“Ah, I comprehend! I had forgotten the imprints which I must have left when I went down to the rock. It was dark, you understand?—and naturally I did not perceive that I was leaving traces. So that was it, Sir Clinton?”
Armadale was obviously puzzled. He turned to Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux.
“What size of shoe do you wear, madame?”
She glanced at her neatly shod feet.
“These shoes I have bought in London a few days ago. The pointure—the size, you call it, isn't it?—was No. 4.”
Armadale shrugged his shoulders, as though to express his disbelief.
“Measure these prints on the sand here, inspector,” Sir Clinton suggested.
Armadale drew out his tape-measure and took the dimensions of the footmarks left by Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux.
“And the length of step also, inspector,” Sir Clinton suggested.
“They correspond with the tracks down to the rock, true enough,” the inspector admitted, when he completed his task. “But only a 3½ shoe could have made them.”