But Sir Clinton did not rise to the bait.
“Think it over, squire. If that doesn’t do the trick, then think again. And if that fails, shake the bottle and try a third dose. It’s one of these obvious points which I’d hate to lay before you, because you’d be covered with confusion at once if I explained it. But remember one thing. Even if the inspector’s case breaks down in one detail, still, the facts need a lot more explanation than the Fleetwoods have condescended to offer up to the present. That’s obvious. And now, what about picking up a couple of men and making up a table of bridge?”
Wendover’s play that evening was not up to its usual standard. At the back of his mind throughout there was the picture of Cressida and her husband upstairs, weighed down by the burden of the unformulated charge against them and preparing as best they could against the renewal of the inquisition which could not be long delayed. He could picture to himself the almost incessant examination and reexamination of the evidence which they must be making; the attempts to slur over points which would tell heavily against them; the dread of the coming ordeal at the hands of Armadale; and the terror of some masked battery which might suddenly sweep their whole defence away. He grew more and more determined to put a spoke in the inspector’s wheel if it were at all possible.
Late in the evening he was aroused to fresh fears by the entry of a pageboy.
“Number eighty-nine! Number eighty-nine! Number—”
“Here, boy!” Sir Clinton signalled to the page. “What is it?”
“You Sir Clinton Driffield, sir? Message from Mr. Cargill, sir. He wants you to go up and see him. His number’s 103, sir.”
Sir Clinton was obviously annoyed.
“Tell him I’m here if he wishes to see me. Say I’m playing bridge.”
The boy seemed to enjoy springing a sensation on them.
“Beg y’r pardon, sir, but he can’t come. He’s upstairs in bed. He’s been shot. Mrs. Fleetwood brought him back in her car, sir, a few minutes ago; and they had to carry him up to his room. The doctor’s been sent for.”
Sir Clinton laid down his cards, and made a brief apology to the others for interrupting the game.
“You’d better come along with me, squire. We have to break up the table, in any case.”
Followed by Wendover, he ascended to the Australian’s room. They found Cargill lying on his bed with some rough bandages round his ankle, and evidently in considerable pain.
“Sorry to hear you’ve had an accident,” Sir Clinton said sympathetically, as he bent down and inspected the dressings. “That seems good enough to serve until the doctor comes. Who put it on for you?”
“Mrs. Fleetwood,” Cargill answered. “She seemed to know a bit about first aid work.”
Sir Clinton, rather to Wendover’s surprise, asked no leading question, but awaited Cargill’s explanation. The Australian did not keep them in suspense.
“I sent a message down for you because you’re the Lord High Muck-a-muck in the police hereabouts; and the sooner the police get hold of the beggar who tried to do me in, the better I’ll be pleased. It’s no advertisement for a new hotel to have one of its guests half murdered within a week of his arrival.”
“True. Suppose you explain what happened.”
Cargill seemed to see that he had hardly approached the matter in a tactful manner.
“I’m a bit sore at present, and perhaps I sounded peevish. But it’s enough to make one lose one’s rag a bit, I think. Here’s what happened. This evening, after dinner, I strolled across the bay to pay a visit to my friend Fordingbridge at Flatt’s cottage. We sat there for a while, playing cards; and then I thought I might as well be getting home again. So I said goodbye to them—”
“Who was there?” Sir Clinton interjected.
“Fordingbridge and Billingford,” Cargill replied. “I said goodbye to them, and set off for home—”
“Did anyone see you off the premises?” the chief constable interrupted once more.
Cargill shook his head.
“I’m an old pal of Fordingbridge’s, so he didn’t trouble to come to the door with me. I put on my hat and coat and gave the cottage door a slam after me, to let them hear I was gone. Then I walked down that muddy path of theirs.”
“You didn’t notice if anyone followed you?”
Cargill reflected for a moment.
“I didn’t notice particularly, of course; but I can’t think that anyone did. I mean I can’t remember anything that suggests that to my memory, you understand?”
Sir Clinton nodded to him to continue his story.
“When I got down to the road, I turned off in this direction. Now, that’s the point where I do remember someone behind me. I heard steps. After a yard or two, I looked round—you know how one does that, without having any particular reason. But it was a heavily clouded night, and the moon didn’t light things up much. All I could see was a figure tramping along the road behind me—about a couple of dozen yards behind, I should think.”
“No idea who it was, I suppose?” Sir Clinton questioned.
“Not the foggiest. I thought it might be one of the hotel people, so I slowed down a trifle for the sake of company. No one except some of the hotel crowd would be walking in this direction at that time of night. The next thing I heard was the sound of steps coming up behind me, and then there was the crack of a pistol, and down I went in the road with a bullet in my leg.”
“Whereabouts were you at the time?”
“About fifty yards along the road from the path to Flatt’s cottage, I should say. But you’ll find the place all right in daylight. I bled a good deal, and it’ll be all over the road where I fell.”
“And then?”
“Well, I was considerably surprised,” said Cargill drily.
“Very natural in the circumstances,” Sir Clinton admitted, giving Cargill
