Mystery at Lynden Sands by J. J. Connington Contents I The Death at Foxhills II A Bus-Driver's Holiday III The Police at the Caretaker's IV What Happened in the Night V The Diary VI The Beach Tragedy VII The Letter VIII The Colt Automatic IX The Second Cartridge-Case X The Attack on the Australian XI Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux's Evidence XII The Fordingbridge Mystery XIII Cressida's Narrative XIV The Telegram XV The Method of Coercion XVI The Man-Hunt on the Beach XVII The Threads in the Case Chapter I The Death at Foxhills Paul Fordingbridge, with a faintly reproachful glance at his sister, interrupted his study of the financial page of _The Times_ and put the paper down on his knee. Deliberately he removed his reading-glasses; replaced them by his ordinary spectacles; and then turned to the restless figure at the window of the private sitting-room. “Well, Jay, you seem to have something on your mind. Would it be too much to ask you to say it—whatever it is—and then let me read my paper comfortably? One can't give one's mind to a thing when there's a person at one's elbow obviously ready to break out into conversation at any moment.” Miss Fordingbridge had spent the best part of half a century in regretting her father's admiration for Herrick. “I can't see myself as Julia of the _Night-piece_,” she complained with a faint parade of modesty; and it was at her own wish that the hated name had been abbreviated to an initial in family talk. At the sound of her brother's voice she turned away from the sea-view. “I can't imagine why you insisted on coming to this hotel,” she said, rather fretfully. “I can't stand the place. Of course, as it's just been opened, it's useless to expect everything to go like clockwork; but there seems a lot of mismanagement about it. I almost burned my hand with the hot water in my bedroom this morning—ridiculous, having tap-water as hot as that! And my letters got into the wrong pigeon-hole or something; I had to wait ever so long for them. Of course the clerk said he was sorry—but what good does that do? I don't want his sorrow. I want my letters when I ask for them.” “No doubt.” “And there was a wasp in my room when I went up there a few minutes ago. If I'd wanted a double-bedded room with a wasp as a room-mate, I would have asked for it when we booked, wouldn't I? And when I rang the bell and told them to put the thing out, the chambermaid—so it seems—was afraid of wasps. So she had to go and get hold of someone else to tackle it. And meanwhile, of course, I had to wait about until my room was made habitable. That's a nice kind of hotel!” “Oh, it has its points,” Paul Fordingbridge advanced soothingly. “One can get quite decent wine; and this chair's not uncomfortable.”