“No,” agreed the surgeon; “there ought not to be much trouble in identifying those boots.  He would seem to be a labourer, judging by the hob-nails.”

“No, sir; not a labourer,” dissented the sergeant.  “The foot is too small, for one thing; and then the nails are not regular hob-nails.  They’re a good deal smaller; and a labourer’s boots would have the nails all round the edges, and there would be iron tips on the heels, and probably on the toes too.  Now these have got no tips, and the nails are arranged in a pattern on the soles and heels.  They are probably shooting-boots or sporting shoes of some kind.”  He strode to and fro with his notebook in his hand, writing down hasty memoranda, and stooping to scrutinize the impressions in the sand.  The surgeon also busied himself in noting down the facts concerning which he would have to give evidence, while Thorndyke regarded in silence and with an air of intense preoccupation the footprints around the body which remained to testify to the circumstances of the crime.

“It is pretty clear, up to a certain point,” the sergeant observed, as he concluded his investigations, “how the affair happened, and it is pretty clear, too, that the murder was premeditated.  You see, Doctor, the deceased gentleman, Mr. Hearn, was apparently walking home from Port Marston; we saw his footprints along the shore—­those rubber heels make them easy to identify—­and he didn’t go down Sundersley Gap.  He probably meant to climb up the cliff by that little track that you see there, which the people about here call the Shepherd’s Path.  Now the murderer must have known that he was coming, and waited upon the cliff to keep a lookout.  When he saw Mr. Hearn enter the bay, he came down the path and attacked him, and, after a tough struggle, succeeded in stabbing him.  Then he turned and went back up the path.  You can see the double track between the path and the place where the struggle took place, and the footprints going to the path are on top of those coming from it.”

“If you follow the tracks,” said Dr. Burrows, “you ought to be able to see where the murderer went to.”

“I’m afraid not,” replied the sergeant.  “There are no marks on the path itself—­the rock is too hard, and so is the ground above, I fear.  But I’ll go over it carefully all the same.”

The investigations being so far concluded, the body was lifted on to the stretcher, and the cortege, consisting of the bearers, the Doctor, and the fisherman, moved off towards the Gap, while the sergeant, having civilly wished us “Good-evening,” scrambled up the Shepherd’s Path, and vanished above.

“A very smart officer that,” said Thorndyke.  “I should like to know what he wrote in his notebook.”

“His account of the circumstances of the murder seemed a very reasonable one,” I said.

“Very.  He noted the plain and essential facts, and drew the natural conclusions from them.  But there are some very singular features in this case; so singular that I am disposed to make a few notes for my own information.”