CHAPTER III
THE MYSTERY OF THE PADDED FOOTPRINTS
Now, Laurence knew quite well that no cyclist could dismount from his machine without alighting with all his weight upon the ground. Why, then, was there no print of the stranger's foot at the spot where the cycle marks stopped? The moon shone out so brightly now that he knew he must detect such an impression in the muddy surface of the road were one there.
But there was none. Stay! What was the meaning of that oblong but rounded patch of ground being drier than the remainder of the road? Laurence realised that here was another important discovery, for there could be little doubt that the moisture on the foot-shaped patch had been sucked by some spongy mass pressed heavily upon it. What more natural than that the evil-doer, in order to conceal his tracks, should travel with thick socks or several pairs of stockings in place of shoes, which, though of the lightest description, would leave a distinct print behind them?
Further search led to the discovery of two more of these dry (or more or less dry) patches in such a position that the young amateur detective perceived his man had, presumably carrying the bicycle, stepped across to the strip of common grass that skirted one side of the roadway. Once on this grass all traces of the mysterious cyclist vanished, and Laurence knew that, for the moment at any rate, he was baffled. The would-be assassin, whoever he was, must be a sharp man, Carrington decided. Had the rain continued, or the pursuit not been taken up until the following day, when the rising wind would have done its work, the dry patches in the mud would not have been found, and the man on the bicycle might well have taken to himself wings and flown, so suddenly and unaccountably did the tyre-marks break off. As it was, young Carrington knew that the stranger (if such he really was) had walked along on the grass. Therefore, he conjectured he might yet find further clues as to his hiding-place or destination in parts of the common-land where the grass was short or rubbed away.
He therefore continued his search, and had his efforts rewarded by the discovery of more dry patches, and, in places where the ground had been shadowed by trees, blurred, indistinct marks shaped like a man's foot; and, still on the track, he was surprised to find himself in close proximity to the two largest—in fact, the only two gentlemen's residences in the now sleeping village. The plot of roadside grass ran along outside the grounds of both of these—the Manse, and another and older mansion, Durley Dene; but, before reaching either of these properties, he completely lost sight of the padded footmarks on the ground, and, strive as he might, failed to make any more discoveries that night.
The rain had commenced to fall again, and he made up his mind to return home. As he sauntered along he pondered over the strange case that he had, of his own free will, begun to investigate. Had the cyclist whose identity he was so anxious to discover disappeared into the grounds of either of the two adjoining mansions?
A sinister idea occurred to him. Was it possible that the man who had made so determined an attempt to murder old Mr. Carrington in cold blood could be one of his father's own retainers? If so, how did he know that the would-be assassin was not even now carrying out his horrible plan? The idea was truly a terrible one, but was quickly abandoned as impossible when Laurence remembered that neither Kingsford nor Head, the gardener, could ride a cycle, that Moggin was out of the question, and that the remaining men-servants, Nathaniel (the footman) and Tom (the stable hand), were as incapable of the audacity and cunning displayed by the cyclist as the other servants, though their age and affection for their master were above suspicion. Therefore, if the unknown man had, by chance or otherwise, taken refuge in the Manse grounds, he must only have done so for temporary concealment, or have used these grounds as a short cut to his real lair.
But then, of course, it was equally possible that the strange highwayman hailed from the estate adjoining the Manse. And, like a flash of lightning, Laurence remembered the story he had heard of a retiring neighbour who lived at the Dene, and on whom not a single person in the village had yet cast eyes—the supposed invalid gentleman surrounding whose personality there was such a halo of mystery.