When the boy had retired, Sir Clinton made a wry face.
“Really, this Fordingbridge family ought to pay a special police rate. They give more trouble than most of the rest of the population of the district lumped together. You'd better come up with me. Hurry up with your breakfast, in case it happens to be anything important.”
Wendover obviously was not much enamoured of the prospect opened up by the chief constable's suggestion.
“She does talk,” he said with foreboding, as though he dreaded the coming interview.
They found Miss Fordingbridge waiting for them when they went upstairs, and she broke out immediately with her story.
“Oh, Sir Clinton, I'm so worried about my brother. He went out last night and he hasn't come back, and I don't really know what to think of it. What could he be doing out at night in a place like Lynden Sands, where there's nothing to do and where he hasn't any reason for staying away? And if he meant to stay away, he could have left a message for me or said something before he went off, quite easily; for I saw him just a few minutes before he left the hotel. What do you think about it? And as if we hadn't trouble enough already, with that inspector of yours prowling round and suspecting everyone! If he hasn't more to do than spy on my niece, I hope you'll set him to find my brother at once, instead of wasting his time.”
She halted, more for lack of breath than shortage of things to say; and Sir Clinton seized the chance to ask her for some more definite details.
“You want to know when he went out last night?” Miss Fordingbridge demanded. “Well, it must have been late—after eleven, at any rate, for I go to bed at eleven always, and he said good night to me just before I left this room. And if he had meant to stay away, he would have told me, I'm sure; for he usually does tell me when he's going to be out late. And he said nothing whatever, except that he was going out and that he meant to take a walk up towards the Blowhole. And I thought he was just going for a breath of fresh air before going to bed; and now it turns out that he never came back again. And nobody in the hotel has heard anything about him, for I asked the manager.”
“Possibly he'll put in an appearance shortly,” Sir Clinton suggested soothingly.
“Oh, of course, if the police are incompetent, there's no more to be said,” Miss Fordingbridge retorted tartly. “But I thought it was part of their business to find missing people.”