“Five minutes ago I offered you the chance to get off the bus. You preferred to stay with us. Therefore you do as you're told. That's that.” Wendover understood that his only chance of keeping in touch with the hunters now depended on his obeying orders. Gloomily he made his submission. “All right, Clinton. I don't like it; but I see there are some advantages.” Accompanied by the others, he entered the hotel and made his way to the desk, while the two officials dropped into the background. “Mrs. Fleetwood?” the clerk repeated, when Wendover had made his inquiry. “Yes, sir, she's upstairs. Didn't you know that Mr. Fleetwood broke his leg last night? The doctor's set it now. I think Mrs. Fleetwood's up in his room with him.” “What's the number?” Wendover asked. “No. 35, sir. Shall I phone up and ask if you can see her? It's no trouble.” Wendover shook his head and turned away from the desk. As he crossed the hall, the other two rejoined him. “It's on the first floor. We'll walk up,” said Sir Clinton, turning towards the stairs. “You can do the talking, inspector.” Nothing loath, Armadale knocked at the door of No. 35, and, on receiving an answer, he turned the handle and entered the room. Sir Clinton followed him, whilst Wendover, acutely uncomfortable, hovered on the threshold. On the bed, with his features pale and drawn, lay Stanley Fleetwood. Cressida rose from an armchair and threw a startled glance at the intruders. The inspector was no believer in tactful openings. “I'm sorry to trouble you,” he said gruffly, “but I understand you can give me some information about the affair on the beach last night.” Wendover, despite his animus against Armadale, could not help admiring the cleverness of this sentence, which took so much for granted and yet had a vagueness designed to lead a criminal into awkward difficulties in his reply. But his main interest centred in Cressida; and at the look on her face his heart sank suddenly. Strain, confusion, and desperation seemed to have their part in it; but plainest of all was fear. She glanced from her husband to Armadale, and it was patent that she understood the acuteness of the danger. “Why,” he admitted to himself in dismay, “she looks as if she'd really done it! And she's deadly afraid that Armadale can prove it.” Cressida moistened her lips automatically, as if she were about to reply; but, before she could say a word, her husband broke in. “What makes you come here with inquiries? I suppose you've some authority? Or are you a reporter?” “I'm Inspector Armadale.” Stanley Fleetwood made an evident effort to keep himself in hand, in spite of the physical pain which he was obviously suffering. He nodded in acknowledgment of the inspector's introduction, and then repeated his question. “What makes you come to us?” Armadale was not to be led into betraying anything about the extent of his information.