of negation which gathered force and cogency by frequent repetition.
But in the mass of teeming thoughts which crowded her brain in the silence of the small hours, she long and vainly sought for any other theory which would account for her brother’s death. If he had been murdered, as in the first flush of her indignation she had declared, who had killed him? Who had gone to the lonely old house in the darkness of the night, and struck him down?
It was not until the first faint glimmering of dawn was pushing its grey way through the closed shutters that there came to her the recollection of an incident of the previous day which had left a deep mark upon her mind at the time, but had since been covered over by the throng of later tremendous events. It was the memory of that momentary glance of a pair of eyes through the slit of the door while her brother was telling of his daughter’s illegitimacy and her mother’s shame. In the light of Robert’s subsequent death that incident appeared in a new sinister shape as a clue to the commission of the deed itself. With the recollection of that glance there sprang almost simultaneously before her mental vision the grim and forbidding features of her brother’s servant, Thalassa.
If she had been asked, Mrs. Pendleton could not have given a satisfactory reason for linking Thalassa with the incident of the eyes, but she was a woman, and not concerned about reasons. The two impressions had scurried swiftfooted, into her mind together, and there they remained. She was now convinced that she had all along believed it was Thalassa she had seen watching through the door, watching and listening for some fell purpose of his own. She knew nothing about Thalassa, but she had taken an instant dislike to him when she first saw him. That vague dislike now assumed the form of active suspicion against him. She determined, with the impulsiveness which was part of her temperament, to bring her suspicion before the police at the earliest possible moment.
She was essentially a woman of action, and in spite of her sleepless night she was up and dressed before her husband was awake. He came down to breakfast to find his wife had already finished hers, and was dressed ready to go out.
“Where is Sisily?” he asked, with a glance at the girl’s vacant place.
“I’ve ordered her breakfast to be taken to her room, and sent word to her to rest in bed until I go to her,” his wife replied. “I have a painful ordeal before me in breaking the news of Robert’s death to her. It’s all over the hotel already, unfortunately. Sisily is out of the way of gossip in her room. After I’ve seen her I shall leave her in your charge, Joseph. I shall have plenty on my hands to-day.”
Mr. Pendleton received this mandate with a blank face, and momentarily regretted that the arrangements for their departure by the morning’s train had been cancelled. Then his better nature asserted itself, and he meekly replied that he would do what he could. “What do you suggest?” he asked.
“Take her for a walk,” responded his wife. “Try and keep her interested and her mind occupied.”
With these words she left the breakfast table and proceeded upstairs to Sisily’s room before going out. On the way there she again regretted having undertaken the responsibility of her niece’s future. She had not disturbed Sisily on the previous night. She had tried her door on her way to her own room, but it was locked, so she had let the girl sleep on, and deferred breaking the tragic news until the morning.
She now paused outside the door reluctantly. But she was not the woman to shrink from a duty because it was unpleasant, and womanly sympathy for her unhappy niece banished her diffidence. She knocked lightly and entered.
Sisily was seated by the window reading. A breakfast tray, still untouched, stood on a small table beside her. She put down her book as her aunt entered, and rose to greet her.
Mrs. Pendleton bent over the girl and kissed her, and took her hand. As she did so she observed that Sisily looked worn and fatigued, with black rings under her eyes, as though she, too, had passed a sleepless night. But she was wonderfully pretty, the elder woman thought, and nothing could rob her of the fresh charm of youth and beauty.
“Sit down, Sisily,” she said, leading her back to her chair, and taking another one beside her. “I have sad news for you, dear, and you must be a brave girl. Something has happened to your father.”
“What has happened?” asked Sisily quickly. Then, as if taking in the import of her aunt’s tone, rather than her words, she added: “Do you mean that he is … dead?”
Mrs. Pendleton inclined her head with tears in her eyes. “It is worse even than that,” she went on, her voice drooping to a whisper. “He … he has been killed. We found him last night. Listen, dear, I will tell you all.”
She gave the cold fingers a comforting pressure as she spoke, but the hand was immediately withdrawn, and Sisily sprang away from her, then turned and regarded her with blazing eyes and a white face.
“Tell me about it!” she said.
Mrs. Pendleton imparted as much of the facts as she felt called upon to relate. There was something about the girl’s reception of the news which puzzled her, and her own look fell before the sombre intensity of her gaze. Sisily heard the story in silence, and when it was finished, merely said—
“I think I would like to be left alone for a little while, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh, you mustn’t sit here moping, my dear,” said Mrs. Pendleton, with an attempt at cheerfulness which she felt to be clumsy and ill-timed, but Sisily’s manner had momentarily disconcerted her. “You had better put on your hat and coat and go out with your uncle. He is waiting downstairs for you. It is very sad, very terrible, but you must let us help you bear it. You must not stay here alone.”
“You are very kind”—the girl’s lips quivered slightly, though her face remained calm—“but I would rather not go out. I should prefer to be left alone.”
There was in her expression a despairing yet calm detachment and resolve which forced Mrs. Pendleton in spite of herself to yield to her wish with a meekness which was almost timidity.
“Very well, dear,” she said. “If you feel like a walk later on, you will find your uncle downstairs.”
As she left the room she heard the door shut behind her.
But Mrs. Pendleton had other things to think about that morning than the strangeness of her niece’s disposition and the manner in which she had received the news of her father’s death. The horror of that event filled her own thoughts to the exclusion of everything else, and she was determined to remain in Cornwall until the mystery was explained.
She glanced at her watch as she reached the bottom of the stairs. She had breakfasted early, and it still wanted a few minutes to ten o’clock. The lobby of the hotel was deserted, and through the glass doors leading to the breakfast-room she could see a few guests still at their morning meal. A porter was sweeping the front entrance, and of him she enquired the way to the police station, and set out for it.
It was chill and grey after the storm, with a sky obscured by scudding clouds, but a gleam of truant sunshine was sporting wantonly on the hoary castled summit of St. Michael’s Mount, and promised to visit the town later on. Mrs. Pendleton walked briskly, and soon arrived at the police station.
A young constable in the office came forward as she entered and enquired her business. She disclosed her name, and her relationship with the inmate of Flint House, deeming that would be sufficient to gain her an interview with somebody in authority. In that expectation she was not disappointed. The constable favoured her with a good hard stare, went into another room, and reappeared to say that Inspector Dawfield would see her at once.
She followed him into the inner room, where a slight man of middle age was seated at a leather-covered table opening his morning correspondence. He looked up and bowed as he saw his visitor, but waited until the constable had retired before he spoke.
“Good morning,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
His eye regarded her with a thoughtful glance. His professional interest had been aroused by the strange death of the occupant