“This is the knife that the woman Fleetwood used to-day at lunch. The waiter who served her was told to keep it for me—he brought it on the plate without handling it. When I dusted it some of her fingerprints came up, of course. They're identical with those on the pistol. Any reply to that, sir?”
Wendover felt the ground cut away from under his feet. He could think of nothing to urge against the inspector's results. But, even then, Armadale seemed to have something in reserve. He put the knife back in his bag, searched the contents again, and produced a pair of pumps, which he placed on the table.
“I got the chambermaid to lift these while she was tidying up Fleetwood's room this morning. Put your finger on the soles: they're still quite damp. Naturally; for you know how water oozes from sand if you stand long on the one spot. What's more, if you look at the place between the soles and the uppers—at the join—you'll see some grains of sand sticking. That's good enough for me. Fleetwood was the man behind the groyne. Now you won't persuade me that Fleetwood was off last night helping anyone except his wife—any woman, I mean—in that affair at the rock.”
Wendover scrutinised the pumps minutely and had to admit that the inspector's statements were correct. Armadale watched him scornfully and then concluded his exposition.
“There's the evidence you asked for, sir. Fleetwood was there. His pumps are enough to prove that. I haven't checked them with the cast yet, for there's enough already; but I'll do it later on. His wife was there—golf-shoes, blazer, pistol, fingerprints, they all prove it up to the hilt, when you take in the empty cartridge-case we found on the rock. Then there's the car left standing out all night. Probably he meant to bring it in and broke his leg before he could come back to do the work. That's enough to satisfy any jury, sir. There's nothing to do now except apply for a warrant and arrest the two of them.”
Sir Clinton had listened to the inspector's recapitulation of the evidence with only a tepid interest; but the last sentence seemed to wake him up.
“It's your case, Inspector,” he said seriously, “but if I were in your shoes I don't think I'd be in a hurry with that warrant. It may not be advisable to arrest either of the Fleetwoods—yet.”
Armadale was plainly puzzled; but it was equally evident that he believed Sir Clinton to have sound reasons for his amendment.
“You think not, sir?” he asked, a shade apprehensively.
Sir Clinton shook his head.