Wendover shook his head disapprovingly.
“Seems a bit underhand, that,” he commented.
“The finer graces do get shoved aside in a murder case,” Sir Clinton admitted. “One regrets it; but there it is. You can’t wear a collar and tie when you’re going to be hanged, you know.”
“Get on with your breakfast, you gruesome devil,” Wendover directed, half in jest and half in earnest. “I expect the next thing will be your luring all your suspects on to the hotel weighing-machine, so as to have the right length of the drop calculated beforehand. Constant association with that brute Armadale has corrupted you completely.”
Sir Clinton stirred his coffee thoughtfully for a moment or two before speaking again.
“I’ve got a job for you to do, squire,” he announced at last in a serious tone. “About eleven o’clock I have an appointment with Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux. We’re going for a walk along the bay. Now, I want you to drive into Lynden Sands, pick up Armadale, and get back again so as to meet us somewhere about the old wreck. It was a spring tide yesterday, and the tide’s just turning about this time in the morning; so we’ll have to keep quite near the road in our walk across the sands. You can hail us from the road easily enough.”
Wendover nodded an acceptance of the task.
“The inspector can bring along a tape-measure in his pocket, and, if he likes, he can drag the blowlamp and wax with him also, though I doubt if we’ll need them.” At the mention of the tape-measure, Wendover pricked up his ears.
“You don’t imagine that she was on the beach that night, do you, Clinton? Armadale found out that her shoes were No. 4—half a size, at least, too big for the prints we haven’t identified yet. Besides, she’s quite a good height—as tall as Mrs. Fleetwood; and, you remember, the steps were much shorter than Mrs. Fleetwood’s. The person who made these prints must have been much smaller than the Laurent-Desrousseaux woman. Have you found some more prints that you didn’t tell us about?”
“All in good time, squire,” Sir Clinton answered. “Take things as they come.”
He sipped his coffee as though to show that he did not propose to be drawn. But Wendover was not to be put off.
“You couldn’t have got a No. 4 shoe into these prints.”
“No.”
“And, from what I’ve seen of her feet, her shoes are a perfect fit.”
“I’ve noticed you admiring them—quite justifiably, squire.”
“Well, she couldn’t wear a 3½ shoe.”
“No. That’s admitted. She hasn’t such a thing in her possession; I’m sure of that. Give it up, squire. The fishing’s very poor in this district. I’m not going to tell you anything just now.”
Wendover recognised that he could not hope to extract any further information from the chief constable, and he consoled himself with the thought that a couple of hours at most would see this part of the mystery cleared up. After breakfast he went into the lounge, and passed the time in smoking and reviewing the state of affairs. He became so engrossed in this exercise that it was almost with a start that he realised the time had come to take out the car and pick up Armadale.
As he and the inspector drove slowly back from the village, they saw the figures of Sir Clinton and Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux sauntering across the sands just below high-tide mark; and in a few moments the car came level with the walkers. Sir Clinton waved his arm, and Wendover and Armadale got out and walked down the beach.
“This is Inspector Armadale, Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux,” the chief constable said, as they came up. “He wants to ask you some questions about Friday night, when you were at that rock over there.”
He pointed to Neptune’s seat as he spoke. Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux seemed completely taken by surprise. For a moment or two she stood glancing uneasily from one to another; and her eyes showed something more than a tinge of fear.
“I am much surprised, Sir Clinton,” she said at last, her accent coming out more markedly than usual in her nervous voice. “I had supposed that you were friendly to me; and now it appears that, without making a seeming of it, you have been leading me into what you call an English police-trap, isn’t it? That is not good of you.”
Armadale had picked up his cue from Sir Clinton’s words.
“I’m afraid I must ask you to answer my questions, ma’am,” he said, with a certain politeness. Obviously he was by no means sure of his ground.
Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux eyed him in silence for some moments.
“What is it that you desire to know?” she demanded finally.
Before Armadale could formulate a question, Sir Clinton intervened.
“I think, madame, that it will make things easier for us all if I tell you that the inspector is preparing a case against someone else. He needs your deposition to support his charge. That is the whole truth, so far as he is concerned. You need not have any fears, provided that you tell us all that you know about Friday night.”
Wendover noticed the double meaning which might be attached to Sir Clinton’s words; but he could not feel sure whether the chief constable wished to deceive or merely to reassure his witness. Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux’s face cleared slightly as she grasped the meaning of Sir Clinton’s speech.
“If such is the case,” she said cautiously, “I might recall to myself some of the things which happened.”
Armadale seemed a trifle suspicious at this guarded offer, but he proceeded to put some questions.
“You knew this man Staveley, ma’am?”
“Nicholas Staveley? Yes, I knew him; I had known him for a long time.”
Sir Clinton interposed again.
“Perhaps you would prefer to tell us what you know of him in your own words, madame. It would be easier for us if you would
