“I'd put a man on to watch her here. He couldn't do much except hang about in plain clothes and attract as little attention as possible; so he chose the entrance-hall as his look-out post, where he could keep an eye on the lifts and the stairs together. To-night, after dinner, he saw her come down in the lift. She'd evening dress on, and nothing to protect her head; so of course he thought she was just moving about in the hotel. However, he followed her along a passage; and at the end of it she opened a door marked: ‘_Ladies' Dressing-Room_.’ Well, of course, he could hardly shove in there; so he hung about waiting for her to come out again.” “And it was the golf dressing-room with the side-entrance from the outside?” “Of course. By the time he'd tumbled to what was up, she'd slipped off. Her golf-shoes and blazer are gone. She's diddled us. I wouldn't have had this happen for ever so much.” Wendover did not feel called upon to offer any sympathy. “What do you come to me for?” he demanded. “I know nothing about her.” Armadale put his finger on the last phrase in the telegram. “It's his own car he wants, apparently. You can get it out of the garage, sir, with less fuss than I could.” Wendover agreed, and, finding that the chief constable's train was not due for half an hour, he went up into his room and changed his clothes. They reached the Lynden Sands station in good time; and, as soon as the train steamed in, Sir Clinton alighted, with an attaché-case in his hand. “Well, inspector! Got your bird caged all right, I hope?” “No, sir,” the inspector confessed shamefacedly. “She's got clean away.” Sir Clinton seemed both staggered and perturbed by the news. “Got away? What do you mean? You'd nothing to do but walk up and arrest her. Why didn't you do it?” Armadale explained the state of affairs; and, as he told his story, the chief constable's face darkened. “H'm! Your landlady's made the mess of her life this shot. And I thought I'd been in plenty of time! Come along to the car. There isn't a moment to lose. Flatt's cottage, first of all.” Wendover drove them up to the headland, and Sir Clinton jumped out of the car almost before it pulled up. He opened his attaché-case. “There's a Colt for each of you. The first cartridge is up in the barrel, so mind the safety-catches. You may not need them; but you'd better be prepared.” He handed a pistol to each of his companions, and pitched the attaché-case back into the car. “Now, come along.” When they reached the door of the cottage, the place seemed deserted. “Drawn blank, it seems,” Sir Clinton confessed, in a tone which showed he had expected little else. “We'll go through the place, just to be sure. This is no time to stand on etiquette.”