He tapped the bag as he spoke.
“Come up to my room, then, inspector. We'll be free from interruption there.”
They took the lift up; and, when they entered the room, the inspector turned the key in the door behind them as an extra precaution.
“I've got the whole case cut and dried now, sir,” he explained with natural exultation in his voice. “It was just as I said this morning—as easy as falling off a log. It simply put itself together of its own accord.”
“Well, let's hear it, inspector,” Sir Clinton suggested as soon as he could edge a word into the current of the inspector's pæan.
“I'll give you it step by step,” the inspector said eagerly, “and then you'll see how convincing it is. Now, first of all, we know that the dead man, Staveley, married this Fleetwood woman during the war.”
Wendover flinched a little as he identified “this Fleetwood woman” as Cressida. This was evidently a foretaste of the inspector's quality.
“From what we've heard, one way and another, Staveley was nothing to boast about,” Armadale went on. “He was a bad egg, evidently; and especially in the way that would rasp a wife.”
“That's sound,” Sir Clinton agreed. “We needn't dwell on it.”
“He disappears; and she thinks he's dead,” the inspector pursued. “She's probably mighty glad to see the end of him. After a bit, she falls in with young Fleetwood and she marries him. That's bigamy, as it turns out; but she doesn't know it then.”