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"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!