“Here's the point,” he explained. “I can't be expected to stand aside while you try to make the police ridiculous. I'll admit that Armadale hasn't been tactful with you; and perhaps you're entitled to score off him if you can. If you do your scoring in private, between ourselves, I've nothing to say; but if you're bent on a public splash—why, then, I shall simply enlighten the inspector myself and spike your gun. That will save him from appearing a fool in public. And that's that. Now what do you propose to do?” “I hadn't looked at it in that way,” Wendover admitted frankly. “You're quite right, of course. I'll tell you what. You can give him a hint beforehand to be cautious; and I'll show him the flaw afterwards, if he hasn't spotted it himself by that time.” “That's all right, then,” Sir Clinton answered. “It's a dangerous game, making the police look silly. And the inspector's too good a man to hold up to ridicule. He makes mistakes, as we all do; but he does some pretty good work between them.” Wendover reflected that he might have expected something of this sort, for Sir Clinton never let a subordinate down. By tacit consent they dropped the subject. Half-way through breakfast they were interrupted by a page-boy with a message. “Sir Clinton Driffield? Miss Fordingbridge's compliments, sir, and she'd like to see you as soon as possible. She's in her private sitting-room upstairs—No. 28, sir.” When the boy had retired, Sir Clinton made a wry face. “Really, this Fordingbridge family ought to pay a special police rate. They give more trouble than most of the rest of the population of the district lumped together. You'd better come up with me. Hurry up with your breakfast, in case it happens to be anything important.” Wendover obviously was not much enamoured of the prospect opened up by the chief constable's suggestion. “She _does_ talk,” he said with foreboding, as though he dreaded the coming interview. They found Miss Fordingbridge waiting for them when they went upstairs, and she broke out immediately with her story. “Oh, Sir Clinton, I'm so worried about my brother. He went out last night and he hasn't come back, and I don't really know what to think of it. What could he be doing out at night in a place like Lynden Sands, where there's nothing to do and where he hasn't any reason for staying away? And if he meant to stay away, he could have left a message for me or said something before he went off, quite easily; for I saw him just a few minutes before he left the hotel. What do you think about it? And as if we hadn't trouble enough already, with that inspector of yours prowling round and suspecting everyone! If he hasn't more to do than spy on my niece, I hope you'll set him to find my brother at once, instead of wasting his time.” She halted, more for lack of breath than shortage of things to say; and Sir Clinton seized the chance to ask her for some more definite details.