“Well, sir,” he conceded at last, “if you think I'm likely to bungle something because I don't know what it is, why not give me a hint?”
“Mr. Wendover could do that, I think, if you cared to ask him, inspector.”
Armadale turned round to Wendover with ill-concealed sulkiness.
“Have you something up your sleeve, sir?”
Wendover took no notice of the ungracious tone. He saw his way to achieve his end without the difficulties he had feared.
“You've got no case at all, inspector,” he said roundly. “Sir Clinton told you long ago that there was a flaw in it. The whole thing's a wash-out. Now I don't want to have you walking straight into a mess, you understand; and you'll do that if you aren't careful. Suppose we let Sir Clinton do the talking at this interview? He'll get what he wants. You and I can ask any questions we choose after he's done. And after it's all over I'll show you the flaw in your case. Agree to that?”
“I really think Mr. Wendover's suggestion is sound, inspector,” Sir Clinton interposed, as Armadale hesitated over accepting the situation. “It's a fact that you can't prove your case on the evidence available.”
“Oh, very well, then,” Armadale agreed, rather resentfully. “If you want it handled so, sir, I've no objection. But it seems to me that case will take a lot of breaking.”
“It's quite on the cards that this interview will stiffen you in your opinions, inspector; but you're wrong for all that,” Sir Clinton pronounced, in a voice that carried conviction to even the inspector's mind.