Wendover's annoyance was only half-feigned. “You've a sordid mind, Clinton. I don't like to hear you throwing out hints about people in that way. Anyone can see that's a girl out of the common; and all you can think of in that connection is card-sharps.” Sir Clinton seemed sobered by his friend's vexation. “You're quite right, squire,” he agreed. “She's out of the common, as you say. I don't know anything about her history, but it doesn't take much to see that something's happened to her. She looks as if she'd taken the world at her own measure at first, trusted everybody. And then she got a devil of a shock one day. At least, if that isn't in her eyes, then I throw in my hand. I've seen the same expression once or twice before.” They entered the hotel and sat down in the lounge. Wendover glanced from the window across the links. “This place will be quite good when the new course has been played over for a year or two. I shouldn't wonder if Lynden Sands became fairly popular.” Sir Clinton was about to reply when a page-boy entered the lounge and paraded slowly across it, chanting in a monotonous voice: “Number eighty-nine! Number eighty-nine! Number eighty-nine!” The chief constable sat up sharply and snapped his fingers to attract the page-boy's attention. “That's the number of my room,” he said to Wendover, “but I can't think of anyone who might want me. Nobody knows me in this place.” “You number eighty-nine, sir?” the page-boy demanded. “There's somebody asking for you. Inspector Armadale, he said his name was.” “Armadale? What the devil can he be wanting?” Sir Clinton wondered aloud. “Show him in, please.” In a minute or two the inspector appeared. “I suppose it's something important, inspector,” Sir Clinton greeted him, “otherwise you wouldn't have come. But I can't imagine what brings you here.” Inspector Armadale glanced at Wendover, and then, without speaking, he caught Sir Clinton's eye. The chief constable read the meaning in his glance. “This is a friend of mine, inspector—Mr. Wendover. He's a J. P. and perfectly reliable. You can speak freely before him, if it's anything official.” Armadale was obviously relieved. “This is the business, Sir Clinton. This morning we had a 'phone message from the Lynden Sands doctor. It seems the caretaker at a big house hereabouts—Foxhills, they call it—was found dead, close to his cottage. Dr. Rafford went up to see the body; and at first he thought it was a case of apoplexy. Then he noticed some marks on the body that made him suspicious, and he says he won't give a death certificate. He put the matter into our hands at once. There's nobody except a constable hereabouts, so I've come over myself to look into things. Then it struck me you were staying at the hotel here, and I thought I'd drop in on my way up.” Sir Clinton gazed at the inspector with a very faintly quizzical expression. “A friendly call?” he said. “That's very nice. Care to stay to lunch?”