The oars were soon found and carried down to the car, which Wendover started immediately. A few hundred yards along the road, Sir Clinton pitched the oars overboard, taking care that they did not drop on the highway. Wendover, intent on his driving, heard the inspector speak to his superior. “We found that cartridge-case you wanted, sir, when we put that sand through the sieves. It's a .38, same as Mrs. Fleetwood's pistol. I have it safe.” Sir Clinton brushed the matter aside. “That's good, inspector. We'll have that gang in our hands before long. But Lord knows what damage they may do in the meanwhile. I'd give a lot to have them under lock and key at this minute.” At the hotel, Sir Clinton wasted no time on ceremony, but darted up the stairs to the Fleetwoods' room. As they entered, Stanley Fleetwood looked up in surprise from a book which he was reading. “Well——” he began in an angry tone. Sir Clinton cut him short. “Where's Mrs. Fleetwood?” Stanley Fleetwood's eyebrows rose sharply. “Really, Sir Clinton——” “Don't finesse now,” the chief constable snapped. “I'm afraid something's happened to Mrs. Fleetwood. Tell us what you know, and be quick about it. Why did she leave the hotel to-night?” Stanley Fleetwood's face showed amazement, with which fear seemed to mingle as Sir Clinton's manner convinced him that something was far wrong. He pulled himself up a little on the couch. “She got a letter from her uncle making an appointment at the Blowhole.” Sir Clinton's face fell. “That's worse than I thought,” he said. “Let's see the letter.” Stanley Fleetwood pointed to the mantelpiece; and the chief constable searched among two or three papers until he found what he wanted. “H'm! There's no date on this thing. It simply says, ‘Meet me at the Blowhole to-night at’ ”—he paused and scrutinised the letter carefully—“ ‘at 9 p.m. Come alone.’ It is 9 p.m., isn't it?” He passed the letter to the inspector. “It seems to be 9 p.m.,” Armadale confirmed, “but it's a bit blotted. This is Mr. Fordingbridge's writing, I suppose?” he added, turning to Stanley Fleetwood. “Quite unmistakable; and the signature's O.K.,” was the answer. Sir Clinton was evidently thinking rapidly. “We'll try the Blowhole first, though there'll be nothing there, I'm afraid. After that, we'll need to look elsewhere. This letter came by the post in the usual way, I suppose?” “I don't know. It came to my wife, and she showed it to me.” “Well, I've no time to wait just now. It's a pity you can't come along with us.” Stanley Fleetwood lay back on the couch and cursed his crippled state as the three hurried from the room. At the Blowhole they found nothing. The great jet was not playing, and the only sound was the beating of the waves on the beach below the cliff. The moon was just clearing the horizon mists, and there was enough light to show that the headland was bare.