“She got a letter from her uncle making an appointment at the Blowhole.”
Sir Clinton's face fell.
“That's worse than I thought,” he said. “Let's see the letter.”
Stanley Fleetwood pointed to the mantelpiece; and the chief constable searched among two or three papers until he found what he wanted.
“H'm! There's no date on this thing. It simply says, ‘Meet me at the Blowhole to-night at’ ”—he paused and scrutinised the letter carefully—“ ‘at 9 p.m. Come alone.’ It is 9 p.m., isn't it?”
He passed the letter to the inspector.
“It seems to be 9 p.m.,” Armadale confirmed, “but it's a bit blotted. This is Mr. Fordingbridge's writing, I suppose?” he added, turning to Stanley Fleetwood.
“Quite unmistakable; and the signature's O.K.,” was the answer.
Sir Clinton was evidently thinking rapidly.
“We'll try the Blowhole first, though there'll be nothing there, I'm afraid. After that, we'll need to look elsewhere. This letter came by the post in the usual way, I suppose?”