Wendover nodded an acceptance of the task.
“The inspector can bring along a tape-measure in his pocket, and, if he likes, he can drag the blow-lamp and wax with him also, though I doubt if we'll need them.” At the mention of the tape-measure, Wendover pricked up his ears.
“You don't imagine that she was on the beach that night, do you, Clinton? Armadale found out that her shoes were No. 4—half a size, at least, too big for the prints we haven't identified yet. Besides, she's quite a good height—as tall as Mrs. Fleetwood; and, you remember, the steps were much shorter than Mrs. Fleetwood's. The person who made these prints must have been much smaller than the Laurent-Desrousseaux woman. Have you found some more prints that you didn't tell us about?”
“All in good time, squire,” Sir Clinton answered. “Take things as they come.”
He sipped his coffee as though to show that he did not propose to be drawn. But Wendover was not to be put off.
“You couldn't have got a No. 4 shoe into these prints.”
“No.”
“And, from what I've seen of her feet, her shoes are a perfect fit.”
“I've noticed you admiring them—quite justifiably, squire.”
“Well, she couldn't wear a 3½ shoe.”