“And the soil where the mark was; you might describe that.”
“It was rather light in color, a yellowish brown. It was clayey, and the print showed clearly, as it would in stiff putty.”
French nodded.
“Then, Mr. Cheyne, if all your data are right, and if the footprint was made by Miss Merrill when she was wearing these shoes, I should expect to find a mark of yellowish clay on the outside of the right shoe. Isn’t that correct?”
Cheyne thought for a moment, then signified his assent.
“I turn up this shoe,” French continued, suiting the action to the word, “and I find here the very mark I was expecting. See for yourself. I think we may take it then, not only that Miss Merrill made the mark on the bank, and of course made it last night, but also that she was wearing these shoes when she made it. And that would coincide with your observation.”
“But,” cried Cheyne, “I don’t understand. How did the shoes get here? Miss Merrill wasn’t here since we left to go to Wembley.”
“How do you know?”
“Well, there’s what Dangle said. I don’t mean of course that I believe Dangle. Everything else he’s said to me has turned out to be a lie. But in this case the circumstances seem to prove this story. If he didn’t see Miss Merrill how did he know of her getting over the wall for the tracing? And if he didn’t capture her then why did she not return here? Or rather, suppose she did return, why should she go away again without leaving a note or sending me a message?”
French shook his head.