“I see all that, clear enough, sir,” said Armadale briskly. “That means the circle's narrowed a bit further. If Billingford didn't fire that shot, then you're left with only three other people on the list: the two Fleetwoods and the woman with the 3½ shoe. If she can be eliminated like Billingford, then the case against the Fleetwoods is conclusive.” “Don't be in too much of a hurry, inspector. How are you getting along with the shoe question?” Sir Clinton inquired a trifle maliciously. “To tell you the truth,” the inspector replied guardedly, “I haven't been able to get at the root of it yet, sir. Only two of the village girls take that size of shoe. One of them's only a kiddie; the other's away on a visit just now. It doesn't look like either of them.” “And the Hay case?” the chief constable demanded. The inspector made an inarticulate sound which suggested that he had nothing fresh to recount on this subject. “And the P. M. on Staveley's body?” pursued Sir Clinton. Here the inspector had something to report, though not much. “Dr. Rafford's gone into it, sir. The contused wound on the back of the head's nothing to speak of. The base of the skull's intact. That blow had nothing to do with his death. At the most, it might have stunned him for a minute or two. According to the doctor, Staveley was killed by the shot; and he thinks that the shot wasn't fired at absolutely close quarters. That fits in with the fact that I could find no singeing of the cloth of his rain-coat or his jacket round about the bullet-hole. Dr. Rafford found the bullet, all correct. Death must have been practically instantaneous, according to the doctor's view. These are the main results. He's written a detailed report for reference, of course.” Sir Clinton made no direct comment. “I think that'll do for to-night, inspector. Come up to the car and I'll run you into the village. By the way, I want some of your constables to-morrow morning for a bit of work; and you'd better hire some labourers as well—say a dozen men altogether. Tell them to dig up the sand between Neptune's Seat and the sea to the depth of about a foot, and shift it up into a pile above high-tide mark.” “And how far are they to carry their diggings?” Wendover inquired. “I really doubt if they'll be able to dig much below low-tide mark. What do you think?” “And what do you expect to find there?” Wendover persisted. “Oh, a shell or two, most likely,” Sir Clinton retorted caustically. “Would you like to bet on it, squire?” Wendover perceived that the chief constable did not intend to put his cards on the table and that nothing would be gained by further persistence. Chapter X The Attack on the Australian