“About half-past seven by God's time, sir.”
Sir Clinton was puzzled for a moment, then he repressed a smile slightly different from his earlier one.
“Half-past eight by summer time then?” he queried.
He glanced at his wrist-watch, and then consulted a pocket diary.
“Sunrise is due in about a quarter of an hour. You gauged it neatly in waking me up, inspector. Well, we've a good deal less than two hours in hand. It may keep us pretty busy, if we're to dig up all the available data before the tracks are obliterated by the tide coming in.”
He reflected for a moment, and then turned to the fisherman.
“Would you mind going into Lynden Sands village for me? Thanks. I want some candles—anything up to a couple of dozen of them. And a plumber's blow-lamp, if you can lay your hands on one.”
The fisherman seemed taken aback by this unexpected demand.
“Candles, sir?” he inquired, gazing eastward to where the golden bar of the dawn hung on the horizon.
“Yes, candles—any kind you like, so long as you bring plenty. And the blow-lamp, of course.”