But they had hardly cleared the village before he gave a counter-order.
“Stop at the cottage again, squire.”
Wendover pulled up the car obediently, and all three jumped out.
“Get the oars of that boat,” Sir Clinton instructed them. “And hurry!”
The oars were soon found and carried down to the car, which Wendover started immediately. A few hundred yards along the road, Sir Clinton pitched the oars overboard, taking care that they did not drop on the highway.
Wendover, intent on his driving, heard the inspector speak to his superior.
“We found that cartridge-case you wanted, sir, when we put that sand through the sieves. It’s a .38, same as Mrs. Fleetwood’s pistol. I have it safe.”
Sir Clinton brushed the matter aside.
“That’s good, inspector. We’ll have that gang in our hands before long. But Lord knows what damage they may do in the meanwhile. I’d give a lot to have them under lock and key at this minute.”
At the hotel, Sir Clinton wasted no time on ceremony, but darted up the stairs to the Fleetwoods’ room. As they entered, Stanley Fleetwood looked up in surprise from a book which he was reading.
“Well—” he began in an angry tone.
Sir Clinton cut him short.
“Where’s Mrs. Fleetwood?”
Stanley Fleetwood’s eyebrows rose sharply.
“Really, Sir Clinton—”
“Don’t finesse now,” the chief constable snapped. “I’m afraid something’s happened to Mrs. Fleetwood. Tell us what you know, and be quick about it. Why did she leave the hotel tonight?”
Stanley Fleetwood’s face showed amazement, with which fear seemed to mingle as Sir Clinton’s manner convinced him that something was far wrong. He pulled himself up a little on the couch.
“She got a letter from her uncle making an appointment at the Blowhole.”
Sir Clinton’s face fell.
“That’s worse than I thought,” he said. “Let’s see the letter.”
Stanley Fleetwood pointed to the mantelpiece; and the chief constable searched among two or three papers until he found what he wanted.
“H’m! There’s no date on this thing. It simply says, ‘Meet me at the Blowhole tonight at’ ”—he paused and scrutinised the letter carefully—“ ‘at 9 p.m. Come alone.’ It is 9 p.m., isn’t it?”
He passed the letter to the inspector.
“It seems to be 9 p.m.,” Armadale confirmed, “but it’s a bit blotted. This is Mr. Fordingbridge’s writing, I suppose?” he added, turning to Stanley Fleetwood.
“Quite unmistakable; and the signature’s OK,” was the answer.
Sir Clinton was evidently thinking rapidly.
“We’ll try the Blowhole first, though there’ll be nothing there, I’m afraid. After that, we’ll need to look elsewhere. This letter came by the post in the usual way, I suppose?”
“I don’t know. It came to my wife, and she showed it to me.”
“Well, I’ve no time to wait just now. It’s a pity you can’t come along with us.”
Stanley Fleetwood lay back on the couch and cursed his crippled state as the three hurried from the room. At the Blowhole they found nothing. The great jet was not playing, and the only sound was the beating of the waves on the beach below the cliff. The moon was just clearing the horizon mists, and there was enough light to show that the headland was bare.
“They’ve got away,” Sir Clinton commented, when they saw they had drawn blank. “They had that car of theirs; I saw the boathouse was empty when we were at the cottage. That means they may be anywhere within twenty miles by this time. We can’t do much except send out a general warning. You do that, inspector, when we get back to the hotel. But it’s the poorest chance, and we must think of something nearer home if we’re to do anything ourselves.”
He pondered over the problem for a minute, and then continued:
“They won’t go back to the cottage at present. It wouldn’t be safe. If they want to lie up for even a few hours, they’ll need a house of some sort for the work. And it’ll need to be an empty house in a quiet place, unless I’ve misread things.”
He reflected again before concluding.
“It’s a mere chance, but Foxhills and Peter Hay’s are the only two empty places here. But Miss Fordingbridge sometimes goes up to Foxhills, so Peter Hay’s is more likely. We’ll go there on the chance. Come along.”
At the hotel, they found that Sapcote had assembled all the available constables and dispatched them along the road. He had telephoned a message to this effect before leaving himself. Armadale got his headquarters on the telephone and ordered a watch to be kept for any suspicious car; but, as he was unable to supply even the most general description of the wanted motor, the chance of its discovery seemed of the slightest.
He came out of the telephone-box to find Sir Clinton and Wendover waiting for him in Sir Clinton’s car.
“Get in,” the chief constable ordered. “We’ve got to waste a minute or two in going down the road to meet that gang of constables and giving them orders to follow on. Put both feet on the accelerator, squire, and do anything else short of spilling us in the ditch. Every minute may count now.”
Wendover needed no urging. They flashed down the road towards Lynden Sands, pulled up as they met the body of police, and were off again as soon as Sir Clinton had given the constables their orders to make direct for Foxhills. A very few minutes brought the car to the Foxhills gate, where Wendover, at a sign from Sir Clinton, stopped the car. The chief constable jumped out and examined the road surface with his pocket flash-lamp.
“Thank the Lord! A car’s gone up the avenue. We may be in time to nab them yet.”
XV
The Method of Coercion
When Cressida received her uncle’s note that afternoon, she was both relieved and puzzled. Within less than a week she had been subjected to shocks and strains of such acuteness that she had almost lost the power of being surprised by anything that might happen; and Paul Fordingbridge’s
