From the front gate of Cliff Farm the road wound up the hill steeply and sinuously, following the broken curves of the coastline till it disappeared in the cutting of the hill three hundred yards from the house, and reappeared on the other side. As far as could be seen from the house, the cutting through the hill was the only place where the road diverged from the cliff.

No other short cut on a large scale had been attempted by the makers of the road, which, for the most part, skirted the irregular outline of the bluff and rocky coast until it seemed a mere white thread in the distant green of the spacious downs which stretched for many miles to the waters of the Channel.

On the far side of the cutting the downs came fully into view, rolling back from the edge of the cliffs to a low range of distant wooded hills, and stretching ahead till they were merged in the town of Staveley, nearly ten miles away. Staveley's churchspires could be seen from the headland near Cliff Farm on a clear day, and the road in front of the farm ran to the town, skirting the edge of the cliffs for nearly the whole of the way.

Crewe and Marsland walked up the road from the house for some distance in silence. Sir George Granville had gone back to Staveley in his car, but his nephew and Crewe had arranged to stay behind and spend the night at Ashlingsea. Crewe desired to begin his investigations without delay, and Inspector Payne had asked Mr. Marsland to remain at Ashlingsea in case Detective Gillett wanted further light from him on incidental points. As they walked along, Crewe was thoughtful, and Marsland scrutinized the way-side closely, anxious to find the spot where his horse had swerved and stumbled on the previous night. Thus preoccupied, they reached the highest point of the cliff, a rocky headland which ran out from the hill-top on the other side of the cutting, forming a landmark well known to the fishermen of the district.

The headland, which was not more than a hundred yards across at the base, jutted sharply out into the sea. Immediately beyond it, on the Staveley side, the road ran along the edge of the cliffs for several hundred yards, with a light rail fence on the outside as some protection for traffic from the danger of going over the side to the rocks below. Where the grassy margin of the headland narrowed to this dangerous pass, an ancient and faded notice board on a post which had departed from its perpendicular position warned drivers that the next portion of the road was DANGEROUS, and a similar board was affixed to the other end of the protecting fence.

Marsland stopped opposite the point where the first notice-board confronted them from the narrowing margin of headland.

"It was somewhere about here that my horse took fright last night, I think," he said, examining the green bank on the side of the road farthest from the cliff. "Yes, here is where he slipped."

Crewe examined the deep indentation of hoofmarks with interest.

"It's lucky for you your horse shied in that direction," he said. "If he had sprung the other way you might have gone over the cliffs, in spite of the fence. Look here!"

Marsland followed him to the edge of the cliff and glanced over. The tide was out, and the cliffside fell almost perpendicularly to the jagged rocks nearly 300 feet below.

"They'd be covered at high tide," said Crewe, pointing downward to the rocks. "But even if one fell over at high tide there would not be much chance of escape. The breakers must come in with terrific force on this rocky coast."

"It's a horribly dangerous piece of road, especially at night-time," said Marsland. "I suppose there was some bad accident here at one time or another, which compelled the local authorities to put up that fence and the warning notices. Even now, it's far from safe. Somebody's had a narrow escape from going over: look at that notice-board leaning down on one side. Some passing motor-car has gone too close to the edge of the road—probably in the dark—and bumped it half over."

"I noticed it," said Crewe. "I agree with you: this piece of road is highly dangerous. There will be a shocking accident here some day unless the local authorities close this portion of the road and make a detour to that point lower down where those sheep are grazing. But local authorities never act wisely until they have had an accident. Still, I suppose the people of the country-side are so well used to this cliff road that they never think of the danger. Apparently it's the only road between Ashlingsea and Staveley."

Crewe slowly filled his large pipe, and lit it. He smoked thoughtfully, gazing round at the scene. The high headland on which they stood commanded an uninterrupted view of downs, sea, and coast. It was a clear day, and the distant city of Staveley, with its towering spires, was silhouetted against the sky like an etching in grey. To the left the fishing village of Ashlingsea nestled on the sands, its stone-grey houses gleaming in a silver setting, the sails of its fishing fleet flecked white on the sunlit blue of the sea.

On the Ashlingsea side the cliffs fell away quickly, and sloped down to a level beach less than a mile from the headland. About five hundred yards from the headland the cliff front was less precipitous, and a footpath showed a faint trail on its face, running down to a little stone landing place, where a fisherman could be seen mooring a boat. Crewe pointed out the path to Marsland.

"I should like to explore that path," he said. "I should say it is not very far from Cliff Farm. Do you think you could manage it?"

The question referred to the fact that Marsland was a wounded man. Crewe had taken a fancy to Marsland on account of his unaffected manner and manly bearing. It was evident to him that the young man had been a good officer, a staunch comrade, and that he had been extremely popular with the men under him. No word in reference to Marsland's military career had passed between Crewe and his companion.

Crewe was anxious to respect the medical advice which forbade Marsland to discuss the war or anything relating to his experience at the front. But in order to clear the way for candour and companionship Crewe thought it best to give an occasional indication that Sir George Granville had confided in him about his nephew's state of health and the cause of it. Crewe was somewhat amused at the pains taken to make Marsland forget his past connection with the Army, when in so many ways he betrayed to any keen observer the effects of military training and discipline.

"I can manage it quite easily," said Marsland with a smile, in reply to Crewe's question. "I am not such a wreck as you'd all like to make me out. Come along! I'll get to the bottom before you."

They walked along to the cliff path. When they reached it they found it was not noticeable from the road, which at that point ran back three hundred yards or more from the cliff to enter the hill-cutting. Cliff Farm stood in the hollow less than a quarter of a mile away. The commencement of the path was screened from view by the furze which grew along the edge of the cliffs at this point. It took Crewe and Marsland some minutes before they could find the entrance to the path, but when they did they found the descent by it to the rocks below tolerably easy, the cliff at this point not being more than seventy feet high. The track ended abruptly about fifteen feet from the bottom, but the rocks afforded good foothold and handhold for the remaining distance.

The tide was out, and the coastline at the foot of the cliffs showed for miles towards Staveley in black rocky outline, with broken reefs running hundreds of yards out to sea.

"It's a bad piece of coast," said Marsland, eyeing the reefs and the rocky foreshore. "If a ship had run ashore anywhere between here and Staveley in last night's storm she would not have had much chance."

Crewe did not reply; his keen eyes were fixed on a line of rocks on the right about a hundred yards from where they stood. He walked rapidly to the spot, and Marsland could see him stoop down by a pool in the rocks and pick up something. As he returned, Marsland saw that the detective was carrying a man's soft grey felt hat, stained and saturated with sea-water.

"I suppose somebody lost it from the cliffs last night," remarked Marsland.

Crewe wrung the hat as dry as he could with his hands, rolled it up, and placed it in an inside pocket of his coat before replying.

"I do not think it blew off from the headland," he said. "In fact, it couldn't have done so. There may be nothing in the find, but it's worth a few inquiries. But look at that fisherman, Marsland. He's a picturesque touch of colour."

The fisherman who had been mooring his boat had turned to come off the rough landing-stage. He stopped when he saw Crewe and Marsland, and stared suspiciously at them. He was an old man, but vigorous and upright, with a dark swarthy face, hooked nose, and flashing black eyes, which contrasted strikingly with a long snow-white beard. He wore a long red cloak fastened to his neck with clasps, and reaching nearly to his feet, which were bare.

He stood for a few moments looking at the two men, his red cloak making a bright splash of colour against the grey stones of the landing. Then, with a slight shrug of his shoulders, he walked quickly off the landing-place. Crewe nodded to him pleasantly as he approached, and asked him to where the path they had just descended led.

The old man, with a slight shake of his head, pointed to his lips and his ears, and then, accelerating his pace, walked rapidly away along the rocks towards the headland.

"Deaf and dumb, poor beggar!" said Marsland, watching his retreating figure until it turned the headland and was lost to view. "I say, Crewe, did you ever see such an odd fish on an English foreshore?"

"Italian, I should say," said Crewe. "But he looks as if he might have stepped out of a Biblical plate. He would make an admirable model for St. Peter, with his expressive eyes and hooked nose and patriarchal beard. We'll have a look at his boat."

They walked along the landing-place to the boat, which had been moored to an iron ring at the end. It was a halfdecked motor-boat about twenty feet long, empty except for a coil of rope thrown loosely in the bottom, and a small hand fishing-net. The boat was painted white, and the name Zulietta could be seen on the stern in black letters.

They turned away, and Crewe suggested to his companion that they should walk along the beach and back to Cliff Farm by the road instead of returning by the path they had just descended. He added that he wanted to have a good look at the approach to the farm from the village.

Marsland readily agreed, and they walked for some distance in silence. He glanced at Crewe expectantly from time to time, but the detective appeared to be wrapped in thought. When they had covered more than half the distance between the landing-place and the point where the cliffs sloped down to level ground, Marsland spoke.

"Have you reached any conclusions yet, Crewe?"

"About this murder?"

"Of course."

"I have not come to many definite conclusions so far," said Crewe meditatively. "But of one thing I am certain. The unravelling of this crime is not going to be quite such a simple matter as Inspector Payne seems to think."

"I gathered that you were doubtful about his theory that the man who killed Lumsden got in through the window."

"Doubtful about it?" echoed Crewe. "Doubtful is a mild word. I am absolutely certain that he didn't get in through the window."

"But the catch was forced."

"It was forced from the inside."

Marsland looked at him in amazement.

"How did you find out that?" he asked.

"By inspecting the sash. I had a good look at it from the inside and out. Apparently it hadn't been opened for some time before last night, and the marks of the knife which was used to force it were very distinct in the sash in consequence. But the marks were broader and more distinct at the top of the sash inside than at the bottom. Therefore the knife was inserted at the top, and that could be done only by a man inside the house."

"But why was the window forced if the man was inside?"

"In order to mislead us."

"But the footprints led up to the window."

"No," said Crewe. "They led away from it."

"Surely you are mistaken," said Marsland. "I don't like trying to put you right on a matter of this kind, but the marks of the boots were so distinct; they all pointed the one way—towards the window."

"Look behind you, at our own footprints in the sand," said Crewe.

They had left the rocks behind them some time previously and for five minutes had been walking on a strip of sand which skirted the cliff road—now level with the sea—and broadened into a beach nearer the village. Crewe pointed to the clear imprint of their footsteps in the firm wet sand behind them.

"We'll try a little experiment," he said. "Let us walk backwards for a few yards over the ground we have just covered."

He commenced to do so, and Marsland wonderingly followed suit. After covering about twenty yards in this fashion Crewe stopped.

"That will be sufficient for our purpose," he said. "Now let us compare the two sets of footprints—the ones we have just made, and the previous ones. Examine them for yourself, Marsland, and tell me if you can see any difference."

Marsland did so. With the mystified air of a man performing a task he did not understand, he first scrutinized the footprints they had made while walking forwards, and then examined the backward ones.

"Find any difference in them?" asked Crewe.

Marsland stood up and straightened his back with the self-conscious look of an Englishman who feels he has been made to do something ridiculous.

"I cannot say that I do. They look very much alike to me."

"You are not very observant," said Crewe, with a smile. "Let me explain the difference. In ordinary walking a man puts down the heel of his boot first, and then, as he brings his body forward, he completes the impression of his foot. He lifts his heel first and springs off the ball of his foot for the next step. But in walking backwards a man puts down the ball of his foot first and makes but a very faint impression with his heel. If he walks very carefully because he is not sure of the ground, or because it is dark, he may take four or five steps without bringing his heel to the ground. If you compare the impressions your boots have made in the sand when we were walking forward with the others made by walking backward, you will find that few of the latter marks give the complete impression of your boot."

"Yes, I see now," said Marsland. "The difference is quite distinct."

"When I examined the window this afternoon, and came to the conclusion that it had been forced from the inside, I felt certain that a murderer who had adopted such a trick in order to mislead the police would carry it out in every detail," said Crewe. "After forcing the window he would get out of it in order to leave footprints underneath the window in the earth outside, and of course he would walk backwards from the window, in order to convey the impression that he had walked up to the window through the garden, forced it and then got into the house. As I expected, I found the footsteps leading away from the window were deep in the toe, with hardly any heel marks. It was as plain as daylight that the man who had made them had walked backwards from the window. But even if I had not been quite sure of this from the footprints themselves, there was additional confirmation. The backward footsteps led straight to a fruit tree about twenty feet from the window, and on examining that tree I found a small branch—a twig—had been broken and bent just where the footsteps were lost in the gravel walk. The man who got out of the window had bumped into the tree. Walking backwards he could neither see nor feel where he was going."

"I see—I see," Marsland stood silent for a moment evidently pondering deeply over Crewe's chain of deductions. "It seems to me," he said at length, "that this man, clever as he was, owed a great deal to accident."

"In what respect?"

"Because the window where you found the footprints is the only window on that side of the house which has a bare patch of earth underneath. All the others have grass growing right up to the windows. I noticed that when I saw the footprints. If he had got out of any of them he would have left no footprints."

"On the contrary, he knew that and chose that window because he wanted to leave us some footprints. The fact that he selected in the dark the only window that would serve his purpose shows that he is a man who knows the place well. He is clever and resourceful, but that is no reason why we should not succeed in unmasking him."

"Doesn't the fact that he wore hobnailed boots indicate that he is a labouring man?"

"My dear Marsland, may he not have worn boots of that kind for the same reason that he walked backwards—to mislead us all?"

"I gathered that you do not agree with Inspector Payne that the marks on the stairs were caused by the intruder trying to obliterate with a wet cloth the marks he made by his muddy boots."

"Outside the house he does his best to leave footprints; and inside, according to Inspector Payne, he takes special pains to remove similar traces. It is hopeless trying to reconcile the two things," said Crewe.

"Well, what do you think were the original marks on the stairs that the intruder was so anxious to remove?"

"Blood-stains."

"But why should he go to the trouble of removing blood-stains on the stairs and yet leave so much blood about in the room in which the body was discovered?"

"I have asked myself that question," said Crewe. "At the present stage it is very difficult to answer."

"You think it adds to the mystery?"

"For the present it does. But it may prove to be a key which will open many closed doors in this investigation."

"Your mention of closed doors suggests another question," said Marsland. "Why did this man get out of the window and walk backwards? If he wanted to leave misleading clues it would have been just as easy for him to go out by the front door, walk up to the window from the path so as to leave footprints and then force the window from the outside."

"Just as easy," assented Crewe. "But it would have taken longer, because it is more difficult to force the catch of a window from the outside than the inside. I think that we must assume that he was pressed for time."

"But I understand that this man Lumsden lived alone. In that case there would be little danger of interruption."

"A man who has just committed a murder gets into a state of nervous alarm," was Crewe's reply. "He is naturally anxious to get away from the scene of the crime."

"But if this man knew the place well he must have known that Lumsden lived alone, and that the discovery of the crime would not take place immediately. But for the accident of my taking shelter there the body might have remained undiscovered for days."

"Quite true. But that does not affect my point that a murderer is always in a hurry to get away."

"Isn't the fact that he went to the trouble of washing out blood-stains on the stairs evidence that he was not in a hurry?"

"No," said Crewe emphatically. "I should be more inclined to accept it as evidence that he expected some one to call at the farm—that either he or Lumsden had an appointment with some one there."

Marsland looked very hard at Crewe as he recalled the greeting Miss Maynard had given him when she opened the door to his knock.

"I did not think of that," he said.

"That supposition gives us a probable explanation why the blood-stains were wiped off the stairs, and not off the floor of the room in which you saw the body. The murderer was expecting a visitor by appointment. The suspicions of this visitor would be aroused if he saw blood-stains on the stairs. But as he was not expected to go upstairs the murderer did not trouble about the stains in the room. This is another indication of pressure of time."

Marsland felt that Crewe was on the track of discovering Miss Maynard's presence at the farm. He began to see in the light of Crewe's deductions that her chief object in having asked him to keep her name out of the affair was to shelter some one else. But having given his word he must keep it and stand by the consequences.