“Where do you buy your soap?” he asked sarcastically. “It seems a good brand. But it won't wash. There's nothing doing.” Inspector Armadale threw a glance at his superior which suggested that Sir Clinton's intervention had been a mere waste of time. “When'll your lawyer be here?” he demanded brusquely. Stanley Fleetwood paused to consider before replying. “I'll wire him to-day; but most likely the wire will lie in his office until Monday. I expect Monday afternoon will be the earliest time he could get here, and perhaps he won't turn up even then.” Inspector Armadale looked from husband to wife and back again. “And you'll say nothing till he comes?” Stanley Fleetwood did not think it worth the trouble to answer. “I think you'll regret this, sir. But it's your own doing. I needn't trouble you further just now.” Armadale stalked out of the room, suspicion and indignation written large in every line of his figure. Sir Clinton followed. As Wendover closed the retreat, he saw Cressida step swiftly across to her husband's side and slip to her knees at the edge of the bed. Chapter VIII The Colt Automatic At the foot of the stairs, Armadale excused himself. “Better have some breakfast, inspector,” Sir Clinton suggested. “You've been up all night, and you must be hungry.” Rather to Wendover's relief, Armadale rejected the implied invitation. “I'll pick up a sandwich, probably, later on, sir; but I've something I want to make sure about first, if you don't mind. Will you be ready again in half an hour or so?” Sir Clinton glanced at his watch. “We'll hurry, inspector. After all, it's about time that we took Billingford out of pawn. The constable may be getting wearied of his society by this stage.” Inspector Armadale seemed to have no sympathy in stock so far as either Billingford or Sapcote was concerned. “Staveley's body has to be collected, too,” he pointed out. “I've a good mind to 'phone for some more men. We really can't cover all the ground as we are.” “I should, if I were you, inspector. Get them sent over by motor; and tell them to meet us at Lynden Sands. A sergeant and three constables will probably be enough.” “Very good, sir.” The inspector went off on his errand, much to the relief of Wendover, whose antagonism to Armadale had in no way cooled. Sir Clinton led the way to the breakfast-room, and impressed on his waiter the necessity for haste. As they sat down, Wendover saw inquisitive glances shot at their table by other guests in distant parts of the room. Evidently the news of the tragedy on the beach was common property by now. “I don't think Armadale made much of that business,” Wendover commented in a voice low enough to be inaudible to their nearest neighbours. “There's nothing so undignified as a bit of bullying when it doesn't quite come off.” Sir Clinton never allowed a criticism of a subordinate to pass unanswered.