hat these footprints were found so soon
after the crime was committed. Tomorrow, or next day, there might have
been a doubt in our minds. Luckily there is none. The man who shot Mr.
Fenley this morning--" he paused; Furneaux alone appreciated his
difficulty--"could not possibly have left those marks today."

It was a lame ending, but it sufficed. Four of his hearers took him to
mean that the unknown, whose feet had left their impress in the soil
could not have been the murderer; but Furneaux growled in French--

"You tripped badly that time, my friend. You need another cigar!"

Seemingly, he was soliloquizing, and none understood except the one
person for whose benefit the sarcasm was intended.

Winter felt the spur, but because he was a really great detective it
only stimulated him. Nothing more was said until the little procession
reached the avenue. During their brief disappearance in the leafy
depths two cars and three motor cycles had arrived at The Towers. A
glance sufficed. The newspapers had heard of the murder; this was the
advance guard of an army of reporters and photographers. Winter
buttonholed the Inspector.

"I'll tell you the most valuable service you can render at this
moment," he said. "Arrange that a constable shall mount guard at the
rock till nightfall. Then place two on duty. With four men you can
provide the necessary reliefs, but I want that place watched
continuously, and intruders warned off till further notice. This man
who happens to be here might go on duty immediately. Then you can make
your plans at leisure."

Thus, by the quaint contriving of chance, Police Constable Farrow,
whose stalwart form and stubborn zeal had blocked the path to the
Quarry Wood since a few minutes after ten o'clock, was deputed to
continue that particular duty till a comrade took his place.

His face fell when he heard that he was condemned to solitude, shut
out from all the excitement of the hour, debarred even, as he
imagined, from standing on the rock and watching the comings and
goings at the mansion. But Winter was a kindly if far-seeing student
of human nature.

"It will be a bit slow for you," he said, when the Inspector had given
Farrow his orders. "But you can amuse yourself by an occasional peep
at the landscape, and there is no reason why you shouldn't smoke."

Farrow saluted.

"Do you mean, sir, that I can show myself?"

"Why not? The mere fact that your presence is known will warn off
pri