When they reached the car, he motioned Wendover into the driving-seat and signed to the inspector to get in also.
“I’m going for a short walk along the road towards the hotel,” he explained. “Let me get a bit ahead, squire, and then follow on, slowly. I’m going to have a look at that extra wheel-track at close quarters. It won’t take more than a moment or two.”
He moved along the road to a point just before the groyne, and halted there for a few moments, examining the faint track left by the turning of a car. Then he continued his walk towards the hotel, scrutinising the ground as he went. At the end of a few hundred yards he halted; and, when Wendover brought up his car, Sir Clinton got into it, taking the seat in front.
“There are really two tracks there,” he explained, as he closed the door. “Down by the beach, both of them are very faint, and I noticed rain-marks on top of them. Then, just a few dozen yards back from here, one of the tracks is strongly marked, while the second track remains faint. It’s so lightly marked that I expect you missed it this morning, squire. Now what do you make of that?”
Wendover considered for a few moments.
“Somebody came down the road in a car before the rain and made the light track,” he suggested. “Then he turned and came back in this direction; and when he had got this length the rain came on, and his tracks after that were in mud and not in dry dust, so they’d be heavier. That it?”
“I expect so,” Sir Clinton acquiesced. “No, don’t go on yet. I’ve something to show you before we go farther. I didn’t care to produce it before all that audience down at the rock.”
He put his hand into his pocket and pulled out the piece of notepaper found on Staveley’s body. Wendover leaned over and examined it as the chief constable unfolded it.
“Hullo! The hotel heading’s on the paper, Clinton,” he exclaimed. “This is getting a bit near home, surely.”
“It is,” said Sir Clinton drily. “I’ll read it, inspector. It’s short and very much to the point, apparently. The date on it is yesterday. This is how it goes. There’s no ‘Dear So-and-so’ or anything of that sort at the beginning.
“ ‘Your letter has come as a complete surprise, as you expected, no doubt. You seem to know all about what has happened, and I suppose you will do all you can to make the worst of things—at least I can’t take any other meaning out of what you have written. I shall come to Neptune’s Seat tonight at 11 p.m. to hear what you have to say. But I warn you plainly that I will not submit to being blackmailed by you, since that seems to be what is in your mind.’
And the signature,” Sir Clinton concluded, “is Cressida Fleetwood.”
The inspector leaned forward and took the letter.
“Now we’ve got something to go on!” he exclaimed jubilantly. “That name, coupled with the hotel notepaper, ought to let us lay our hands on her within half an hour, if we’ve any luck at all.”
Wendover had been thunderstruck by the revelation of the signature. His mind involuntarily called up a picture of Cressida as he had seen her less than twenty-four hours earlier, frank and carefree, and so evidently happy with her husband. A girl like that could hardly be mixed up with a brutal murder; it seemed too incongruous. Then across his memory flitted a recollection of Sir Clinton’s description of the poker-sharp, and the implied warning against trusting too much to appearances; but he resolutely put them aside. A glance at Armadale’s face tended to increase his bias, for it displayed a hardly restrained exultation. Quite evidently the inspector supposed that his case was now well on the road to a satisfactory solution.
“Damned man-hunter!” Wendover commented inwardly, quite forgetting that a few minutes earlier he himself had been every bit as eager as the inspector. “I don’t want to see her fall into that brute’s hands.”
His imagination called up a picture of Cressida, with that fascinating touch of shyness changed to dismay, faced by the harsh interrogations of an Armadale determined to force from her some damning statement. The inspector would see no reason for kindly treatment in the case of a woman whom he seemed to have condemned already in his mind.
Wendover turned to Sir Clinton in the hope of seeing some signs of other feelings there. But the chief constable’s face betrayed nothing whatever about his thoughts, and Wendover remembered that Sir Clinton had known the contents of the letter before he left the beach. It had not affected him when he read it then, Wendover recalled; for there had been no change in his manner.
Suddenly the squire felt isolated from his companions. They were merely a couple of officials carrying out a piece of work, regardless of what the end of it might be; whereas he himself had still his natural human sympathies to sway him in his judgments and tip the scale in a case of doubt. Almost with surprise, he found himself disliking Armadale intensely; a great, coarse-fibred creature who cared nothing for the disaster which he was about to unchain within an hour.
Wendover awoke from his thoughts to find Sir Clinton looking at him with an expressionless face.
“Care to step off here, squire? Your face gives you away. You don’t like the way things are trending? Better leave us to finish the job alone.”
Wendover’s brain could work swiftly when he chose. Almost in a moment he had gauged the situation. If he dropped out, then the two officials would go forward together and there would be no human feelings among the hunters. If he stayed with them, he could at least play the part of critic and shake
