“That's rather sharp of you. It's just as well we aren't up against _you_. You mean the man who told me about the boat being wanted? Sorry I can't get him for you. He was a handy-man we brought down with us. Billingford had a row with him last night and fired him, so he took himself off this morning.” “What was his name?” Billingford's look of innocence was intentionally overdone. “His name? Well, I called him Jack.” “Jack what?” “Just Jack. Or at times: ‘Here! You!’ He answered to either.” Inspector Armadale's temper began to show signs of fraying. “You must know something more about him. Hadn't he a character when you employed him?” “Oh, yes. A pretty bad one. He used to drink my whiskey.” “Don't be funny,” snapped Armadale. “Didn't you get any references from an earlier employer?” Billingford's eyes twinkled. “Me? No. I've a charitable nature. Where would any of us be if we had our characters pawed over? Forgive and forget's my motto. It's easy enough to work on till someone does you in the eye.” “So you say you know nothing about him?” “I don't quite like the way you put it, inspector. It seems almost rude. But I don't know where he is now, and I'll kiss the Book on that for you if you want it.” Armadale's expression showed clearly that he thought little would be gained by accepting Billingford's offer. He warned Derek Fordingbridge that his evidence might be needed at the inquest; then, with a cold nod to Billingford, he led the way out of the cottage. Sir Clinton maintained silence until they were beyond earshot of the door, then, as though addressing the world at large, he said pensively: “I wonder why they brought such a large card-index down with them from town.” Armadale was taken aback. “Card-index, sir? Where was it?” “I noticed it in their sitting-room as we passed the open door. It's one of these small cabinet affairs.” The inspector had no suggestion to offer; and Sir Clinton did not seem to be anxious to pursue the matter. A few yards farther on he halted, and pointed to something at the edge of one of the puddles. “Doesn't that footprint seem a bit familiar, inspector? Just measure it, will you?” Armadale's eyes widened as he looked. “Why, it's that 3½ shoe!” he exclaimed, stooping over the mark. “I noticed it as we were coming up, but it didn't seem to be the best time for examining it,” Sir Clinton explained. “Now, inspector, that's a permanent kind of puddle. The chances are that this mark was made before last night's rain. It's on the very edge of the water now, not the place where a girl would step if she could help it. The puddle's filled up a bit since she made it.” “So she was Staveley's visitor last night?” “It looks like it,” Sir Clinton agreed. “Now measure it carefully, inspector.”