Taking care to avoid stepping on the well defined trail that led from the door to the tire marks of the car, the two studied the line of footprints.
"One fellow wore rubber soled shoes--I guess you're right, Dorothy," acknowledged Bill, squatting on his heels. "The pattern on this set of prints could have been made by nothing else. But what do you make of these tracks here? Just holes in the mud with a flat dab right ahead?"
"High heeled shoes, Bill. One of this gang is a woman, that is clear enough. What bothers me is the third set--look!"
Bill stared at the footprints to which she pointed. "The right-hand one was made by a long, narrow shoe, but I'll swear that boot last was never made in America. It's too pointed," he said finally. "The shoe that made that imprint was bought in southern Europe, I'll bet--Italy, probably. But those queer looking marks to the left are beyond me," he frowned. Then he cried--"No, they're not! I have it--the man who made those prints was club-footed!"
Dorothy disagreed with him. "A club-foot couldn't make that mark. It is too symmetrical--straight on both sides and kind of rounded at the back and front. It wasn't made by a wooden leg, either, Bill!"
"No. That would simply dig a hole in the mud."
"Oh, I know! Why didn't I see it at once!" she exclaimed excitedly--"The man was lame!"
Bill snorted. "And he had long pink whiskers which he tied round his waist with a green ribbon!"
"Don't be silly--I know what I'm talking about."
"How so?"