Presently he gave a little grunt of satisfaction. The shoe exactly fitted one of the footprints. Walking slowly on, he was easily able to trace these particular footprints going towards Frattenbury. “Doesn’t help much,” he said to himself, “but—ah, here’s what I want.” For he caught sight of a similar footprint—and then another—pointing in the reverse direction. Several more were apparent as he walked on. “That settles it,” he exclaimed; “Templeton walked back to Marsh Quay by the same route. I’m glad I thought to bring one of the shoes he was wearing with me. Now for the other test.” The other test was still more simple. Every now and then, plainly defined, was a small square hole showing in the soft soil, about three-eighths of an inch in diameter. The detective stuck the walking-stick he was carrying into the ground beside one of these holes. It bore one of those tapering, square ferrules which are common in Alpine walking-sticks. When he removed it from the soil, the impression was exactly the same as the other. A less shrewd man than Colson would have been perfectly satisfied with the result, and would have made the very natural deduction that Templeton had carried the walking-stick. Indeed, there was every reason to deduce this. But Colson was not only a quick-witted man—he was also a slow and careful thinker. It was his method, when he had discovered any clue, to work out every possible explanation from it mentally raising objections to each deduction. More than once this habit of his had prevented him acting on hasty and erroneous conclusions, and he knew the value of it well. Besides, this was the biggest case in which he had been engaged. Never yet had he been called upon to investigate so serious a crime as murder, except in one instance, where everything had been fairly obvious from the first. So, for his own credit and chances of promotion, he was anxious to make no mistake. Therefore, having turned the matter over in his mind, when he reached Frattenbury, instead of going straight to the police station to make his report, he called on Canon Fittleworth. This was in the afternoon, and, it will be remembered, before the Canon had compared the cigar band with those in his box. “I’m sorry to disturb you,” he said, “but you may be able to tell me something. When Mr. Templeton left your house last night, who showed him out?” “I did,” replied the Canon. “Good. Now can you remember if he was carrying a walking-stick when he left?” They were standing in the hall as they were talking. “I can tell you exactly,” said the Canon. “He had a stick when he came here—this is it,” and he drew one from the rack, “but when we opened the door last night it was clouding up and looked like rain, and the glass was falling. Templeton said he didn’t want to risk getting wet, as he suffered from rheumatism. I lent him an umbrella. By the way, I saw it in the cabin of the yacht, now I come to think of it.”