They followed his advice; and soon all three had climbed to the deck of the hulk, from which vantage-point they could look down almost straight upon the meeting-point of the three trails.
“H'm!” said Sir Clinton reflectively. “Let's take No. 3 first of all. He evidently came down from the road and took up a position where the hull of the wreck concealed him from the other two. The moon must have risen three or four hours before, so there would be light enough on the beach. You'd better make a rough sketch of these tracks, inspector, while we're up here. We shan't have much time before that tide washes everything out.”
The inspector set to work at once to make a diagram of the various tracks on the sand below, while Sir Clinton continued his inspection.
“No. 3 evidently hung about behind the wreck for a long while,” the chief constable pointed out. “You can see how the sand's trampled at random as he shuffled around trying to keep himself warm during his waiting. Now we'll suppose that Fordingbridge and No. 2 are coming up. Look at their tracks, squire. They came up almost under the lee of the wreck; and then they turned right round, as if they intended to retrace their steps. It looks as though they'd come to the end of their walk and meant to turn back. But they seem to have stood there for a while; for the prints are indistinct—which is just what happens if you stand long enough on wet sand. The water oozes, owing to the long displacement of the sand particles, and when you lift your foot it leaves simply a mass of mushy stuff where you stood, with no clean impression.”
He glanced again over the tracks before continuing.
“I'd read it this way. While they were standing there, with their backs to the wreck, No. 3 started into activity. He came out from the cover of the hull and walked up to where they were standing. He must have gone quietly, for they don't seem to have turned to meet him. You see that, squire? Do you see anything else?”
Wendover was staring at the tracks with a puzzled look on his face. The inspector, who had just reached this point in his diagram, gave a smothered exclamation of surprise as he examined the sand below him. Wendover was the first to find his voice.
“Where's the rest of Fordingbridge's track?” he demanded. “It simply stops short there. He didn't turn; he didn't walk away; and—damn it, he can't have flown away. Where did he go to?”
Sir Clinton ignored the interruption.