They left the room and made their way towards the lift. In the corridor they encountered Cargill, who stopped them.
“Thanks for directing me to that cottage,” he said. “It turned out to be the man I knew, right enough. But I'd hardly have recognised him, poor devil. He used to be a fine-looking beggar—and look at him now.”
“Enjoy a talk with him?” Sir Clinton asked politely.
“Oh, yes. But I was a bit surprised to hear that he's quite a big pot with an estate and all that. I only knew him in the war, of course, and it seems he came into the cash later on. Foxhills is his place, isn't it?”
“So I'm told. By the way, did you meet his friend, Mr. Billingford? He's an amusing artist.”
Cargill's brow clouded slightly.
“You think so?” he said doubtfully.
Sir Clinton glanced at his wrist-watch.
“I'm sorry I've got to hurry off, Mr. Cargill. I'd no notion it was so late.”
With a nod, Cargill passed. Sir Clinton and Wendover hurried upstairs and changed into clothes more suitable for the sands. They were ready just as the inspector knocked at the chief constable's door; and in a few minutes all three were in Sir Clinton's car on the road to the beach.