Varr corroborated the truth of this when he bent to make his own examination. The prints were sharp and distinct, but their very clearness only added to the general obscurity. They were large and clumsy, rude of outline, and had obviously been made by a pair of heavy shoes such as workmen wear—and they might have been worn by any one of a million workmen! Varr grunted his disgust as he sought in vain for some little mark by which they might be distinguished from two million like them.
"A big man," was the extent of his deductions.
"Yes, sir, that was what he looked like to me. I wish I could have seen his face—though I've a notion he might have been masked."
"Masked!" Varr fell back a step. "Masked?"
"Why—yes, sir. That wouldn't be so unlikely, considering the errand he come on! But I'm not sure—I had just that moment's look at him through a swirl of smoke."
"Could you tell how he was dressed?"
"He was in black, sir. I thought so at first, and the way he got out of sight in the darkness makes it seem likely. What, sir?"
Varr had muttered an oath. A figure dressed in black, with a mask! That was circumstantial enough, the Monk had been busy—launching a thunderbolt of wrath, presumably! Simon's lip curled; Ocky's familiar of the Spanish Inquisition was a pretty scurvy knave if he would stoop to firebrands by night—!
"Fay," he commanded abruptly. "Keep a close tongue in your head about this. I've my reasons for it. Don't tell any one of these footprints until I give you permission. Understand?"
"Yes, sir," replied the watchman dutifully and dolefully. He had rather been looking forward to public kudos and acclaim. "You'll tell Steiner, sir, I suppose?"