But that wasn’t the worst—leading up the road to within a few yards of the wharf were the tracks of auto wheels. At the time when these tracks were made the road was deep in mud which, about the wharf, had evidently been a regular pool. The driver of the motor had stopped his car at the edge of this, got out and walked through it to the bungalow. Clear as if they had been cast in plaster his footprints went from where the ruts ended to the edge of the wharf. There, just at the corner of the planks, three small, pointed footprints met them—a woman’s. Either the man had carried the woman or she had picked her way along the grass by the roadside, and joining him on the planks had made a step or two into the soft earth. On the wharf the prints were lost in a broken caking of mud. The man’s went back to the car, close to where they had come from it, and they returned as they had come—alone. Jack Reddy’s shoes fitted the large prints and Sylvia Hesketh’s the small ones! It came on Longwood with an awful shock. The faces of the people were all dull and dazed looking, as if they were knocked half silly by a blow. They couldn’t believe it—and yet there it was! The papers printed terrible headlines—"The Earth gives up a Murderer’s Secret"—and "Jack Frost versus Jack Reddy." There were imaginary accounts of how Mr. Reddy could have done it, and Jasper, in his paper, had a long article worked out like the story he’d told us that night in the Gilt Edge, but with all the holes filled up. Everything was against Mr. Reddy, even the telephone message that Sylvia had sent him from the Wayside Arbor couldn’t be traced. The Corona operator could remember nothing about it and there was no record—only Jack Reddy’s word and nobody believed it. They had him up before the District Attorney and his examination was published in the papers. I can’t put it all down—it’s not necessary—but it was bad. After I read it I sat still in my room, feeling seasick and my face in the glass frightened me. When they asked him if he had been at the bungalow that night he said he had, he had gone there after he had given up his hunt for Sylvia. "Why didn’t you say this at the inquest?" was asked. He answered "that he hadn’t thought it was necessary—that——" then he stopped as if he wasn’t sure and after a moment or two said: "I didn’t see that it threw any light on the murder, as I was alone." "You wished to conceal the fact that you were there, then?" To that he answered sharp: "I did not—but I saw no reason to give my movements in detail, as they were of no importance." "Why did you go there?" "I was angry and excited and it was a place where I could be quiet." Asked how long he had been in the bungalow he said he wasn’t sure—it might have been an hour or two. He had lit the fire and sat in front of it thinking and smoking cigarettes. "Didn’t you hunt in the desk for something?" He answered with a sort of shrug as if he’d forgotten.