"See, M. Hanaud, it is a pretty little foot which made those clear
impressions," he said, with a smile; "a foot arched and slender.
Mme. Dauvray's foot is short and square, the maid's broad and
flat. Neither Mme. Dauvray nor Helene Vauquier could have worn
these shoes. They were lying, one here, one there, upon the floor
of Celie Harland's room, as though she had kicked them off in a
hurry. They are almost new, you see. They have been worn once,
perhaps, no more, and they fit with absolute precision into those
footmarks, except just at the toe of that second one."
Hanaud took the shoes and, kneeling down, placed them one after
the other over the impressions. To Ricardo it was extraordinary
how exactly they covered up the marks and filled the indentations.
"I should say," said the Commissaire, "that Celie Harland went
away wearing a new pair of shoes made on the very same last as
those."
As those she had left carelessly lying on the floor of her room
for the first person to notice, thought Ricardo! It seemed as if
the girl had gone out of her way to make the weight of evidence
against her as heavy as possible. Yet, after all, it was just
through inattention to the small details, so insignificant at the
red moment of crime, so terribly instructive the next day, that
guilt was generally brought home.
Hanaud rose to his feet and handed the shoes back to the officer.
"Yes," he said, "so it seems. The shoemaker can help us here. I
see the shoes were made in Aix."
Besnard looked at the name stamped in gold letters upon the lining
of the shoes.
"I will have inquiries made," he said.
Hanaud nodded, took a measure from his pocket and measured the
ground between the window and the first footstep, and between the
first footstep and the other two.
"How tall is Mlle. Celie?" he asked, and he addressed the question
to Wethermill. It struck Ricardo as one of the strangest details
in all this strange affair that the detective should ask with
confidence for information which might help to bring Celia Harland
to the guillotine from the man who had staked his happiness upon
her innocence.
"About five feet seven," he answered.
Hanaud replaced his measure in his pocket. He turned with a grave
face to Wethermill.
"I warned you fairly, didn't I?" he said.
Wethermill's white face twitched.
"Yes," he said. "I am not afraid." But there was more of anxiety
in his voice than there had been before.
Hanaud pointed solemnly to the ground.
"Read the story those footprints write in the mould there. A young
and active girl of about Mlle. Celie's height, and wearing a new
pair of Mlle. Celie's shoes, springs from that room where the
murder was committed, where the body of the murdered woman lies.
She is running. She is wearing a long gown. At the second step the
hem of the gown catches beneath the point of her shoe. She
stumbles. To save herself from falling she brings up the other
foot sharply and stamps the heel down into the ground. She
recovers her balance. She steps on to the drive. It is true the
gravel here is hard and takes no mark, but you will see that some
of the mould which has clung to her shoes has dropped off. She
mounts into the motor-car with the man and the other woman and
drives off--some time between eleven and twelve."