And just before dawn, after he’d finished his whisky and was fighting the fatigue that was slowly dulling his senses, he heard footsteps, brisk and male, crossing the marble floor of the lobby.

He turned his chair very slightly, so that he could see the elevator. But the man didn’t use it, he took the broad, carpeted stairs two at a time.

Rutledge reached the lobby about a dozen steps behind him, and setting his hat on his head at an angle that shadowed his face, he went up after the man.

He reached the first floor in time to see his quarry disappearing into the fifth door on the seaward side. Rutledge followed, leaning lightly toward the door to listen.

A warm female voice said, “You’re late, my dear.”

And a man answered, “But I’m here now.”

She laughed, a silvery sound, pleasant. “Come to bed, then.”

Rutledge looked at the number on the door.

He moved silently away from it and then walked back the way he had come, down the stairs to Reception, where he rang the bell for the night clerk. The man limped as he stepped out of an inner office, his face slack with sleep.

“May I assist you, sir?”

Rutledge said, “Scotland Yard. You can verify that by contacting Inspector Norman, if you like. I just need information at the moment. And my request will not fuel the morning gossip. Is that understood?” He set his identity card on the mahogany counter. “Who are the guests in number eight?”

He repeated it, as if trying to take it in, then he opened the book and scanned the entries. “Number eight. The guests in that room are a Mr. and Mrs. Pierce. Is there any problem, sir?”

The last thing Rutledge wanted was for this man to wonder about the occupants of number eight. And so he said, “Someone in London must have made a mistake. They aren’t the guests I was expecting to find in that room.”

“They’ve been here for several nights. Newlyweds, I’m told.”

Surprised, Rutledge said, “Indeed? I wish them happiness.” He turned and walked out to the terrace and down the broad steps to the street. The rain had stopped, but the waves, invisible in the darkness, were rolling in with the wind still behind them. He could smell the sea, and feel the spray on his face.

He turned in the street and looked up at the hotel facade, counting windows and focusing on what must be number eight.

And as he watched, the lights went out, and someone drew the curtain wide, letting in the sound of the sea. Rutledge turned away, wondering if he’d been seen. He walked on to his motorcar without looking back.

Daniel Pierce was in Hastings New Town. And with a wife. A new wife, according to the clerk at Reception.