Something which might have been a smile passed over the shattered face. “No. He had a knack of staying out all night often enough. It wasn't uncommon. Was there a woman in the case?” “I think we'll get on faster if you let me do the questioning,” said the inspector bluntly. “I'm sorry I haven't any time to spare just now. Can you tell me anything about Staveley?” “He was a sort of relation of mine. He married my cousin Cressida during the war.” Armadale's face lighted up as he heard this. “Then how do you account for her being the wife of Mr. Stanley Fleetwood?” he asked abruptly. Derek Fordingbridge shook his head indifferently. “Accidental bigamy, I suppose. Staveley didn't turn up after the war, so I expect she wrote him down as dead. She'd hardly grieve over him, from what I know of his habits.” “Ah,” the inspector said thoughtfully. “That's interesting. Had she come across him by any chance since he came down here?” “I couldn't say. I'm hardly in touch with the rest of my family at present.” The inspector, recalling the fact that this was the claimant to the Foxhills estate, did not think it necessary to pursue the matter further. He turned back to the more immediate question. “Can you tell me anything about Staveley's movements last night?” “Nothing much. We played poker after dinner. Someone interrupted us—a friend of Staveley's. Then we played some more. Then I went to bed early. That's all.” “What about this friend of Staveley's? Was it a man or a woman?” “A woman, I believe; but I didn't see. Staveley went to the door himself. That would be between nine and ten o'clock.” “When did Staveley go out?” “I can't say. After ten o'clock, at any rate, for I went to bed, then. I'd a headache.” “When did you hear about the murder?” “Before I got out of bed. I was told that two men wanted to borrow the boat.” The inspector paused before continuing his inquiry. When he spoke again, it was on a different point. “I shall need to go through his luggage, of course. Can I see it?” Derek Fordingbridge led the way into the cottage. “It's in there,” he said, indicating one of the rooms. “He'd only a suit-case with him.” The inspector knelt down and turned out the suitcase's contents with some care. “Nothing here of any use,” he said disappointedly when he had finished. “One or two odds and ends. No papers.” He rummaged in the drawers of the room-furniture with the same lack of success. As he rose to his feet, Sir Clinton turned to Fordingbridge. “I'd like to see the fourth man of the party,” he said thoughtfully. “Perhaps you wouldn't mind getting hold of him for me if he's here.” Wendover and Armadale showed some surprise; but Fordingbridge seemed to see nothing in it.