Wendover, despite his animus against Armadale, could not help admiring the cleverness of this sentence, which took so much for granted and yet had a vagueness designed to lead a criminal into awkward difficulties in his reply. But his main interest centred in Cressida; and at the look on her face his heart sank suddenly. Strain, confusion, and desperation seemed to have their part in it; but plainest of all was fear. She glanced from her husband to Armadale, and it was patent that she understood the acuteness of the danger.
“Why,” he admitted to himself in dismay, “she looks as if she'd really done it! And she's deadly afraid that Armadale can prove it.”
Cressida moistened her lips automatically, as if she were about to reply; but, before she could say a word, her husband broke in.
“What makes you come here with inquiries? I suppose you've some authority? Or are you a reporter?”
“I'm Inspector Armadale.”
Stanley Fleetwood made an evident effort to keep himself in hand, in spite of the physical pain which he was obviously suffering. He nodded in acknowledgment of the inspector's introduction, and then repeated his question.
“What makes you come to us?”
Armadale was not to be led into betraying anything about the extent of his information.
“I really can't go into that, Mr. Fleetwood. I came to ask a few questions, not to answer any. It's to your interest to answer frankly.”
He turned to Cressida.