“Oh, quite so, quite so,” murmured Guy solemnly.
They processed out of the house and the Inspector led the way to the bottom of the garden, his back rhetorical.
“This ’ere,” said the Inspector portentously, halting at a patch of much trampled ground on the bank of the river, “is where they got out of a boat and came ashore, and where they took the body on board subsequent to the murder.”
“By Jove, is it really?” said Doyle.
“How on earth do you know that, Inspector?” said Guy.
George said nothing.
Guy had said the right thing. The Inspector beamed upon him.
“See all them footprints on the ground, sir?” he replied with legitimate pride. “That’s how I know. Now, you never made them footprints, did you, sir?”
“Certainly not,” Guy said without truth.
“Of course you didn’t. Nor did any of your friends. They made ’em.”