They entered the hotel and sat down in the lounge. Wendover glanced from the window across the links.
“This place will be quite good when the new course has been played over for a year or two. I shouldn't wonder if Lynden Sands became fairly popular.”
Sir Clinton was about to reply when a page-boy entered the lounge and paraded slowly across it, chanting in a monotonous voice:
“Number eighty-nine! Number eighty-nine! Number eighty-nine!”
The chief constable sat up sharply and snapped his fingers to attract the page-boy's attention.
“That's the number of my room,” he said to Wendover, “but I can't think of anyone who might want me. Nobody knows me in this place.”
“You number eighty-nine, sir?” the page-boy demanded. “There's somebody asking for you. Inspector Armadale, he said his name was.”
“Armadale? What the devil can he be wanting?” Sir Clinton wondered aloud. “Show him in, please.”
In a minute or two the inspector appeared.
“I suppose it's something important, inspector,” Sir Clinton greeted him, “otherwise you wouldn't have come. But I can't imagine what brings you here.”