The Beach Tragedy Wakened abruptly by the trilling of a bell beside his bed, Sir Clinton bitterly regretted the striving of the Lynden Sands Hotel towards up-to-dateness, as represented by a room telephone system. He leaned over and picked up the receiver. “Sir Clinton Driffield speaking.” “I'm Armadale, sir,” came the reply. “Can I see you? It's important, sir, and I can't very well talk about it over the 'phone.” Sir Clinton's face betrayed a natural annoyance. “This is an ungodly hour to be ringing anyone up in his bed, inspector. It's barely dawn. However, since you're here, you may as well come up. My room's No. 89.” He laid down the receiver, got out of bed, and put on his dressing-gown. As he moved across the room and mechanically began to brush his hair, a glance through the window showed him that the rain of the previous night had blown over and the sky was blue. The sun had not yet risen, and a pale full moon was low on the western horizon, A murmur of the incoming tide rose from the beaches; and the white crests of the waves showed faintly in the half-light. “Well, inspector, what is it?” Sir Clinton demanded testily. “You'd better be brief, be businesslike, and be gone, as they say. I want to get back to bed.” “There's been another murder, sir.” Sir Clinton made no effort to conceal his surprise. “Another murder! In a place this size? They must be making a hobby of it.” The inspector observed with satisfaction that his superior had given up any thoughts of bed, for he was beginning to dress himself. “This is what happened, sir,” Armadale continued. “Shortly after midnight a man appeared at the house of the local constable—Sapcote, you remember—and hammered on the door till Sapcote came down. He began some confused yarn to the constable, but Sapcote very wisely put on his clothes and brought the fellow round to me. I've got a room in a house near by, where I'm staying till this Hay affair is cleared up.” Sir Clinton nodded, to show that he was paying attention, but went on swiftly with his dressing. “I examined the man,” Armadale continued. “His name's James Billingford. He's a visitor here—he's rented old Flatt's cottage, on the point between here and Lynden Sands village. It seems he sometimes suffers from sleeplessness; and last night he went out rather late, hoping that a walk would do him some good. He strolled along the beach in this direction, not paying very much attention to anything. Then he heard the sound of shooting farther along the beach.” “Does that mean one shot or several?” Sir Clinton demanded, turning from the mirror in front of which he was fastening his tie.