“What did you go into the pool for?” he asked.

“I fished about with a rake.  I thought there might be some weapon or other trace.  But how on earth—­”

“Oh, tut, tut!  I have no time!  That left foot of yours with its inward twist is all over the place.  A mole could trace it, and there it vanishes among the reeds.  Oh, how simple it would all have been had I been here before they came like a herd of buffalo and wallowed all over it.  Here is where the party with the lodge-keeper came, and they have covered all tracks for six or eight feet round the body.  But here are three separate tracks of the same feet.”  He drew out a lens and lay down upon his waterproof to have a better view, talking all the time rather to himself than to us.  “These are young McCarthy’s feet.  Twice he was walking, and once he ran swiftly, so that the soles are deeply marked and the heels hardly visible.  That bears out his story.  He ran when he saw his father on the ground.  Then here are the father’s feet as he paced up and down.  What is this, then?  It is the butt-end of the gun as the son stood listening.  And this?  Ha, ha!  What have we here?  Tiptoes! tiptoes!  Square, too, quite unusual boots!  They come, they go, they come again—­of course that was for the cloak.  Now where did they come from?” He ran up and down, sometimes losing, sometimes finding the track until we were well within the edge of the wood and under the shadow of a great beech, the largest tree in the neighbourhood.  Holmes traced his way to the farther side of this and lay down once more upon his face with a little cry of satisfaction.  For a long time he remained there, turning over the leaves and dried sticks, gathering up what seemed to me to be dust into an envelope and examining with his lens not only the ground but even the bark of the tree as far as he could reach.  A jagged stone was lying among the moss, and this also he carefully examined and retained.  Then he followed a pathway through the wood until he came to the highroad, where all traces were lost.

“It has been a case of considerable interest,” he remarked, returning to his natural manner.  “I fancy that this grey house on the right must be the lodge.  I think that I will go in and have a word with Moran, and perhaps write a little note.  Having done that, we may drive back to our luncheon.  You may walk to the cab, and I shall be with you presently.”

It was about ten minutes before we regained our cab and drove back into Ross, Holmes still carrying with him the stone which he had picked up in the wood.

“This may interest you, Lestrade,” he remarked, holding it out.  “The murder was done with it.”

“I see no marks.”

“There are none.”

“How do you know, then?”

“The grass was growing under it.  It had only lain there a few days.  There was no sign of a place whence it had been taken.  It corresponds with the injuries.  There is no sign of any other weapon.”