Armadale evidently realised that he would get nothing by persisting on this line. “You played poker, then. Anything further happen?” Billingford seemed to be considering carefully before he ventured further. At last he made up his mind. “About half-past nine, I think, someone came to the door. Staveley got up and went to see who it was. I heard him say: ‘Oh, it's you, is it?’ or words to that effect—as if he'd been taken by surprise. Then I heard a woman's voice say something. I didn't catch the words. And when Staveley replied, he dropped his voice. They talked for a bit, and then he shut the door.” “And after that? Did you find out who the woman was?” “Not I. Some local piece, I expect. Staveley was always a good hand at getting hold of them. He'd a sort of way with him, and could get round them in no time. Made kind of hobby of it. Overdid it, to my mind.” “What happened after that?” “Nothing much that I remember. We played some more poker, and then Staveley began grousing about the stuffiness of the place. Mostly his own fault, too. Those cigars of his were pretty heavy. So he went out for some fresh air.” “When was that?” “Ten o'clock. I told you before. Perhaps 10.15. I can't be sure to a minute.” “And then?” “I felt a bit wakeful. I lose a lot of sleep some nights. So I thought I'd go for a turn along the shore and see if that would cure it.” “When did you leave the house?” “A little before eleven, I think. I didn't notice. It was after Fordingbridge had gone to bed, anyhow.” The inspector absent-mindedly tapped his note-book with his pencil for a moment or two. Then he glanced at Sir Clinton. “That's all I want to ask you just now,” he said. “You'll be needed at the inquest, of course. I suppose you're staying on for a while at Lynden Sands?” “Oh, yes,” Billingford replied carelessly. “If you want me at any time, I'll be handy. Always pleased to play ‘Animal, Vegetable, or Mineral?’ with you any time you like, inspector.” “I daresay you've had plenty of practice,” Armadale growled. “Well, you can go now. Hold on, though! You can show us the way up to Flatt's cottage. I'll need to see this friend of yours, Fordingbridge.” “Meaning to check up my story?” Billingford suggested, unabashed. “I've met this sort of sceptical spirit before. Somehow it always seems to develop in people who've worn a constable's helmet in their youth. Compression of the credulity lobe of the brain, or something like that, perhaps.” Armadale made no reply, but led the way out of the house. Before they had gone more than a few yards, a police-sergeant came forward and accosted the inspector. After a few words, Armadale turned to Sir Clinton. “Now we've got the constables, sir, I think we'd better get the body ashore and notify Dr. Rafford that we'll need a P. M. done. If you don't mind going round by the beach, I can put the sergeant here in charge; and then we can go on to Flatt's.”