“ ‘He who has truth at his heart need never fear the want of persuasion on his tongue’—Ruskin,” quoted Sir Clinton, with the air of reading from a collection of moral maxims. “You've made the thing crystal-clear to me, squire, with the exception of just one or two trifling points. And these are: First, why did that very solid and unimaginative Mr. Paul Fordingbridge take to romping with his—presumably—grown-up pals? Second, why didn't he return home after these little games? Third, where is he now? Or, if I may put it compendiously, what's it all about? At first sight it seems almost abnormal, you know, but I suppose we shall get accustomed to it.”
Armadale had been examining the tracks on the sand without paying Wendover even the courtesy of listening to him. He now broke in.
“If you'll look at No. 3's tracks, sir, you'll find that they're quite light up to the point where he came directly behind Fordingbridge; and then they get deeply marked on the stretch leading down to the sea.”
“That's quite correct, inspector,” Sir Clinton agreed. “And if you look again you'll find that when they're light, the toes turn out to a fair extent; but on the heavier part of the track No. 3 walked—as Mr. Wendover pointed out—like a Red Indian. Does that interest you?”
The inspector shook his head.
“I don't quite get it, sir.”
“Ever been in France, inspector?”
“Just for a trip, sir.”
“Ah, then you may not have chanced to come across Père François, then. If you met him, he might have helped you a bit in explaining these levitation affairs.”
Wendover pricked up his ears.