"Yes, when we are alone." "Have you noticed----" "These curious pads. They mean a lot. It's not so easy, James." "I'm growing interested, I admit." They rejoined the others. "Did you tell me that only you and Police Constable Farrow visited this part of the wood?" said Furneaux to Bates. "I don't remember tellin' you, sir, but that's the fact," said the keeper. "Well, warn all the estate hands to keep away from this section during the next few days. You will give orders to Farrow to that effect, Inspector?" "Yes. If they go trampling all over, you won't know where you are when it comes to a close search," was the cheerful answer. "Now, about that gun--it must be hidden somewhere in the undergrowth. The man who fired it would never dare to carry it along an open road on a fine morning like this, when everybody is astir." "You're undoubtedly right," said Winter. "But here come assorted boots. They may help us a bit." Tomlinson was a man of method. He and Farrow had brought two wicker baskets, such as are used in laundry work. He was rather breathless. "House--and estate," he wheezed, pointing to each basket in turn. "Go ahead, Furneaux," said Winter. "Because I ought to stoop, I don't." The little man choked back some gibe; the presence of strangers enforced respect to his chief. He took a thin folding rule of aluminum from a waistcoat pocket, and applied it to the most clearly defined of the three footprints. Then beginning at the "house" basket, he ran over the contents rapidly. One pair of boots he set aside. After testing the "estate" basket without success, he seized one of the selected pair, and pressed it into the earth close to an original print. He looked up at Tomlinson, who was in a violent perspiration. "Whose boot is this?" he asked. "God help us, sir, it's Mr. Robert's!" said Tomlinson in an agonized tone. The Inspector, Farrow and Bates were visibly thrilled; but Furneaux only sank back on his heels, and peered at the boot. "I don't understand why any one should feel upset because these footprints (which, by the way, were not made by this pair of boots) happen to resemble marks which may have been made by Mr. Robert Fenley," he said, apparently talking to himself. "These marks are three or four days old. Mr. Robert Fenley went away on Saturday. Today is Wednesday. He may have been here on Saturday morning. What does it matter if he was? The man who murdered his father must have been here two hours ago." Sensation! Tomlinson mopped his forehead with a handkerchief already a wet rag; Farrow, not daring to interfere, nibbled his chin strap; Bates scowled with relief. But the Inspector, after a husky cough, spoke. "Would you mind telling me, Mr. Furneaux, why you are so sure?" he said. "Now, Professor Bates, you tell him," cackled Furneaux. The keeper dropped on his knees by the side of the detective, and gazed critically at the marks.