“This afternoon,” Paul Fordingbridge intimated. “But I understand that they wish to consult him before seeing you again. I believe they'll make an appointment with Inspector Armadale for to-morrow.” Sir Clinton's eyebrows lifted slightly at the news of this further delay; but he made no audible comment. Paul Fordingbridge, with a stiff bow, left them and went on his way downstairs. Sir Clinton gazed after him. “I'd hate to carry an automatic in my jacket pocket continuously,” he remarked softly. “Look how his pocket's pulled all out of shape by the thing. Very untidy.” With a gesture he stopped the comment that rose to Wendover's lips, and then followed Fordingbridge downstairs. Wendover led the way out into the garden, where he selected a quiet spot. “There's one thing that struck me about Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux's evidence,” he said, as they sat down, “and that is: It may be all lies together.” Sir Clinton pulled out his case and lit a cigarette before answering. “You think so? It's not impossible, of course.” “Well, look at it squarely,” Wendover pursued. “We know nothing about the woman. For all we can tell, she may be an accomplished liar. By her own showing, she had some good reason for wanting Staveley out of the way.” “It wouldn't be difficult to make a guess at it,” Sir Clinton interjected. “I didn't want to go beyond our brief this morning, or I'd have asked her about that. But I was very anxious not to rouse her suspicions, and the matter really didn't bear directly on the case, so I let it pass.” “Well, let's assume that her yarn is mostly lies, and see where that takes us,” Wendover went on. “We know she was at the cottage all right; we've got the footprint to establish that. We know she was on the rock, too, for her footprints were on the sands, and she doesn't contest the fact of her presence either. These are the two undeniable facts.” “Euclidian, squire. But it leaves the story a bit bare, doesn't it? Go on; clothe the dry bones with flesh, if you can.” Wendover refused to be nettled. He was struggling, not too hopefully, to shift the responsibility of the murder from the shoulders of Cressida to those of another person; and he was willing to catch at almost any straw. “How would this fit, then?” he demanded. “Suppose that Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux herself was the murderess. She makes her appointment with Staveley at the cottage as she told us; and she goes there, just as she said she did. She meets Staveley, and he refuses to see her. Now assume that he blurts out the tale of his appointment at 11 p.m. at Neptune's Seat with Mrs. Fleetwood, and makes no appointment at all with Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux for that evening. That part of her tale would be a lie, of course.” Sir Clinton flicked the ash from his cigarette on to the seat beside him, and seemed engrossed in brushing it away.