“Right,” he rejoined. “Then—proceeding along that line of argument—since Prescott eventually reached the billiard room and stayed there, the tracks leading to the path should have been made first. That’s elementary, isn’t it?”
Once again I assented.
“Now,” continued Anthony, “cast your weather-eye over there.”
He pointed to a few feet away from the tracks we had agreed were Prescott’s.
I stared and started in surprise.
“More!” I cried.
“True, O King,” said Anthony, rubbing his hands with real showman instinct, “and whose are they? Come and look closer.” They belonged to a much smaller foot.
“A woman?” I queried.
Anthony shook his head in disagreement. “I think not. Might be. But it’s broad for a woman, not suggestive of a woman’s heel, and more generally indicative of a medium-sized man. He has walked deliberately towards the window from the path and then equally deliberately back again. That’s another point I’m basing my opinion on, a woman so often picks her way, especially with any mud about. Put it down to feminine fastidiousness.”
“Then Prescott did have an assignation?” I ventured.