“Yes, indeed!” Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux answered readily. “It was a real rain of storm—how do you say that in English?” “Thunderstorm; heavy shower,” Sir Clinton suggested. “Yes? _Une pluie battante._ I was all wetted.” “When did the rain start, do you remember?” Wendover asked indifferently. Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux showed no hesitation whatever. “It was after the automobile had started to return to the hotel—a few minutes only after that.” “You must have got soaked to the skin yourself,” Wendover commiserated her. “That reminds me, had Staveley his coat on—his overcoat, I mean—or was he carrying it over his arm when you met him at the rock?” 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.” Chapter 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.