Next morning, before going to the links, Sir Clinton went to the shore and superintended the start of the excavating work there; but when once the actual digging had begun, he seemed to lose interest in the matter. It was not until late in the afternoon that he paid his second visit, accompanied by Wendover. Even then he contented himself with the most casual inspection, and soon turned back towards the hotel. “What _are_ you after with all this spade-work?” Wendover demanded as they sauntered up the road. Sir Clinton turned and made a gesture towards the little crowd of inquisitive visitors and natives who had congregated around the diggers. “I've heard rumours, squire, that the Lynden Sands public thinks the police aren't busy enough in the sleuth-hound business. Unofficial opinion seems divided as to whether we're pure duds or merely lazy. They want to see something actually being done to clear up these mysteries. Well, they've got something to talk about now, you see. That's always gain. So long as they can stand and gape at the digging down there, they won't worry us too much in the things we really have to do.” “But seriously, Clinton, what do you expect to find?” Sir Clinton turned a bland smile on his companion. “Oh, shells, as I told you before, squire. Shells, almost certainly. And perhaps the brass bottle that the genie threw into the sea after he'd escaped from it—the _Arabian Nights_ tale, you remember. Once one starts digging in real earnest one never can tell what one may not find.” Wendover made a gesture of impatience. “I suppose you're looking for something.” “I've told you exactly what I expect to find, squire. And it's no good your going off to pump these diggers, or even the inspector, for they don't know what they're looking for themselves. The general public can ask questions till it's tired, but it won't learn much on the beach. That'll tend to keep its excitement at fever-heat and prevent it looking any farther for points of interest.” As they neared the hotel they overtook Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux, who was walking leisurely up the road. Sir Clinton slowed down to her pace, and opened a brisk conversation as he came abreast of her. Wendover, feeling rather out of it, inspected Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux covertly with some disfavour. “Now, what the devil does Clinton see in that vamp?” he asked himself as they moved on together. “He's not the usual idiot, by a long chalk. She'll get no change out of him. But what does he expect to get out of her? It's not like him. Of course, she's a bit out of things here; but she doesn't look the sort that would mind that much, somehow. And he's evidently laying himself out to get her good graces. It's a bit rum.”