“Yes, several.”
“Where?”
“Well, everywhere. They were at the morass, and again on the path, and again near where poor Heidegger met his death.”
“Exactly. Well, now, Watson, how many cows did you see on the moor?”
“I don't remember seeing any.”
“Strange, Watson, that we should see tracks all along our line, but never a cow on the whole moor. Very strange, Watson, eh?”
“Yes, it is strange.”
“Now, Watson, make an effort, throw your mind back. Can you see those tracks upon the path?”
“Yes, I can.”
“Can you recall that the tracks were sometimes like that, Watson”—he arranged a number of bread-crumbs in this fashion— : : : : : — “and sometimes like this” — : . : . : . : . — “and occasionally like this” — . · . · . ·. “Can you remember that?”
“No, I cannot.”
“But I can. I could swear to it. However, we will go back at our leisure and verify it. What a blind beetle I have been, not to draw my conclusion!”
“And what is your conclusion?”
“Only that it is a remarkable cow which walks, canters, and gallops. By George! Watson, it was no brain of a country publican that thought out such a blind as that. The coast seems to be clear, save for that lad in the smithy. Let us slip out and see what we can see.”
There were two rough-haired, unkempt horses in the tumble-
