“This missing nephew came from Australia, Clinton. I'm playing golf to-morrow morning with that Australian man who's staying at the hotel. He isn't the missing heir by any chance, is he?”
“I shouldn't think so, from Miss Fordingbridge's story. This claimant was pretty badly disfigured, whereas Cargill's rather a nice-looking chap. Also, she's sure to have come across Cargill in the hotel; he's been here for a week at least; but the claimant-man only presented himself to her last night, if you remember.”
Chapter VI.
The Beach Tragedy
Wakened abruptly by the trilling of a bell beside his bed, Sir Clinton bitterly regretted the striving of the Lynden Sands Hotel towards up-to-dateness, as represented by a room telephone system. He leaned over and picked up the receiver.
“Sir Clinton Driffield speaking.”
“I'm Armadale, sir,” came the reply. “Can I see you? It's important, sir, and I can't very well talk about it over the 'phone.”
Sir Clinton's face betrayed a natural annoyance.
“This is an ungodly hour to be ringing anyone up in his bed, inspector. It's barely dawn. However, since you're here, you may as well come up. My room's No. 89.”
He laid down the receiver, got out of bed, and put on his dressing-gown. As he moved across the room and mechanically began to brush his hair, a glance through the window showed him that the rain of the previous night had blown over and the sky was blue. The sun had not yet risen, and a pale full moon was low on the western horizon, A murmur of the incoming tide rose from the beaches; and the white crests of the waves showed faintly in the half-light.
“Well, inspector, what is it?” Sir Clinton demanded testily. “You'd better be brief, be businesslike, and be gone, as they say. I want to get back to bed.”