Suddenly Billingford seemed to recognise the rowing-boat.
“Snaffled my boat, have you, inspector? Well, I like the nerve of that! If I'd borrowed your handkerchief without asking you, there'd have been a bit of a stir in official circles. But when you take and steal my boat, everybody seems to think it's just the sort of thing you would do. Well, brother, we'll say no more about it. I never care to rub things in. Live and let live's my motto.”
Armadale refused to be drawn.
“We'll clean up the boat and return it in the afternoon,” he said shortly. “Now come along. I haven't time to waste.”
A short walk took them to Flatt's cottage, which stood near the point of the promontory between the village and the bay in which Staveley's body had been found. The road up to it was hardly better than a rough track, and pools of water stood here and there which evidently dated farther back than the rain of the previous night. The cottage itself was neatly kept, and seemed fairly roomy.
“Call your friend,” Armadale ordered, as they reached the door.
Billingford complied without protest, and almost at once they heard steps approaching. As the door opened, Wendover received a shock. The man who stood before them was almost faceless; and his eyes looked out from amid a mass of old scars which gave him the appearance of something inhuman. The hand which held the door open lacked the first two fingers. Wendover had never seen such a wreck. When he took his eyes from the distorted visage, it was almost a surprise to find that the rest of the form was intact.
The new-comer stared at them for a moment. His attitude showed the surprise which his face could not express.
“What made you bring this gang here, Billingford?” he demanded. “Visitors are barred, you know that quite well.”
He made a suggestive gesture towards his twisted face.