“I'm afraid, Mr. Wendover, that you haven't had much experience of _real_ murder cases. In books, of course, it may be different,” he added, with an evident sneer. “Your real murderer may be stupid and unable to forsee the chain of events that the murder's going to produce. Or else you may have an excitable clever type that's carried away by strong feelings on the spur of the moment, so that all the cleverness goes for nothing and the murderer does the work in a frame of mind that doesn't give much heed to the possible consequences.” “And, of course, the murderers who are neither stupid nor excitable are the ones who never get caught, eh?” Sir Clinton interjected in an amused tone. “That accounts for us police being at fault now and again.” Wendover considered Armadale's thesis with care. “Then, as Mrs. Fleetwood isn't stupid,” he said frigidly, “you're assuming that she lost her head under some strong provocation?” “It's quite likely,” Armadale insisted. “No jury would turn down that idea simply because we can't state what the precise provocation was. They wouldn't expect a verbatim report of the conversation on the rock, you know.” Wendover could hardly deny this in his own mind; and his heart sank as he heard the inspector's confident declaration. He tried a fresh point of attack. “You said you'd definite evidence to support this notion of yours, didn't you? Well, how do you propose to prove that Mrs. Fleetwood was there at all last night?” Armadale's smile had a tinge of triumph in it. He bent over his bag and drew from it one of the wax casts, which he laid on the table. A second dip brought to light a pair of girl's golfing-shoes. He selected the proper one and placed it, sole upward, alongside the cast. Wendover, with a sinking heart, compared corresponding parts of the two objects. Even the most carping critic could not deny the identity. “These are the woman Fleetwood's golfing-shoes, sir,” the inspector announced a trifle grimly. “I found them in the lady golfers' dressing-room. I can bring a witness or two who'll swear to them, if need be.” Suddenly Wendover detected a possible flaw in the inspector's case; but, instead of unmasking his battery immediately, he made up his mind to lead Armadale astray, and, if possible, to put him off his guard. He let his full disappointment show clearly in his face, as if the evidence of the shoes had shaken his beliefs. Dropping the matter without further discussion, he took up a fresh line. “And the golf-blazer? What about it? That left no tracks on the sands.” Armadale's smile of triumph became even more marked. He turned once more to his bag, slipped his hands into his rubber gloves, and then, with every precaution, lifted a dusty-looking Colt automatic into view.