“The ironmonger has one, sir.”
“Knock him up, then, and quote me for the price—Sir Clinton Driffield—if he makes any difficulty. Can you hurry?”
“I've got a bicycle here, sir.”
“Splendid! I know you won't waste time, Mr. Wark.”
The fisherman hurried off in search of his cycle; and in a very short time they saw him mount and ride away in the direction of the village. The inspector was obviously almost as puzzled as Wark had been, but he apparently thought it best to restrain his curiosity about the candles and blow-lamp.
“I think we'll leave your second patrol to watch the road, inspector, while we go down on to the beach. I suppose that's the rock you were speaking about?”
“Yes, sir. You can't see the body from here. The rock's shaped rather like a low chesterfield, with its back to this side, and the body's lying on what would be the seat.”
Sir Clinton glanced towards the bar of gold in the east which marked the position of the sun below the horizon.
“I don't want to go blundering on to the sands at random, inspector. What about a general survey first of all? If we climb this dune at the back of the road, we ought to get some rough notion of how to walk without muddling up the tracks. Come along!”
A few seconds took them to the top of the low mound. By this time the dawn-twilight had brightened, and it was possible to see clearly at a fair distance. Sir Clinton examined the beach for a short time without making any comment.