“But you admitted yourself that there's a flaw in it, Clinton. By the way, what is the flaw?”
But Sir Clinton did not rise to the bait.
“Think it over, squire. If that doesn't do the trick, then think again. And if that fails, shake the bottle and try a third dose. It's one of these obvious points which I'd hate to lay before you, because you'd be covered with confusion at once if I explained it. But remember one thing. Even if the inspector's case breaks down in one detail, still, the facts need a lot more explanation than the Fleetwoods have condescended to offer up to the present. That's obvious. And now, what about picking up a couple of men and making up a table of bridge?”
Wendover's play that evening was not up to its usual standard. At the back of his mind throughout there was the picture of Cressida and her husband upstairs, weighed down by the burden of the unformulated charge against them and preparing as best they could against the renewal of the inquisition which could not be long delayed. He could picture to himself the almost incessant examination and re-examination of the evidence which they must be making; the attempts to slur over points which would tell heavily against them; the dread of the coming ordeal at the hands of Armadale; and the terror of some masked battery which might suddenly sweep their whole defence away. He grew more and more determined to put a spoke in the inspector's wheel if it were at all possible.
Late in the evening he was aroused to fresh fears by the entry of a page-boy.
“Number eighty-nine! Number eighty-nine! Number——”
“Here, boy!” Sir Clinton signalled to the page. “What is it?”
“You Sir Clinton Driffield, sir? Message from Mr. Cargill, sir. He wants you to go up and see him. His number's 103, sir.”
Sir Clinton was obviously annoyed.
“Tell him I'm here if he wishes to see me. Say I'm playing bridge.”