“I am. I’m carrying a mental photograph of Prescott about with me, and you can take it from me, Bill, that Prescott never did the climbing trick that you’ve done this morning. Now where are we?”
“Ask me another,” I grunted. “I should think, more in the dark than ever.”
But Anthony dissented.
“I’m not so sure of that. I’m beginning to see a little more light.”
I surveyed him with astonishment.
“What on earth——”
“I’m still holding on, Bill, so don’t worry me. Come along here, we’ll do a little more prospecting.”
We strolled back along the path that led back to the French doors.
“No indication here of which way either of them went,” remarked Anthony. “This gravel path hardly takes a foot’s impression, which, at the best, would be hours old by now.”
He stopped by the French doors. “Yes, Bill, I’m in the dark still with regard to many points. As I said to you previously, there are so many things that don’t fit, they seem extraneous to the real core of the crime—all the same, at the risk of becoming monotonous, I think I can see a glimmer of light.”