“All right, Clinton. I don't like it; but I see there are some advantages.”
Accompanied by the others, he entered the hotel and made his way to the desk, while the two officials dropped into the background.
“Mrs. Fleetwood?” the clerk repeated, when Wendover had made his inquiry. “Yes, sir, she's upstairs. Didn't you know that Mr. Fleetwood broke his leg last night? The doctor's set it now. I think Mrs. Fleetwood's up in his room with him.”
“What's the number?” Wendover asked.
“No. 35, sir. Shall I phone up and ask if you can see her? It's no trouble.”
Wendover shook his head and turned away from the desk. As he crossed the hall, the other two rejoined him.
“It's on the first floor. We'll walk up,” said Sir Clinton, turning towards the stairs. “You can do the talking, inspector.”
Nothing loath, Armadale knocked at the door of No. 35, and, on receiving an answer, he turned the handle and entered the room. Sir Clinton followed him, whilst Wendover, acutely uncomfortable, hovered on the threshold. On the bed, with his features pale and drawn, lay Stanley Fleetwood. Cressida rose from an armchair and threw a startled glance at the intruders.
The inspector was no believer in tactful openings.
“I'm sorry to trouble you,” he said gruffly, “but I understand you can give me some information about the affair on the beach last night.”