His neatly shaved chin, stolid red
countenance and perfectly brushed hair were unexceptionable of course,
but because his duties would presently take him into the garden he
wore, not the regulation black, but an ancient shooting-jacket, khaki
breeches and brown gaiters, looking every inch of him the old soldier
that he was.
"Well, Coates?" said I.
He cleared his throat.
"There are footprints in the radish-beds, sir," he reported.
"Footprints?"
"Yes, sir. Very deep. As though some one had jumped over the hedge and
landed there."
"Jumped over the hedge!" I exclaimed. "That would be a considerable
jump, Coates, from the road."
"It would, sir. Maybe she scrambled up."
"She?"
Coates cleared his throat again.
"There are three sets of prints in all. First a very deep one where
the party had landed, then another broken up like, where she had
turned round, and the third set with the heel-marks very deep where
she had sprung back over the hedge."
_"She?"_ I shouted.
"The prints, sir," resumed Coates, unmoved, "are those of a lady's
high-heeled shoes."
I sat bolt upright in bed, staring at the man and scarcely able to
credit my senses. Words failed me. Whereupon:
"Will you have tea or coffee for breakfast?" inquired Coates.
"Tea or coffee be damned, Coates!" I cried. "I'm going out to look at
those footprints! If you had seen what I saw last night, even your old
mahogany countenance would relax for once, I assure you.
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