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“Wattie? A tiny fellow, as you saw, with feet to match.”

“Which eliminates him also, then. It rained heavily on Wednesday night, so these prints must have been made yesterday. You did not have any visitors?”

“I never open my house to visitors on a Thursday.”

“Then these are the prints of the thief.”

We all pressed forward to see. A clear impression of a right foot, the toe pointing into the angle of the building, was crossed by another, slightly deeper print of the same shoe, the toe pointing away from the wall.

“He has climbed the building here,” said Holmes. “The deeper print was made when he jumped back down. Might this be where you saw your ghostly figure last night, Mr Grice Paterson?”

“It could very well have been,” replied the lawyer. “It crossed the path from somewhere near here towards the ruins over there.”

“What figure is this?” demanded MacGlevin.

“We thought we saw something,” Grice Paterson returned, “but did not mention it lest you thought us foolish.”

MacGlevin snorted, but made no comment.

While they were speaking, Holmes had been examining the wall closely. Presently his hand found a projecting stone some way above his head, and he managed to haul himself up. He quickly clambered over the gutter and onto the shallow-pitched roof of the museum wing, where he moved carefully along the slates, examining each skylight in turn.

“Oh, this is pointless!” said MacGlevin, who was becoming impatient once more. “Even if someone did climb up there, the sky-lights don’t open, the panes of glass are too small for anyone to pass through, and they’re all barred on the inside, anyway.”

“Nevertheless,” Holmes called back in an agreeable tone, “someone has recently been tampering with this one. The lead strip round the edge has been bent back, the putty chipped away, and the nails … Ah!” He had been looking behind him, down the roof to the guttering. Now he carefully reached down and plucked from the gutter a small sliver of something metallic, which he held up between his finger and thumb and examined closely. “If you would be so good as to join me,” he called to MacPherson, “I should be most obliged.”

The sky had been growing darker for some time, and MacGlevin, Grice Paterson and I hurried for shelter as there came a sudden downpour of rain, leaving Holmes and MacPherson in conversation upon the roof. The shower soon blew over, and twenty minutes later, after a cup of tea, we went back out to find that the clouds had parted and the sun was shining. Holmes and MacPherson were nowhere to be seen, and we were wondering what had become of them, when there came a shout from below, and we turned to see a small rowing-boat approaching the little harbour below the castle, with Holmes and Macpherson in it. The policeman was pulling sturdily on the oars, while Homes sat in the stern, placidly smoking his pipe.

“We have just had a little run-round in the boat,” he explained, as they stepped ashore.

“And?” said MacGlevin.

“The case is now complete.”

We returned to Kilbuie to find the hotel in tumult. Luggage of all kinds was heaped up in confusion in the entrance-hall, so that we had to shuffle sideways to get past.

Doctor Oliphant ran up to us as we entered, his face a picture of agitation.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded of MacPherson in a shrill voice. “It is absolutely vital that I reach home this evening. I have an important lecture to deliver in Edinburgh tomorrow night, and I must have a day to prepare my notes. The coach is not here, and when I inquire why not, I am informed that it is held by order of the police!” His voice rose to a breathless cry. “This is an outrage! You have no right to detain a public coach! If it does not leave soon, we shall miss the connecting train!”

Murdoch MacLeod stepped forward, wringing his hands with anxiety.

“What is going on?” he queried in a hopeless voice. “Can you explain, Constable?”

“This is highly irregular,” said Hamish Morton. “They tell us the coach cannot