"But one false statement was made by Barrymore at the inquest. He said that there were no traces upon the ground round the body. He did not observe any. But I did--some little distance off, but fresh and clear."
"Footprints?"
"Footprints."
"A man's or a woman's?"
Dr. Mortimer looked strangely at us for an instant, and his voice sank almost to a whisper as he answered.
"Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound!"
-- from The Hound of the Baskervilles, by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
I like trying to figure things out. (A natural enough trait for somebody who's a computer programmer and amateur naturalist.) So, on occasion I like to read mysteries. I like mysteries where the reader gets the clues as the detective does, and so has a reasonable chance of figuring out the solution on his or her own. I don't like mysteries where the author cheats by having the detective get information the reader doesn't. Fortunately, there are enough of the first type around that I can avoid the second type. Of the mysteries I've read, most of the ones I really liked enough to keep around belong to either Dick Francis or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.