“These are the woman Fleetwood's golfing-shoes, sir,” the inspector announced a trifle grimly. “I found them in the lady golfers' dressing-room. I can bring a witness or two who'll swear to them, if need be.”
Suddenly Wendover detected a possible flaw in the inspector's case; but, instead of unmasking his battery immediately, he made up his mind to lead Armadale astray, and, if possible, to put him off his guard. He let his full disappointment show clearly in his face, as if the evidence of the shoes had shaken his beliefs. Dropping the matter without further discussion, he took up a fresh line.
“And the golf-blazer? What about it? That left no tracks on the sands.”
Armadale's smile of triumph became even more marked. He turned once more to his bag, slipped his hands into his rubber gloves, and then, with every precaution, lifted a dusty-looking Colt automatic into view.
“This is a .38 calibre pistol,” he pointed out. “Same calibre as the cartridge-case we picked up on the rock, and probably the same as the bullet'll be when we get it from the body. I've examined the barrel; there's been a shot fired from it quite recently. I've looked into the magazine; it lacks one cartridge of a full load.”
He paused dramatically before his final point.
“And I found this pistol in the pocket of the woman Fleetwood's golf-blazer which was hanging on her peg in the lady golfers' dressing-room.”
After another pause, meant to let the fact sink home in Wendover's mind, Armadale added:
“You'll admit, sir, that a toy of this sort is hardly the kind of thing an ordinary lady carries about with her.”
Wendover thought he saw his way now, and he prepared to spring his mine.