“Who's your French friend, Clinton?”
“Père François? Oh, he was one of the pioneers of aviation, in a way; taught men to fly, and all that. ‘Get off the Earth’ was his motto.”
“There's not much of the strong, silent man about you, Clinton,” said Wendover glumly. “I never heard anyone to beat you for talking a lot and saying nothing while you're doing it.”
“Père François not mentioned in the classics? Well, well. One can't drag in everything, of course. But don't let's dwell on it. What about the business in hand? We must have a theory to work on, you know. How do you account for Mr. Paul Fordingbridge's quaint behaviour, squire? That's really of some importance.”
Wendover pondered for a time before taking up his friend's implied challenge.
“Suppose that No. 3 had a chloroformed pad in his hand when he came up behind Fordingbridge,” he suggested at last, “and that he clapped it over Fordingbridge's mouth from behind; and then, once he was unconscious, they both carried him down to a boat.”
“You can chloroform a sleeping man without any struggle,” the inspector commented acidly, “but you can't chloroform a normal man without his making some sort of struggle. There's no trace of a struggle here.”
Wendover had to admit the flaw.
“Well, then,” he amended, “I suppose one must assume that he voluntarily allowed himself to be lifted down to the boat.”
Armadale hardly troubled to conceal his sneer.