“Get on with your breakfast, you gruesome devil,” Wendover directed, half in jest and half in earnest. “I expect the next thing will be your luring all your suspects on to the hotel weighing-machine, so as to have the right length of the drop calculated beforehand. Constant association with that brute Armadale has corrupted you completely.” Sir Clinton stirred his coffee thoughtfully for a moment or two before speaking again. “I've got a job for you to do, squire,” he announced at last in a serious tone. “About eleven o'clock I have an appointment with Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux. We're going for a walk along the bay. Now, I want you to drive into Lynden Sands, pick up Armadale, and get back again so as to meet us somewhere about the old wreck. It was a spring tide yesterday, and the tide's just turning about this time in the morning; so we'll have to keep quite near the road in our walk across the sands. You can hail us from the road easily enough.” Wendover nodded an acceptance of the task. “The inspector can bring along a tape-measure in his pocket, and, if he likes, he can drag the blow-lamp and wax with him also, though I doubt if we'll need them.” At the mention of the tape-measure, Wendover pricked up his ears. “You don't imagine that she was on the beach that night, do you, Clinton? Armadale found out that her shoes were No. 4—half a size, at least, too big for the prints we haven't identified yet. Besides, she's quite a good height—as tall as Mrs. Fleetwood; and, you remember, the steps were much shorter than Mrs. Fleetwood's. The person who made these prints must have been much smaller than the Laurent-Desrousseaux woman. Have you found some more prints that you didn't tell us about?” “All in good time, squire,” Sir Clinton answered. “Take things as they come.” He sipped his coffee as though to show that he did not propose to be drawn. But Wendover was not to be put off. “You couldn't have got a No. 4 shoe into these prints.” “No.” “And, from what I've seen of her feet, her shoes are a perfect fit.” “I've noticed you admiring them—quite justifiably, squire.” “Well, she couldn't wear a 3½ shoe.” “No. That's admitted. She hasn't such a thing in her possession; I'm sure of that. Give it up, squire. The fishing's very poor in this district. I'm not going to tell you anything just now.” Wendover recognised that he could not hope to extract any further information from the chief constable, and he consoled himself with the thought that a couple of hours at most would see this part of the mystery cleared up. After breakfast he went into the lounge, and passed the time in smoking and reviewing the state of affairs. He became so engrossed in this exercise that it was almost with a start that he realised the time had come to take out the car and pick up Armadale.