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The notes were not finished, but ended abruptly in the middle of a sentence: "It is necessary to make it clea " Those were the last words the dead man had written. He had dropped the pen, which lay beside the paper, without finishing the word "clear." The sight of this unfinished sheet kindled Barrant's imagination, and he stood thoughtful, considering the meaning of it.
Barrant wondered idly why human nature was always so interested in the washing of dirty linen. Above these was ranged a row of published sermons. Barrant's eye roamed higher and fell on a fat sturdy volume wedged in between some slimmer books. The title of this book was "Clocks of All Periods." Clocks! He reached for the volume and placed it on the table.
"I think I had better tell you about my own actions, first of all, on that night," said Charles, after a brief silence. "It will clear the way for what follows. I was up here that night the night of the murder." "I know that much," was Barrant's cold comment. "You suspected it you did not know it," Charles quickly rejoined.
"Drive me to the Central Hotel," he said. "Go as fast as you can, and I'll give you ten shillings!" Mr. Crows nodded a cold acquiescence, and they rattled off down the silent street, leaving on Barrant's mind a receding impression of a startled red face staring after them from the footpath. The wagonette jolted round a corner, and ten minutes later stopped at the entrance of the hotel where Mrs.
It was Barrant's lot to listen to many strange stories which were always true, according to the narrators, but generally they caused him to feel ashamed of the poverty of human invention. He was not immediately concerned to discover whether Thalassa's story was true or false, or whether it had been concocted between him and Charles with the object of deceiving the authorities.
"All except one thing, Thalassa." Thalassa met Barrant's look steadily, with no sense of guilt in his face. "Well?" he said. "I see that you do not intend to be frank. Let me help your memory a little. Did you have no other visitors before Mr. and Mrs. Pendleton and Dr. Ravenshaw arrived?" "Visitors?" There was scorn now in his straight glance, but nothing more.
When he had finished he looked at his companion expectantly, but Barrant's eyes were coldly official. "A strange story!" he said. "A true one," Charles eagerly rejoined. "Thalassa has been walking along the coast ever since in the expectation of finding this man. He will kill him if he meets him."
But he under-estimated Barrant's intelligence. Barrant had no intention of doing anything so crude. The situation was sufficiently awkward as it stood without putting the father on his guard. Austin might guess that he was under suspicion as well as his son, but that did not matter so much.
The relative weight of this discovery was, in Barrant's mind, weakened by the fact that the marks might have been caused by the persons who had carried the body from the next room.
He had never remotely connected Charles Turold with the murder until Mr. Brimsdown had imparted Mrs. Brierly's disclosure to him. He had acted promptly enough on that piece of information, but once again he was too late. Austin Turold might have felt reassured if he had known how little his share in the events of that night occupied Barrant's mind during their last interview.
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