“And how far are they to carry their diggings?” Wendover inquired.
“I really doubt if they’ll be able to dig much below low-tide mark. What do you think?”
“And what do you expect to find there?” Wendover persisted.
“Oh, a shell or two, most likely,” Sir Clinton retorted caustically. “Would you like to bet on it, squire?”
Wendover perceived that the chief constable did not intend to put his cards on the table and that nothing would be gained by further persistence.
X
The Attack on the Australian
Next morning, before going to the links, Sir Clinton went to the shore and superintended the start of the excavating work there; but when once the actual digging had begun, he seemed to lose interest in the matter. It was not until late in the afternoon that he paid his second visit, accompanied by Wendover. Even then he contented himself with the most casual inspection, and soon turned back towards the hotel.
“What are you after with all this spadework?” Wendover demanded as they sauntered up the road.
Sir Clinton turned and made a gesture towards the little crowd of inquisitive visitors and natives who had congregated around the diggers.
“I’ve heard rumours, squire, that the Lynden Sands public thinks the police aren’t busy enough in the sleuthhound business. Unofficial opinion seems divided as to whether we’re pure duds or merely lazy. They want to see something actually being done to clear up these mysteries. Well, they’ve got something to talk about now, you see. That’s always gain. So long as they can stand and gape at the digging down there, they won’t worry us too much in the things we really have to do.”
“But seriously, Clinton, what do you expect to find?”
Sir Clinton turned a bland smile on his companion.
“Oh, shells, as I told you before, squire. Shells, almost certainly. And perhaps the brass bottle that the genie threw into the sea after he’d escaped from it—the Arabian Nights tale, you remember. Once one starts digging in real earnest one never can tell what one may not find.”
Wendover made a gesture of impatience.
“I suppose you’re looking for something.”
“I’ve told you exactly what I expect to find, squire. And it’s no good your going off to pump these diggers, or even the inspector, for they don’t know what they’re looking for themselves. The general public can ask questions till it’s tired, but it won’t learn much on the beach. That’ll tend to keep its excitement at fever-heat and prevent it looking any farther for points of interest.”
As they neared the hotel they overtook Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux, who was walking leisurely up the road. Sir Clinton slowed down to her pace, and opened a brisk conversation as he came abreast of her. Wendover, feeling rather out of it, inspected Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux covertly with some disfavour.
“Now, what the devil does Clinton see in that vamp?” he asked himself as they moved on together. “He’s not the usual idiot, by a long chalk. She’ll get no change out of him. But what does he expect to get out of her? It’s not like him. Of course, she’s a bit out of things here; but she doesn’t look the sort that would mind that much, somehow. And he’s evidently laying himself out to get her good graces. It’s a bit rum.”
He could not deny that the personal attractions of Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux were much above the average; and, despite himself, he felt a tinge of uneasiness in his mind. After all, even the cleverest men get caught occasionally; and it was plain enough that Sir Clinton was doing his best to make friends with the Frenchwoman.
They had just entered the hotel grounds when Wendover saw approaching them down the drive the figure of Cargill. The Australian seemed to have something to say to them, for he quickened his pace when he caught sight of Sir Clinton.
“I’ve come across something else that might be of importance,” he said, addressing the chief constable without a glance at the others. “It’s a—”
He broke off abruptly, with a glance at Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux. It seemed almost as though he had not seen before that she was there, or as if he had just recognised her.
“I’ll let you see it later on,” he explained rather confusedly. “I’ll have to hunt it out. I find I’ve left it in the pocket of another jacket.”
Sir Clinton successfully repressed any signs of a curiosity which he might have felt.
“Oh, any time you like,” he suggested, without betraying much interest in the matter.
By an almost imperceptible manoeuvre he broke the group up into two pairs, and moved on towards the hotel entrance with Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux, leaving Wendover and the Australian to follow if they chose. It was almost dinnertime as they entered the building; and Wendover took the opportunity of shaking off Cargill, who seemed inclined to cling to him more than he wished.
Rather to Wendover’s surprise, Sir Clinton showed no inclination, after dinner, to plunge into further investigations.
“We mustn’t be greedy, squire,” he argued. “We must leave the inspector a fair share of the case, you know. If amateurs like ourselves bustle around too much, the professional would have no practice in his art at all.”
“If you ask me,” Wendover retorted, “the professional’s spending all his time barking furiously at the foot of the wrong tree.”
“You think so? Well, if the cats up the tree insist on making a noise like a murderer, you can’t blame him, can you?”
“I don’t like his damned flat-footed way of going about his job,” Wendover protested angrily. “One always supposed that people were treated as innocent until they were convicted; but your inspector interviewed that girl as if he were measuring her for a rope.”
“He’s built up a wonderfully convincing case, squire; don’t forget that.”
“But you admitted yourself that there’s a flaw in it,
