“Armadale's going to make a fool of himself,” he said, hardly taking the trouble to conceal his pleasure in the thought. “As you told him, he's left a hole as big as a house in that precious case of his.”
“So you've seen it at last, have you? Now, look here, squire. Armadale's not a bad fellow. He's only doing what he conceives to be his duty, remember; and he's been wonderfully good at it, too, if you'd only give him decent credit for what he's done. Just remember how smart he was on that first morning, when he routed out any amount of evidence in almost less than no time. I'm not going to have him sacrificed on the Fleetwood altar, understand. There's to be no springing of surprises on him while he's examining these people, and making him look a fool in their presence. You can tell him your idea beforehand if you like.”
“Why should I tell him beforehand? It's no affair of mine to keep him from making an ass of himself if he chooses to do so.”
Sir Clinton knitted his brows. Evidently he was put out by Wendover's persistence.
“Here's the point,” he explained. “I can't be expected to stand aside while you try to make the police ridiculous. I'll admit that Armadale hasn't been tactful with you; and perhaps you're entitled to score off him if you can. If you do your scoring in private, between ourselves, I've nothing to say; but if you're bent on a public splash—why, then, I shall simply enlighten the inspector myself and spike your gun. That will save him from appearing a fool in public. And that's that. Now what do you propose to do?”
“I hadn't looked at it in that way,” Wendover admitted frankly. “You're quite right, of course. I'll tell you what. You can give him a hint beforehand to be cautious; and I'll show him the flaw afterwards, if he hasn't spotted it himself by that time.”
“That's all right, then,” Sir Clinton answered. “It's a dangerous game, making the police look silly. And the inspector's too good a man to hold up to ridicule. He makes mistakes, as we all do; but he does some pretty good work between them.”
Wendover reflected that he might have expected something of this sort, for Sir Clinton never let a subordinate down. By tacit consent they dropped the subject.
Half-way through breakfast they were interrupted by a page-boy with a message.
“Sir Clinton Driffield? Miss Fordingbridge's compliments, sir, and she'd like to see you as soon as possible. She's in her private sitting-room upstairs—No. 28, sir.”