“That tide's coming in fast,” he said anxiously. “The Blowhole up there is beginning to spout already.”
Armadale followed in the direction of the chief constable's glance, and saw a cloud of white spray hurtling up into the air from the top of a headland beside the hotel.
“What's that?” he asked, as the menacing fountain choked and fell.
“Sort of thing they call a souffleur on the French coast,” Sir Clinton answered. “Sea-cave gets filled with compressed air owing to the rise of the tide, and some water's blown off through a landward vent. That's what makes the intermittent jet.”
About a mile from the hotel the inspector motioned to Sir Clinton to stop at a point where the road ran close to the beach, under some sand-dunes on the inland side. A man in a jersey hastened towards them as the car pulled up.
“Nobody's come along, I suppose?” the inspector demanded when the new-comer reached them. Then, turning to Sir Clinton, he added: “This is one of the men who were watching the place for me.”
Sir Clinton looked up with a smile at the introduction.
“Very good of you to give us your help, Mr.——?”
“Wark's my name, sir.”
“. . . Mr. Wark. By the way, you're a fisherman, aren't you? Then you'll be able to tell me when high tide's due this morning.”