“This is the way he went all right,” he remarked, “ and got in. See here.”
In the light of the powerful torch, several clearly defined footmarks could be seen. They seemed to be those of shoes with rubber studs in the soles. One particularly clear one pointed inwards, another, slightly overlapping it, pointed outwards.
“Plain as a pikestaff,” said the inspector. “Any valuables missing?”
Geoffrey Raymond shook his head. “Not so far that we can discover. Mr. Ackroyd never kept anything of particular value in this room.”
“H’m,” said the inspector. “Man found an open window. Climbed in, saw Mr. Ackroyd sitting there—maybe he’d fallen asleep. Man stabbed him from behind, then lost his nerve and made off. But he’s left his tracks pretty clearly. We ought to get hold of him without much difficulty. No suspicious strangers been hanging about anywhere?”
“Oh!” I said suddenly.
“What is it, doctor?”
“I met a man this evening—just as I was turning out of the gate. He asked me the way to Fernly Park.”
“What time would that be?”
“Just nine o’clock. I heard it chime the hour as I was turning out of the gate.”
“Can you describe him?”
I did so to the best of my ability.
The inspector turned to the butler.
“Anyone answering that description come to the front door?”