“No, sir,” the inspector confessed shamefacedly. “She's got clean away.”
Sir Clinton seemed both staggered and perturbed by the news.
“Got away? What do you mean? You'd nothing to do but walk up and arrest her. Why didn't you do it?”
Armadale explained the state of affairs; and, as he told his story, the chief constable's face darkened.
“H'm! Your landlady's made the mess of her life this shot. And I thought I'd been in plenty of time! Come along to the car. There isn't a moment to lose. Flatt's cottage, first of all.”
Wendover drove them up to the headland, and Sir Clinton jumped out of the car almost before it pulled up. He opened his attaché-case.
“There's a Colt for each of you. The first cartridge is up in the barrel, so mind the safety-catches. You may not need them; but you'd better be prepared.”
He handed a pistol to each of his companions, and pitched the attaché-case back into the car.
“Now, come along.”
When they reached the door of the cottage, the place seemed deserted.