"He's been in two or three times, that one," replied Claigue. "Chinaman he is, no doubt, sir, but it strikes me he must know as much of this country as he knows of his own, for he speaks our tongue like a native--a bit soft and mincing-like, but never at a loss for a word. Dr. Lorrimore's servant, I understand." "He has been in Dr. Lorrimore's service for some years," I answered. "No doubt he's had abundant opportunities of picking up the language. Still--it's an odd sight to see a Chinaman, pigtail and all, in these parts, isn't it?" "Well, I've had all sorts in here, time and again," replied Claigue reflectively. "Sailor men, mostly. But," he added, with a meaning look, "of all the lot, that poor chap as got knifed the other week was the most mysterious! What do you make of it, sir?" "I don't know what to make of it," said I. "I don't think anybody knows what to make of it. The police don't, anyhow!" "The police!" he exclaimed, with a note of derision. "Yah! they're worse than a parcel of old women! Have they ever tried? Just a bit of surface inquiry--and the thing slips past. Of course, the man was a stranger. Nobody cares; that's about it. My notion is that the police don't care the value of that match whether the thing's ever cleared up or not. Nine days' wonder, you know, Mr. Middlebrook. Still--there's a deal of talk about." "I suppose you hear a good deal in this parlour of yours?" I suggested. "Nights--yes," he said. "A murder's always a good subject of conversation. At first, those who come in here of an evening--regular set there, in from the village at the back of the cliffs--they could talk of naught else, starting first this and that theory. It's died down a good deal, to be sure--there's been naught new to start it afresh, on another tack--but there is some talk, even now." "And what's the general opinion?" I inquired. "I suppose there is one?" "Aye, well, I couldn't say that there's a general opinion," he answered. "There's a many opinions. And some queer notions, too!" "Such as what?" I asked. "Well," said he, with a laugh, as if he thought the suggestion ridiculous, "there's one that comes nearer being what you might call general than any of the others. There's a party of the older men that come here who're dead certain that Quick was murdered by a woman!" "A woman!" I exclaimed. "Whatever makes them think that?" "Those footmarks," answered Claigue. "You'll remember, Mr. Middlebrook, that there were two sets of prints in the sand thereabouts. One was certainly Quick's--they fitted his boots. The other was very light--delicate, you might call 'em--made, without doubt, by some light-footed person. Well, some of the folk hereabouts went along to Kernwick Cove the day of the murder, and looked at those prints. They say the lighter ones were made by a woman." I let my recollections go back to the morning on which I had found Quick lying dead on the patch of yellow sand.