As they arrived at the spot where the ledge began to widen Margaret stopped and peered over the edge. Down below the waves were thrashing and beating, with a sullen roar and a seething of white foam, among the huge boulders. She shuddered.
“How—how horrible!” she said in a low voice.
Roger had waited for her and she walked slowly on, but still gazing down into the turmoil as if fascinated. Anthony watched her with a nameless anxiety: there were people (weren’t there?) who got a bit rocky on heights and as often as not threw themselves over from sheer fascinated funk. “Better not walk so near the edge, Margaret,” he called out to her above the roar of the waves.
Suddenly she stopped short and stared down among the rocks, leaning perilously over; it seemed as if something had riveted her attention.
“What’s that?” she asked Roger, pointing a slim forefinger. “Isn’t there something on that big greeny rock, just out of the water? It looks like a—yes, it’s a shoe, surely.”
Roger followed the direction she indicated. “Yes,” he agreed. “It’s an old shoe, I think. There must be a good man— Hullo, wait a minute!” He stood for an instant staring down, frowning. “Shin down and get it, Anthony, will you?” he said abruptly the next moment. “You’re younger than I am. I’ve got an idea.”
“You have?” Margaret asked eagerly, as Anthony hastened to obey. “What?”
“Half a minute, till I’ve had a look at it.”
Five minutes later Roger was turning the shoe over in his hands. It was a lady’s, size six, soaked with sea-water and in a dilapidated condition; the buckle had been torn off, and the leather was slit on either side of the toe down to the sole.
Roger’s eyes gleamed. “Eureka!” he exclaimed softly. “Good for your sharp eyes, lady. You understand what this is, both of you, don’t you?”