“There's been another murder, sir.”
Sir Clinton made no effort to conceal his surprise.
“Another murder! In a place this size? They must be making a hobby of it.”
The inspector observed with satisfaction that his superior had given up any thoughts of bed, for he was beginning to dress himself.
“This is what happened, sir,” Armadale continued. “Shortly after midnight a man appeared at the house of the local constable—Sapcote, you remember—and hammered on the door till Sapcote came down. He began some confused yarn to the constable, but Sapcote very wisely put on his clothes and brought the fellow round to me. I've got a room in a house near by, where I'm staying till this Hay affair is cleared up.”
Sir Clinton nodded, to show that he was paying attention, but went on swiftly with his dressing.
“I examined the man,” Armadale continued. “His name's James Billingford. He's a visitor here—he's rented old Flatt's cottage, on the point between here and Lynden Sands village. It seems he sometimes suffers from sleeplessness; and last night he went out rather late, hoping that a walk would do him some good. He strolled along the beach in this direction, not paying very much attention to anything. Then he heard the sound of shooting farther along the beach.”
“Does that mean one shot or several?” Sir Clinton demanded, turning from the mirror in front of which he was fastening his tie.
“He was a bit doubtful there,” Armadale explained. “I pressed him on the point, and he finally said he thought he heard two. But he wasn't certain. He seems to have been mooning along, not paying attention to anything, when he heard something. It wasn't for some seconds that he identified the sound for what it was; and by that time he was quite muddled up as to what he had really heard. He doesn't seem very bright,” the inspector added contemptuously.
“Well, what happened after the Wild West broke loose on the beach?” Sir Clinton demanded, hunting for his shoes.