“Well, we'll look into it, if you wish,” Sir Clinton said, as she seemed obviously much distressed by the state of things. “But really, Miss Fordingbridge, I think you're taking the matter too seriously. Quite possibly Mr. Fordingbridge went for a longer walk than he intended, and got benighted or something; sprained his ankle, perhaps, and couldn't get home again. Most probably he'll turn up safe and sound in due course. In the meantime, we'll do what we can.”
But when they had left the room, Wendover noticed that his friend's face was not so cheerful.
“Do you notice, squire,” the chief constable pointed out as they went downstairs, “that everything we've been worried with in this neighbourhood seems to be connected with this confounded Fordingbridge lot? Peter Hay—caretaker to the Fordingbridges; Staveley—married one of the family; and now old Fordingbridge himself. And that leaves out of account this mysterious claimant, with his doubtful pack of associates, and also the suspicious way the Fleetwoods are behaving. If we ever get to the bottom of the affair, it'll turn out to be a Fordingbridge concern entirely, either directly or indirectly. That's plain to a village idiot.”
“What do you propose to do in this last business?” Wendover demanded.
“Get hold of a pair of old Fordingbridge's shoes, first of all. We might need them; and we might not have time to come back for them. I'll manage it through the boots, now. I could have got them from Miss Fordingbridge, I expect, but she might have been a bit alarmed if I'd asked her for them.”
With the shoes in an attaché-case, Sir Clinton set out for the Blowhole, accompanied by Wendover.
“Not much guidance, so far,” he commented, “so we may as well start at the only place she could mention.”
When they reached the Blowhole, out on the headland which formed one horn of the bay, it was only too evident that very little trace was to be expected there. The turf showed no marks of any description. Sir Clinton seemed rather resentful of the expectant manner of Wendover.
“Well, what do you expect me to do?” he demanded brusquely. “I'm not an Australian tracker, you know. And there don't seem to be any cigar-butts or cigarette-ash or any of these classical clues lying around, even if I could use them if I'd found them. There's just one chance—that he's gone down on to the sands.”
As he spoke, he stepped to the cliff-edge and gazed down on the beach.