“In that case,” Craig observed quietly, “there would have been only four prints.”
I looked again, puzzled. The prints were flat and well separated.
“No,” he added, “not finger-prints—toe-prints.”
“Toe-prints?” I echoed.
Before he could reply, Craig had dashed out of the room, around, and under the window. There, he was carefully going over the soft earth around the bushes below.
“What are you looking for?” I asked, joining him.
“Some one—perhaps two—has been here,” he remarked, almost under his breath. “One, at least, has removed his shoes. See those shoe-prints up to this point? The print of a boot-heel in soft earth shows the position and contour of every nail head. Bertillon has made a collection of such nails, certain types, sizes, and shapes used in certain boots, showing often what country the shoes came from. Even the number and pattern are significant. Some factories use a fixed number of nails and arrange them in a particular manner. I have made my own collection of such prints in this country. These were American shoes. Perhaps the clue will not lead us anywhere, though, for I doubt whether it was an American foot.”
Kennedy continued to study the marks.
“He removed his shoes—either to help in climbing or to prevent noise—ah—here’s the foot! Strange—see how small it is—and broad, how prehensile the toes—almost like fingers. Surely that foot could never have been encased in American shoes all its life. I shall make plaster casts of these, to preserve later.”
He was still scouting about on hands and knees in the dampness of the rhododendrons. Suddenly he reached his long arm in among the shrubs and picked up a little reed stick. On the end of it was a small cylinder of buff brown.