As he stood aside to let the inspector leave the room in front of him, Sir Clinton was struck by a fresh idea. “Just knock up Mr. Wendover, inspector. He's next door—No. 90. Tell him to dress and follow on after us. I'll get my car out, and that will save us a minute or two in getting to the place.” Armadale hesitated most obviously before turning to obey. “Don't you see, inspector? All these tracks will be washed out in an hour or two. We'll be none the worse of having an extra witness to anything we find; and your fishermen pals would never understand what was important and what wasn't. Mr. Wendover will make a useful witness if we ever need him. Hurry, now!” The inspector saw the point, and obediently went to wake up Wendover, whilst Sir Clinton made his way to the garage of the hotel. In a few minutes the inspector joined him. “I waked up Mr. Wendover, sir. I didn't wait to explain the thing to him; but I told him enough to make him hurry with his dressing. He says he'll follow in less than five minutes.” “Good! Get in.” Armadale jumped into the car, and, as he slammed the door, Sir Clinton let in the clutch. “That tide's coming in fast,” he said anxiously. “The Blowhole up there is beginning to spout already.” Armadale followed in the direction of the chief constable's glance, and saw a cloud of white spray hurtling up into the air from the top of a headland beside the hotel. “What's that?” he asked, as the menacing fountain choked and fell. “Sort of thing they call a _souffleur_ on the French coast,” Sir Clinton answered. “Sea-cave gets filled with compressed air owing to the rise of the tide, and some water's blown off through a landward vent. That's what makes the intermittent jet.” About a mile from the hotel the inspector motioned to Sir Clinton to stop at a point where the road ran close to the beach, under some sand-dunes on the inland side. A man in a jersey hastened towards them as the car pulled up. “Nobody's come along, I suppose?” the inspector demanded when the new-comer reached them. Then, turning to Sir Clinton, he added: “This is one of the men who were watching the place for me.” Sir Clinton looked up with a smile at the introduction. “Very good of you to give us your help, Mr.——?” “Wark's my name, sir.” “. . . Mr. Wark. By the way, you're a fisherman, aren't you? Then you'll be able to tell me when high tide's due this morning.” “About half-past seven by God's time, sir.” Sir Clinton was puzzled for a moment, then he repressed a smile slightly different from his earlier one. “Half-past eight by summer time then?” he queried. He glanced at his wrist-watch, and then consulted a pocket diary. “Sunrise is due in about a quarter of an hour. You gauged it neatly in waking me up, inspector. Well, we've a good deal less than two hours in hand. It may keep us pretty busy, if we're to dig up all the available data before the tracks are obliterated by the tide coming in.”