“Oh, I'm not trying to stick my oar in,” he hastened to assure the chief constable. “I just asked out of mere curiosity.”
He seemed rather perturbed lest he should have appeared unduly inquisitive; and in a moment he changed the subject completely.
“By the way, I heard someone mention in the hotel that a man called Derek Fordingbridge is staying somewhere hereabouts. Know anything about him? I came across somebody of that name in the war.”
“He's staying at that cottage across the bay,” Wendover explained, pointing out Flatt's cottage as he spoke. “What sort of person was your friend?—in appearance, I mean.”
“Oh, about my height and build, clean-shaved, hair darkish, if I remember right.”
“This looks like your man, then,” Wendover assured him. “But you'll probably find him a bit altered. He's had some bad wounds.”
“Has he? Pity, that. I say, I think I'll just go across the bay now and see if he's at home. I'm half-way there already.”
Sir Clinton offered him a lift in the car; but on finding that it would be taking them out of their way, Cargill refused the invitation and set off alone across the sands. Before he started, Wendover gave him a warning about the quicksand near the wreck, lest he should stumble into it unawares.
“That's an interesting find,” Wendover volunteered as they climbed the beach. “I didn't say anything in front of Cargill, but it occurred to me that his cartridge-case clears up one of the difficulties of the evidence.”
“You mean that Billingford couldn't tell the inspector whether there was a single shot or a pair?” Sir Clinton inquired.