Armadale produced his tape-measure and took various dimensions of the mark. When he had risen to his feet again, Sir Clinton looked back at the cottage. Billingford and his companion were on the doorstep, eagerly gazing towards the police party. “Give it a good scrub with your foot now, inspector, if you've quite finished with it. We may as well give Mr. Billingford something to guess about. He's a genial rascal, and I'd like him to have some amusement.” The inspector grinned broadly as he rubbed his boot vigorously over the soft mud, effacing the print completely. “I'd like to see his face when he comes down to look at it,” he said derisively, as he completed the work of destruction. “We couldn't have got much of a cast of it, anyhow.” When they reached Sir Clinton's car, Armadale took leave of them. “There's one or two things I've got to look into,” he explained, “and I'll get some food between whiles. I'll come along to the hotel in about an hour or so, if you don't mind waiting there for me, sir. I think I'll have something worth showing you by then.” He threw a triumphant glance at Wendover, and went off up the street. Sir Clinton made no comment on his subordinate's remark, but started the car and drove towards the hotel. Wendover saw that nothing was to be got out of the chief constable, and naturally at the lunch-table the whole subject was tabooed. Armadale did not keep them waiting long. They had hardly left the lunch-table before he presented himself; and Wendover noted with dismay the jubilant air with which the inspector came forward to meet them. He carried a small bag in his hand. “I'd rather be sure that nobody overhears us, sir,” he said as he came up to them. “And I've some things to show you that I don't want talked about in public yet.” He tapped the bag as he spoke. “Come up to my room, then, inspector. We'll be free from interruption there.” They took the lift up; and, when they entered the room, the inspector turned the key in the door behind them as an extra precaution. “I've got the whole case cut and dried now, sir,” he explained with natural exultation in his voice. “It was just as I said this morning—as easy as falling off a log. It simply put itself together of its own accord.” “Well, let's hear it, inspector,” Sir Clinton suggested as soon as he could edge a word into the current of the inspector's pæan. “I'll give you it step by step,” the inspector said eagerly, “and then you'll see how convincing it is. Now, first of all, we know that the dead man, Staveley, married this Fleetwood woman during the war.” Wendover flinched a little as he identified “this Fleetwood woman” as Cressida. This was evidently a foretaste of the inspector's quality. “From what we've heard, one way and another, Staveley was nothing to boast about,” Armadale went on. “He was a bad egg, evidently; and especially in the way that would rasp a wife.” “That's sound,” Sir Clinton agreed. “We needn't dwell on it.”