I thought I examined everything thoroughly, but I was so excited I suppose—"
"What did you make of them?" he interrupted, whirling about on Mattison who was looking over our shoulders.
"I—I didn't see them," Mattison stammered.
"For heaven's sake, men," said Terry impatiently. "Do you mean they weren't there or you didn't notice them?"
The sheriff and I looked at each other blankly, and neither answered.
Terry stood with his hands in his pockets frowning down at the marks, while the rest of us waited silently, scarcely daring to think.
Finally he turned away without saying a word, and, motioning us to keep back, commenced examining the path which led up the incline.
He mounted the three stone steps, and with his eyes on the ground, slowly advanced to the spot where the struggle had taken place.
"How tall a man did you say Mose was?" he called down to us.
"Little short fellow—not more than five feet high," returned the sheriff.
Terry took his ruler from his pocket and bent over to study the marks at the scene of the struggle.
He straightened up with an air of satisfaction.
"Now I want you men to look carefully at those marks on the lower borders of the pool, and then come up here and look at these.
Come along up in single file, please, and keep to the middle of the path."
He spoke in the tone of one giving a demonstration before a kindergarten class.
We obeyed him silently and ranged in a row along the boards.
"Come here," he said. "Bend over where you can see.
Now look at those marks.
Do you see anything different in them from the marks below?"
The sheriff and I gazed intently at the prints of bare feet which marked the entire vicinity of the struggle.
We had both examined them more than once before, and we saw nothing now but what had already appeared.
We straightened up and shook our heads.
"They're the prints of bare feet," said Mattison, stolidly. "But I don't see that they're any different from any other bare feet."
Terry handed him the ruler.
"Measure them," he said. "Measure this one that's flat on the ground.
Now go down and measure one of those prints by the borders of the pool."
Mattison took the ruler and complied.
As he bent over the marks on the lower border we could see by the light of his candle the look of astonishment that sprang into his face.
"Well, what do you find?" Terry asked.
"The marks up there are nearly two inches longer and an inch broader."
"Exactly."
"Terry," I said, "you can't blame us for not finding that out.
We examined everything when we took away the body, and those marks below were simply not there.
Someone has been in since."
"So I conclude.
Now, Mattison," he added to the sheriff, "come here and show me the marks of Radnor Gaylord's riding boots."
Mattison returned and pointed out the mark which he had produced at the inquest, but his assurance, I noticed, was somewhat shaken.
"That," said Terry half contemptuously, "is the mark of Colonel Gaylord. You must remember that he was struggling with his assailant.
He did not plant his foot squarely every time.
Sometimes we have only the heel mark: sometimes only the toe.
In this case we have more than the mark of the whole foot.
How do I account for it?
Simply enough.
The Colonel's foot slipped sideways.
The mark is, you see, exactly the same in length as the others, but disproportionately broad.
At the heel and toe it is smudged, and on the inside where the weight was thrown, it is heavier than on the outside.
The thing is easy enough to understand.
You ought to have been able to deduce it for yourselves.
And besides, how did you account for the fact that there was only one mark?
A man engaged in a struggle must have left more than that behind him.