“Did you find anything fresh?”
“No, only some trippers, as the General calls them, had been cutting heather,” I replied.
“That’s not likely to help us much,” the oculist agreed, “unless they were not trippers at all, and were cutting the heather as a blind. What were they like?”
“Oh, we didn’t see them. We only saw the results of their iconoclasm. The heather was recently, but not freshly, cut,” I replied, and the old man glanced at me with some slight suspicion, as if he feared I, too, was about to take up the deduction business.
“Recent, but not fresh?” muttered Garnesk.
“Now, why should a man who wanted——Good heavens! I’ve got it.”
“What are you dear people getting so excited about?” Myra asked, for by this time we had almost reached the verandah.
“We’ll tell you in a minute, dear,” I called, and waited for Garnesk to explain.
“Of course,” he continued, as if thinking aloud, “it’s obvious. The man came ashore in a small boat, picked some heather, and carried it in his arms. Anyone who noticed him would have noticed his load of heather. Then he stole Sholto, concealed him under the heather, and was still apparently only carrying a bundle of innocent heath. Why! they seem to have thought of everything, and made no mistake.”