us some notion of the order in which they were made—in three cases at least. You'd better make a sketch of them from here, now that there's light enough to see clearly. A rough diagram's all you'll have time for.”