“When did the rain start, do you remember?” Wendover asked indifferently.
Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux showed no hesitation whatever.
“It was after the automobile had started to return to the hotel—a few minutes only after that.”
“You must have got soaked to the skin yourself,” Wendover commiserated her. “That reminds me, had Staveley his coat on—his overcoat, I mean—or was he carrying it over his arm when you met him at the rock?”
Again the Frenchwoman answered without pausing to consider.
“He carried it on his arm. Of that I am most certain.” Wendover, having nothing else to ask, steered the talk into other channels; and in a short time they left Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux to her own affairs. When they were out of earshot, Sir Clinton glanced at Wendover.
“Was that your own brains, squire, or a tip from the classic? You're getting on, whichever it was. Armadale will be vexed. But kindly keep this to yourself. The last thing I want is to have any information spread round.”
Chapter XII.
The Fordingbridge Mystery
“Tuesday, isn't it?” Sir Clinton said, as he came in to breakfast and found Wendover already at the table. “The day when the Fleetwoods propose to put their cards on the table at last. Have you got up your part as devil's advocate, squire?”
Wendover seemed in high spirits.