It was evident that Sir Clinton's suggestion had touched him in his vanity, for his tone showed more than a trace of pique. The chief constable hastened to smooth matters over.
“I envy you, Mr. Fordingbridge. I never had much of a head for figures myself, and I shouldn't care to have that kind of work thrust on my hands.”
“Oh, I manage very well,” Paul Fordingbridge answered coldly. “Is there anything else you'd like to know?”
Sir Clinton reflected for a moment before replying.
“I think that's everything. Oh, there's one other matter which you may know about, perhaps. When does Mrs. Fleetwood expect her lawyer to turn up?”
“This afternoon,” Paul Fordingbridge intimated. “But I understand that they wish to consult him before seeing you again. I believe they'll make an appointment with Inspector Armadale for to-morrow.”
Sir Clinton's eyebrows lifted slightly at the news of this further delay; but he made no audible comment. Paul Fordingbridge, with a stiff bow, left them and went on his way downstairs. Sir Clinton gazed after him.
“I'd hate to carry an automatic in my jacket pocket continuously,” he remarked softly. “Look how his pocket's pulled all out of shape by the thing. Very untidy.”
With a gesture he stopped the comment that rose to Wendover's lips, and then followed Fordingbridge downstairs. Wendover led the way out into the garden, where he selected a quiet spot.
“There's one thing that struck me about Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux's evidence,” he said, as they sat down, “and that is: It may be all lies together.”