Inspector Armadale glanced at Wendover, and then, without speaking, he caught Sir Clinton's eye. The chief constable read the meaning in his glance.
“This is a friend of mine, inspector—Mr. Wendover. He's a J. P. and perfectly reliable. You can speak freely before him, if it's anything official.”
Armadale was obviously relieved.
“This is the business, Sir Clinton. This morning we had a 'phone message from the Lynden Sands doctor. It seems the caretaker at a big house hereabouts—Foxhills, they call it—was found dead, close to his cottage. Dr. Rafford went up to see the body; and at first he thought it was a case of apoplexy. Then he noticed some marks on the body that made him suspicious, and he says he won't give a death certificate. He put the matter into our hands at once. There's nobody except a constable hereabouts, so I've come over myself to look into things. Then it struck me you were staying at the hotel here, and I thought I'd drop in on my way up.”
Sir Clinton gazed at the inspector with a very faintly quizzical expression.
“A friendly call?” he said. “That's very nice. Care to stay to lunch?”
The inspector evidently had not expected to find the matter taken in this way.
“Well, sir,” he said tentatively, “I thought perhaps you might be interested.”
“Intensely, inspector, intensely. Come and tell me all about it when it's cleared up. I wouldn't miss it.”
Faint signs of exasperation betrayed themselves in the inspector's face.