The Man-Hunt on the Beach
Much to the inspector's surprise, Sir Clinton did not drive furiously
when they had got into his car, which had been left standing at some
distance from the cottage. It was only when they almost ran into the
approaching squad of police that he understood his superior's caution.
“Two of you get on board,” said Sir Clinton, as he pulled up. “Four
more go up to the cottage; and the rest of you make the best time you
can down to the hotel and wait there for orders.”
When the two constables had got into the car, he drove off again; and
this time the inspector had no reason to complain of slow speeds. His
heart was in his mouth as Sir Clinton took the turn out of the avenue
into the main road.
“You've got the number of their car, haven't you?” the chief constable
demanded. “Then tell one of the constables to telephone a warning
about it to headquarters from the hotel. I'm going to drop him there.
And tell him to send a party with a car up at once to the cottage to
get Mrs. Fleetwood down comfortably. You'd better get Billingford
brought down also—not in the same car.”
The inspector transmitted these instructions just in time to allow the
constable to alight from the car as Sir Clinton pulled up at the hotel
gate. Without hesitation, the chief constable swung the car off along
the road to Lynden Sands and opened the throttle to its fullest.
“Sure they're going this way, sir?” Armadale asked.
“No, just taking a chance. They'll want to get clear of the car as
soon as possible, I expect, since it's recognisable now that we've got
the number. I may be all wrong, of course.”
The big car tore on in the moonlight, and the speed left the inspector
little inclination for talk. He gasped once or twice as they swung
round corners, and his main feeling was one of thankfulness that at
that hour of the night they were not likely to meet anything on the
road. One last turn, which made Armadale and the constable grip
frenziedly at the nearest hand-hold, and they came out on the edge of
the bay.
“Look!” the inspector ejaculated. “You've pulled them in, sir.”
Not three hundred yards ahead, the hunted car appeared in the
moonlight, travelling much slower than Armadale had expected, but
apparently gaining speed as it ran.
“They've parted company,” Sir Clinton snapped. “The car's slowed down
to let one man off. There's only the driver on board now.”
Suddenly, at a point where the road ran level with the beach, their
quarry left the highway and plunged down on to the sands.
“He's trying to gain something by cutting straight across the beach,
sir, instead of following the curve of the road.”
Armadale, expecting Sir Clinton to do the same, gripped the side of
the car in anticipation of the shock when they left the road; but the
chief constable held to the highway.
“He's making for Flatt's cottage, to get the boat and leave us
standing,” he said. “He'll get a surprise when he finds the oars
gone.”
The inspector had no time to admire his chief's forethought. The
hunted car was now running on a line which would bring it between the
old wreck and the edge of the incoming tide; and on the hard sands it
was making tremendous speed. Armadale, leaning forward in the
excitement of the chase, saw the long cones of its headlights
illuminate the hull of the wreck for a moment; then the beams swung up
into the air; the car seemed to halt for an instant, and then rolled
over sideways along the sands. And then it vanished as though the
ground had swallowed it.
“The quicksand!” ejaculated Armadale, as he realised what had
happened.
Sir Clinton shut the throttle and let his car slow down.
“Hit some rock projecting slightly from the sand, I expect,” he
commented. “Probably the front axle or the steering-gear went, and he
came to smash. Well, that's one of 'em gone.”
He chose a place carefully and turned his own car on to the sands,
running down to near the wreck.
“Don't go too near,” he advised. “One can't be sure of the
danger-zone.”
They got out and went down to the scene of the disaster. A glance at
the car-tracks showed the correctness of Sir Clinton's guess. The
hunted car had struck a low projecting rock with its near front wheel;
and from that point the wheel-marks were replaced by the trace of the
whole vehicle, overturned and sliding along the beach. The trail ended
abruptly; and where the car had sunk they saw an area of repulsive
black mud.
“Ugh!” said the inspector, examining it with disgust. “Fancy going
down into that stuff and feeling it getting into your eyes and mouth.
And then choking in that slime! It gives me the creeps to think of
it.”
He shuddered at the picture conjured up by what he saw before him.
“Do you think there's any chance of recovering the body?” he inquired
after a moment or two.
Sir Clinton shook his head.
“I doubt it. You'll need to try, of course; best do it with
grappling-irons from a boat, I suppose. But I shouldn't think you're
likely to succeed. It doesn't matter much, anyhow. He's got his
deserts. Now for the other man. Come along!”
They went back to the car and got aboard. Sir Clinton seemed to have
decided on his next move, for he drove along the sands in the
direction of the hotel. Rather to the inspector's surprise, they did
not turn off on to the road at Neptune's Seat, but went still farther
along the shore, making for the headland on which the Blowhole was
situated.
Armadale was still in ignorance of much that had happened in the last
hour. When they had reached Peter Hay's cottage, Sir Clinton had
detached the inspector to search for the car which had brought their
quarry; and, as this had been carefully concealed, Armadale had spent
some time in hunting for it. In the meanwhile, Sir Clinton and
Wendover had gone cautiously to the cottage. The next thing the
inspector heard was the sound of shooting; and two men had come upon
him before he had time even to think of disabling the fugitives' car.
They had shot him in the hand, flung him down, and escaped in the car
before he had time to do anything to hinder them. His entry into the
cottage had failed to enlighten him as to what had been going on; and
Sir Clinton had hurried him off again almost before he had time to get
his bearings.
“That's as far as we can go with the car,” Sir Clinton announced,
opening the door and getting out.
The moon shone out just at that moment, as a passing cloud slipped
away from its face; and Sir Clinton, gazing along the shore, uttered
an exclamation of satisfaction.
“We're in luck, inspector! See him? Yonder, just under the cliff. He
hasn't been able to get far.”
He pulled out his automatic.
“I've often wondered how far these things carry. I don't want to hurt
him, and it seems safe enough at this range. A scare's all we need, I
think. He's making for the mouth of the cave below the headland.”
He lifted the pistol and fired in the direction of the figure. At the
sound of the shot, the fugitive turned and, seeing his pursuers, ran
stumblingly over the rocks where the edge of the tide was washing
close up against the cliff.
“No hurry,” Sir Clinton pointed out, as Armadale and the constable
quickened their steps. “We've got him trapped by the tide. There's
only one bolt-hole—the cave. And I hope he takes it,” he added, with
something of sinister enjoyment in his tone which surprised the
inspector.
They moved leisurely in the direction of the cave-mouth; and, as they
did so, the fugitive gave one backward glance and then splashed
waist-deep through the water which was foaming into the entrance. He
ducked under the low arch and vanished. As he did so, Sir Clinton
halted, and then, after a careful inspection of the incoming tide, he
led the way back to the car.
“It's as cheap sitting as standing,” he commented, settling himself
comfortably in the driving-seat. “We'll need to wait here until the
tide shuts the door on him by filling that tunnel he's gone through.
After that, I suspect he'll be the most anxious of the lot of us.”
“But there's another exit from that cave,” Armadale pointed out. “He's
probably climbing up the tube of the Blowhole just now, sir. He might
get clean away by the top of the headland.”
Sir Clinton pulled out his case and lit a cigarette in a leisurely
fashion.
“I'm sure I hope he does,” he replied, much to the inspector's
surprise. “Just wait a moment and you'll see.”
He smoked for a minute or two without troubling to make his meaning
clear; and then the _souffleur_ itself gave the answer. Armadale's ear
caught the sound of a deep gurgle from the heights above their head;
then came a noise like a giant catching his breath; and at last from
the Blowhole there shot up the column of spray, towering white and
menacing in the moonlight. As it fell, Sir Clinton pressed the
self-starter.
“That bolts the back door, you see, inspector. I only hope he's been
caught on the threshold. Now, I think, we can go back to the hotel and
see if we can pick up one or two useful things.”
He turned the car on the last strip of sand before the rocks and swung
it round towards Neptune's Seat. After a little searching, he found a
spot from which he could ascend to the road without straining his
springs.
“I had the curiosity to examine that Blowhole cave at low tide once,
inspector,” he explained as he drove up towards the hotel. “The thing
works this way. The entrance is low, and the tide fills it soon. The
air in the cave can still get out by a narrow tunnel leading up to the
Blowhole. But in a minute or two this second tunnel's mouth gets
filled up, and there's no escape from the cave. The sides are smooth,
and the tide rises quickly, so that fellow will either drown or else
he'll creep into the Blowhole tunnel to escape. The tide rises a bit
farther, and compresses the air in the cave. At that stage the
_souffleur_ begins to work. Intermittently, you get the air-pressure
in the cave big enough to blow through the Blowhole tunnel, carrying
the layer of water there in front of it; and that mixture of water and
compressed air makes the jet. So, you see, if that fellow's in the
cave, he must be swimming round like a rat in a pail; and if he's in
the tunnel, he must be suffering agonies as the jet comes up and tears
at him. You know what sort of force it has. And if he can't cling on
to the rocks of the tunnel, he'll be battered against the sides as the
jet carries him before it, and he'll probably be severely injured by
the time it spits him out at the top.”
“Good Lord!” said the inspector, as the realisation of the thing crept
into his mind. “That's a nasty trap to fall into. He's going to get
his gruel, sure enough.”
They had reached the hotel, and Sir Clinton dispatched the constable
to bring ropes, if any were available.
“You don't seem eager to get him out, sir,” the inspector ventured, as
they were waiting.
“I don't know exactly what happened at Peter Hay's to-night,” Sir
Clinton returned, “but I saw enough to know it was something
uncommonly bad that they were trying to do to that girl, inspector. It
must have been something worse than the normal way of putting the
screw on a woman. Our friend in the Blowhole didn't mind doing that.
And, somehow, that makes me feel a bit indolent when it comes to
rescuing him. Let him go through it. Besides, the longer he's there—if
we happen to get him out alive—the more his nerves will be shaken, and
the easier it will be to wring some truth out of him. You can tackle
him at once, before the effect wears off. And I shan't feel inclined
to ask you to be moderate in your questioning this time. We must get
all we can out of him while he's got the jumps. I've no doubt whatever
that Billingford will turn King's evidence if he gets half a
chance—he's that sort. But the other fellow was deeper in, and we may
get more out of him if we can catch him at the right moment. So I'm
not really in much of a hurry. This isn't a case where my humanitarian
instincts are roused in the very slightest.”
He broke off, seeing Wendover coming out of the hotel.
“Everything fixed up comfortably, squire?” he asked.
Wendover nodded affirmatively; then, as Sir Clinton invited him to
join them, he amplified his news.
“We got Mrs. Fleetwood down here quite comfortably; and she's upstairs
now. Very shaken up, of course; but she's a plucky girl, and she
hasn't had any bad collapse of her nerves so far, though one might
have expected it.”
“I've a good mind to see her myself now,” Sir Clinton said
thoughtfully. “Did she say anything about what they'd done to her?”
“No. But she asked me to send for Rafford immediately. I didn't like
to worry her with questions.”
Sir Clinton's face darkened.
“It's a nuisance we have to go and fish that creature out of the
Blowhole. I'd much prefer to leave him there to go through it. He
deserves as long a spell as we can give him. But I suppose there would
be a howl if we left him to die. Besides, I want to hang him if I can.
By the way, what about his jovial colleague, Billingford?”
“He's here too,” Wendover explained. “We thought we'd bring him to the
hotel and wait for your instructions. He's safe enough.”
“That's all right. Now here's the constable with the ropes, so I think
we'll have to move on.”
Sir Clinton showed no desire to hurry; nor did Wendover when he had
learned the state of affairs. Both of them were in the mood to prolong
the agony so far as decency permitted. Wendover could not get out of
his mind the expression he had seen on Cressida's face at Peter Hay's
cottage; and when it came back to his memory he felt that the man in
the Blowhole tunnel was getting only a fair retribution for his crime.
As they came near the mouth of the _souffleur_, the great fountain
shot up into the night air and broke in spray in the moonlight. Sir
Clinton hurried forward and bent down to listen to the orifice.
“He's there, all right, and still alive,” he reported. “A trifle
unnerved, to judge by his appeals. I suppose we'll have to yank him
out now.”
Armadale also had been listening to the cries from below.
“If we get him out in that state,” he said, with satisfaction, “there
won't be much that he'll keep back when we start questioning him. He's
all to pieces.”
Before they could do any more, the _souffleur_ spouted again.
Wendover, whose imagination was keener than that of the inspector, was
suddenly appalled by the picture conjured up by that wild fountain
jetting from the ground. Down below their feet he could see with his
mind's eye the miserable wretch clinging for life to some inequality
in the tunnel, while the continual blasts of the _souffleur_ tore and
battered at him, and the rush of water made him fight for his breath.
A rat in a trap would be happy compared with that.
“Oh, let's get him out!” he exclaimed. “It must be devilish down there
in the dark, waiting for the next spout.”
“If you're set on seeing him hanged, squire, we'll do our best,” Sir
Clinton conceded, with no sympathy in his tone.
But, even by doing their best, they had great difficulty in rescuing
their quarry from the grip of the death-trap. When at last they got
him to the surface, he was more dead than alive; and three ribs had
been cracked by the last torrent which had flung him against the side
of the conduit.
As they lifted him into safety, Sapcote hurried up from the hotel;
and, after a glance at the torn and haggard face, he recognised the
prisoner.
“That's Aird, sir. Used to be valet at Foxhills once.”
“Well, you can have Mr. Aird, inspector,” Sir Clinton intimated. “If
you give him some brandy, he'll probably wake up enough to part with
any information you want. Don't let your sympathy overcome you. We
must get enough out of him to hang him if we can; and it depends on
putting him through it while his nerve's gone.”
He moved away without another glance at the broken figure on the
ground, and, followed by Wendover, turned his steps towards the hotel.
“I suppose he calculated on being able to climb to the top before the
jet began to play,” he continued. “Well, he seems to have paid for his
mistake,” he concluded grimly.
At the hotel door, Wendover expected that they would go straight to
the Fleetwood suite; but, rather to his surprise, Sir Clinton summoned
one of the constables and gave him some instructions in a low voice.
Then, accompanied by Wendover, he ascended the stairs.
“I want to see Cargill for a moment,” he explained, as they passed the
first floor. “I've something to say to him.”
Rather puzzled, Wendover followed him to the Australian's room.
“I happened to be passing,” he said, as he entered in response to
Cargill's permission, “and I dropped in to see how you've been getting
on. Leg all right now?”
“It's a bit better,” Cargill replied. “Won't you sit down?”
“Got enough to read?” Sir Clinton inquired, stepping over a pile of
books which lay near Cargill's couch and picking up one of them. “I've
got one or two I can lend you.”
Wendover was taken completely by surprise; for, without altering the
tone of his voice, Sir Clinton bent suddenly forward and imprisoned
Cargill's wrists.
“See if you can find a pistol anywhere near, squire. It's as well to
be on the safe side.”
He whistled shrilly; and, before the Australian had recovered from the
surprise of the attack, two constables had rushed into the room and
made any attempt at a struggle impossible. Sir Clinton relaxed his
grip.
“I shouldn't kick about, if I were you, Cargill. All you'll succeed in
doing is to reopen that wound of yours. The game's up, you see; and
you may as well take it quietly. We've got some of your friends.”
Cargill's face showed an eagerness at the words.
“Has my brother got off?”
“You mean the pseudo-Derek, I suppose? Yes, he's gone to
ground”—Cargill's expression showed a relief which was quenched as Sir
Clinton continued—“in the same place as you put Paul Fordingbridge.”
Cargill's head sank at the news.
“I'm afraid I can't stay,” Sir Clinton said, with almost ironical
politeness. “You've given me such a lot of work to do, you know,
lately. I shan't trouble you with questions, because I think we shall
get all we want from your confederates. If you need anything we can
give you, please ask the constables for it. Good evening.”
In the corridor, Wendover broke into a flood of questions; but Sir
Clinton brushed them aside.
“There's time enough for that by and by,” he said brusquely. “I must
get to the bottom of this business first. We'll go along and ask if
Mrs. Fleetwood can see us for a moment or two.”
Wendover was glad to find, when they entered the Fleetwood suite, that
Cressida seemed to be getting over the worst of the shock. Her face
lighted up as she saw them come in, and she began at once to thank
them. Sir Clinton brushed the thanks aside.
“There's nothing in it,” he said. “I only wish we'd been sooner.”
At the words, Cressida's expression changed, as though some dreadful
thing had been recalled to her. Sir Clinton put his hand into his
pocket and drew out the glass syringe.
“What part did this thing play?” he asked gently.
The sight of it brought back all Cressida's terrors.
“Oh, you _were_ too late!” she exclaimed despairingly. “I'm still
dazed by it all, and that brings it back.”
Under Sir Clinton's sympathetic interrogation, she was soon able to
tell them of the ordeal she had gone through. When she had finished,
the chief constable bent forward and took up the hypodermic syringe
from the table.
“You can sleep quietly to-night,” he said. “There was nothing in this
affair except tap-water. I saw the fellow filling it at the sink as I
passed the window. I'd have stopped him then, but there were only two
of us against three of them, and I had to wait till they were all in
one room. I must say the hypodermic puzzled me. I couldn't make out
what they were after, unless it was more drugging. But there was
nothing in the syringe. I saw him washing it out under the tap before
he filled it. At the worst you may have a sore arm; but the only germs
in the syringe were some that might be in tap-water. The whole affair
was a piece of bluff from start to finish. But it's no wonder it took
you in. They must have staged it well. Be thankful it's no worse, Mrs.
Fleetwood.”
“Oh, I am! You don't know what a relief it is, Sir Clinton. I meant to
go off first thing to-morrow to the Pasteur Institute for treatment. I
wasn't very frightened, once I got out of the hands of these horrible
men, because I knew I could be saved if I got treatment in time.”
“That's very sensible of you. But you need have no fears about
hydrophobia, at any rate. It was simply a bluff and nothing more.”
Cressida thanked them again, and, in order to escape from her
gratitude, Sir Clinton said good night, promising to return next
morning to tell her anything that she might wish to know.
Wendover had been horrified by the story; and he began to wish that
after all they had left Aird to his fate in the tunnel.
“Brutes like that aren't fit to live,” he declared bitterly, when the
door had closed behind them.
“Some of them won't live much longer, squire, if I can manage it,” Sir
Clinton assured him, in a tone that left no doubt in the matter.
In the hall below, they encountered Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux, and at
the sight of Sir Clinton her face showed something more than the mere
pleasure of meeting an acquaintance. She came forward and intercepted
them.
“I am most fortunate,” she explained, with a smile which betrayed her
real gratification at their meeting. “I depart to-morrow morning by
the first train, and I was fearing that I might not encounter you to
make you my adieux. That would have been most impolite to friends so
cordial as you have been. And, besides, I am so very happy that I
would wish to be very amiable to all the world. All the embarrassments
that I feared have been swept away, and everything has arranged itself
happily.”
Sir Clinton's face lost the hard expression which it had borne a few
moments before.
“I hope that it is my good fortune to be the first to congratulate you
on your approaching marriage, madame. You have all my wishes for great
happiness.”
Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux's manners did not allow her to throw up her
hands in astonishment, but her face betrayed her surprise.
“But it is marvellous!” she exclaimed. “One would need to be a
sorcerer to know so much! It is quite true, what you say. Now that
Staveley is dead, I can espouse such a good friend of mine, one who
will be kind to me and whom I have been adoring for so long. I can
hardly believe it, I am so happy.”
Sir Clinton smiled.
“And you would like everyone else to be happy too? Then you will
perhaps begin at once. Go upstairs, madame, and ask to see Mrs.
Fleetwood. Say that I sent you. And when you see her, tell her that
you married Staveley in 1915. You do not need to say any more.”
Rather puzzled, but quite anxious to do as he told her, Mme.
Laurent-Desrousseaux bade them both farewell, and they saw her
ascending the stair. Sir Clinton gazed after her.
“Easy enough to guess that riddle. One gets a reputation on the cheap
sometimes. Her association with Staveley; then her complete separation
for years; then this sudden need to meet him again in order to
side-track some ‘embarrassments’: obviously she had married him, and
needed a divorce if she was to marry again. I wish most problems were
as simple.”
“And, of course, if she married Staveley in 1915, as she seems to have
done, he committed bigamy in marrying Mrs. Fleetwood?”
“Which means that Mrs. Fleetwood _is_ Mrs. Fleetwood, and that she's
legally married now. She won't be sorry to hear it. That's why I sent
Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux up there now. First-hand evidence is better
than documents; and, of course, the documents will be forthcoming if
they're required in future. Evidently those three scoundrels didn't
know this latest twist in the affair, or they wouldn't have tried the
trick they did last night. They'd have done worse, probably, when they
got hold of her. If she'd been dead and out of the way, there would
have been no one except old Miss Fordingbridge to contest that
impostor's claim—and she was so besotted with him that she'd never
have dreamed of doing so.”
He paused for a moment or two, as though considering the case; but
when he spoke again it was on a different point.
“You sometimes jeer at me for playing the mystery-man and refusing to
tell you what I infer from the facts that turn up. It's sometimes
irritating, I admit; and now and again I suppose it makes me look as
if I were playing the superior fellow. But it's really nothing of the
sort. In affairs of this kind, one never can tell what the next turn
of the wheel may be; and one might quite well blurt out something
which would give the cue to the very people you want to keep in the
dark.”
“You do irritate me often enough, Clinton,” Wendover admitted. “I
can't see why you shouldn't put your cards on the table. A fact's a
fact, after all.”
“I'll give you just one example,” said Sir Clinton seriously. “Suppose
I had blurted out the fact which I'd inferred about Mme.
Laurent-Desrousseaux's marriage. It was implicit in the story she told
us; but luckily no one spotted the key except myself. Now, just think
what would have happened to-night if that had been common property.
These scoundrels would have known that Mrs. Fleetwood was legally
married to young Fleetwood, since the ceremony with Staveley was
illegal. Therefore, instead of trying the business of the forced
marriage, they'd simply have pitched her over the cliff at the
Blowhole. She'd have been dead by this time; for their only interest
in keeping her alive was to force this marriage with the claimant and
side-track difficulties in that way. Suppose I'd blurted out my
inference, and sent that girl to her death by my carelessness, how
should I be feeling at this moment? None too comfortable, so far as I
can see.”
Wendover had to admit that the secrecy policy had justified itself.
“It would have been a dreadful business,” he confessed.
Inspector Armadale's figure appeared from one of the corridors, and,
catching sight of Sir Clinton, he came over to where they were
standing. His face showed that he had good news to tell.
“I've got practically the whole business out of them, sir. Billingford
gave everything away that he knew about; and the other chap's nerve
was completely gone, so that he couldn't resist questioning. It's as
clear a case as one could wish for.”
He paused, as though puzzled by something, and then added:
“It beats me how you tumbled to the fact that Cargill was one of the
gang, though.”
Sir Clinton ignored the underlying inquiry.
“Was he the brains of the show?” he asked. “I've only a suspicion to
go on there.”
“Yes, he did the planning for them.”
“And the gentleman with no face collaborated with Aird in the actual
murders? That's a guess, I may say, so far as the Staveley affair's
concerned, though I'm fairly sure of my ground in the other cases.”
“You're right in that case too, sir. Aird and the impostor fellow were
the actual murderers. Aird'll hang for certain.”
“It'll make a very nice case for you, inspector; and I'm sure you'll
work it up well for the Public Prosecutor. I can seen a laurel wreath
somewhere in the background.”
“But it's you who did most of it, sir. Nobody understands that better
than I do,” the inspector objected, evidently afraid lest Sir Clinton
thought him capable of accepting the credit without protest.
“I came into the thing on a strict understanding that I was to be a
pure spectator, you remember. I'm afraid that at times I got a shade
too zealous, perhaps; but it's your case and not mine. If we'd made a
mess of it between us, you'd have had to stand the racket; so
obviously a success goes down to your account. The subject's closed.”
Wendover, seeing the inspector's difficulty in framing a suitable
reply to this, intervened to change the subject.
“I see the main outlines of the affair easily enough, Clinton,” he
said, “but I'd like to hear just how you worked it out as you went
along. Any objections to telling me? It'll go no farther, of course.”
The chief constable's face betrayed a tinge of boredom.
“You've lived with this case for the best part of a week. Haven't you
had enough of it by this time?”
Wendover persisted in his demand; but Sir Clinton, instead of
complying, glanced at his watch.
“There's one detective story I'm very fond of, squire: _The Hunting of
the Snark_. I rank it high in the scale, especially on account of the
number of apt quotations one can make from it. Here's one:
The method employed I would gladly explain
While I have it so clear in my head,
If I had but the time and you had but the brain—
But much yet remains to be said.
It's far too late to start a long story to-night. I'm dead sleepy. If
you remind me about it to-morrow, I'll do my best; but I will not sit
up all night even to please you.”
The inspector seemed as much disappointed as Wendover at his
superior's decision.
“I'd like to hear it too, sir, if you don't mind.”
Sir Clinton suppressed a yawn with difficulty.
“I don't mind, inspector. Meet us at Neptune's Seat at eleven o'clock
to-morrow morning. It'll be interesting to hear how far wrong I've
gone in some of my guesses; and you can tell me that, since you've got
so much out of these two precious scoundrels to-night. And now I'll
drive you into Lynden Sands—save you the trudge. After that I really
must get to bed.”