Again the Frenchwoman answered without pausing to consider.
“He carried it on his arm. Of that I am most certain.” Wendover, having nothing else to ask, steered the talk into other channels; and in a short time they left Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux to her own affairs. When they were out of earshot, Sir Clinton glanced at Wendover.
“Was that your own brains, squire, or a tip from the classic? You’re getting on, whichever it was. Armadale will be vexed. But kindly keep this to yourself. The last thing I want is to have any information spread round.”
XII
The Fordingbridge Mystery
“Tuesday, isn’t it?” Sir Clinton said, as he came in to breakfast and found Wendover already at the table. “The day when the Fleetwoods propose to put their cards on the table at last. Have you got up your part as devil’s advocate, squire?”
Wendover seemed in high spirits.
“Armadale’s going to make a fool of himself,” he said, hardly taking the trouble to conceal his pleasure in the thought. “As you told him, he’s left a hole as big as a house in that precious case of his.”
“So you’ve seen it at last, have you? Now, look here, squire. Armadale’s not a bad fellow. He’s only doing what he conceives to be his duty, remember; and he’s been wonderfully good at it, too, if you’d only give him decent credit for what he’s done. Just remember how smart he was on that first morning, when he routed out any amount of evidence in almost less than no time. I’m not going to have him sacrificed on the Fleetwood altar, understand. There’s to be no springing of surprises on him while he’s examining these people, and making him look a fool in their presence. You can tell him your idea beforehand if you like.”
“Why should I tell him beforehand? It’s no affair of mine to keep him from making an ass of himself if he chooses to do so.”
Sir Clinton knitted his brows. Evidently he was put out by Wendover’s persistence.
“Here’s the point,” he explained. “I can’t be expected to stand aside while you try to make the police ridiculous. I’ll admit that Armadale hasn’t been tactful with you; and perhaps you’re entitled to score off him if you can. If you do your scoring in private, between ourselves, I’ve nothing to say; but if you’re bent on a public splash—why, then, I shall simply enlighten the inspector myself and spike your gun. That will save him from appearing a fool in public. And that’s that. Now what do you propose to do?”
“I hadn’t looked at it in that way,” Wendover admitted frankly. “You’re quite right, of course. I’ll tell you what. You can give him a hint beforehand to be cautious; and I’ll show him the flaw afterwards, if he hasn’t spotted it himself by that time.”
“That’s all right, then,” Sir Clinton answered. “It’s a dangerous game, making the police look silly. And the inspector’s too good a man to hold up to ridicule. He makes mistakes, as we all do; but he does some pretty good work between them.”
Wendover reflected that he might have expected something of this sort, for Sir Clinton never let a subordinate down. By tacit consent they dropped the subject.
Halfway through breakfast they were interrupted by a pageboy with a message.
“Sir Clinton Driffield? Miss Fordingbridge’s compliments, sir, and she’d like to see you as soon as possible. She’s in her private sitting-room upstairs—No. 28, sir.”
When the boy had retired, Sir Clinton made a wry face.
“Really, this Fordingbridge family ought to pay a special police rate. They give more trouble than most of the rest of the population of the district lumped together. You’d better come up with me. Hurry up with your breakfast, in case it happens to be anything important.”
Wendover obviously was not much enamoured of the prospect opened up by the chief constable’s suggestion.
“She does talk,” he said with foreboding, as though he dreaded the coming interview.
They found Miss Fordingbridge waiting for them when they went upstairs, and she broke out immediately with her story.
“Oh, Sir Clinton, I’m so worried about my brother. He went out last night and he hasn’t come back, and I don’t really know what to think of it. What could he be doing out at night in a place like Lynden Sands, where there’s nothing to do and where he hasn’t any reason for staying away? And if he meant to stay away, he could have left a message for me or said something before he went off, quite easily; for I saw him just a few minutes before he left the hotel. What do you think about it? And as if we hadn’t trouble enough already, with that inspector of yours prowling round and suspecting everyone! If he hasn’t more to do than spy on my niece, I hope you’ll set him to find my brother at once, instead of wasting his time.”
She halted, more for lack of breath than shortage of things to say; and Sir Clinton seized the chance to ask her for some more definite details.
“You want to know when he went out last night?” Miss Fordingbridge demanded. “Well, it must have been late—after eleven, at any rate, for I go to bed at eleven always, and he said good night to me just before I left this room. And if he had meant to stay away, he would have told me, I’m sure; for he usually does tell me when he’s going to be out late. And he said nothing whatever, except that he was going out and that he meant to take a walk up towards the Blowhole. And I thought he was just going for a breath of fresh air before going to bed; and now it turns out that he
