“You were on the beach last night about eleven o'clock?”
Stanley Fleetwood broke in again before Cressida could make a reply.
“Wait a moment, inspector. Are you proposing to bring a charge against me?”
Armadale hesitated for a moment, as if undecided as to his next move. He seemed to see something further behind the question.
“There's no charge against anyone—yet,” he said, with a certain dwelling on the last word; but as he spoke his eyes swung round to Cressida's drawn features with a certain menace.
“Don't say anything, Cressida,” her husband warned her.
He turned back to the inspector.
“You've no power to extract evidence if we don't choose to give it?” he asked.
“No,” the inspector admitted cautiously, “but sometimes it's dangerous to suppress evidence, I warn you.”
“I'm not very amenable to threats, inspector,” Stanley Fleetwood answered drily. “I gather this must be something serious, or you wouldn't be making such a fuss?”