George said nothing. Doyle scrutinised the prints with elaborate care. “But look here, Inspector,” he remarked, “these seem to be all male prints. What about the girl? Didn’t she come this way?” This time Doyle had said the right thing. The Inspector beamed upon him. “The girl, sir, as we know from Mr. Foster’s evidence, stayed behind. The others, becoming impatient, moved the boat a little farther along and she went aboard there, after they’d gone on shore again to see what was happening to her.” “Good gracious!” said Doyle. “Inspector, this is magical! How on earth do you know _that_?” said Guy. George said nothing. Almost bursting with triumph, the Inspector led them along the bank. This was where the Nesbitts usually landed, and the soft turf was marked with many footprints, among which Cynthia’s high heels were conspicuous. Quite speechless with admiration of his own perspicacity, the Inspector pointed at them in silence. Doyle made appropriate comments. So did Guy. George said nothing. The Inspector took them back to the house to show them the track made by the George-laden rug. He took them to the piece of lawn where Dora had interviewed Mr. Foster and showed them her heel-marks. He took them back to the bank again to show them some blood he had found on a dandelion. Doyle was loud in his praises. So was Guy. George said nothing. George was not one of your chatty people. The Inspector’s face became positively alarming in its mysteriousness. He gathered the three close around them, as if suspecting eavesdroppers behind every plantain, and spoke in a voice so low and charged with such importance that the mere words could hardly be distinguished. “And, gents,” whispered the Inspector reverently, “I’ve got a Clue!” “Not a _clue_?” cried Doyle. “A clue, Inspector?” cried Guy. George cried nothing. But then, George very seldom cried. “A clue, gents,” affirmed the Inspector. With a flourish he drew from his pocket a muddy and bloody handkerchief. “This ’ere was dropped on the bank by one of the assassins,” he repeated proudly. “Assassin” is a much better word than mere “murderer.” Once more suitable comments arose. “Is it marked in any way?” asked Guy, quite gravely. Guy had a wonderful control over his facial muscles. “It is, sir,” intoned the Inspector. “It’s marked with the initials ‘R. F.’ in black marking ink.” “On a white ground,” added Doyle. “That’s great, Inspector,” said Guy. “That ought to be a most valuable clue.”