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"As you are here, you had better come into this room again, and shut the door behind you. I have some questions I want to put to you." Thalassa followed Barrant into the room and stood by the table, the rays of the swinging-lamp throwing his brown face into sharp outline. "What do you want to know?" he asked.
"He may be, but he said nothing to me about going there. He has his own liberty of action, like every other young man of his age. May I ask the reason of these questions, Detective Barrant?" Barrant did not choose to reply. He drew Inspector Dawfield to the doorway and conferred with him in an undertone. Austin saw Barrant slip the card into his colleague's hand, and Dawfield then hastened away.
There were always fresh vistas opening before the human mind. Barrant left the study for the opposite room where the body of Robert Turold had been taken. It was his bedroom, and he had been laid upon the bed. Death had not come to him easily.
"I know nothing about him. But what has that got to do with it?" "It may have much to do with it. He may have stood to inherit a fortune from Robert." "You surely do not suspect the brother?" "I suspect no one, at present," returned Barrant. "I am merely glancing at the scanty facts within our knowledge and seeing what can be gathered from them.
It is as well not to lose sight of that fact." Inspector Dawfield looked up quickly, but his colleague's face revealed nothing of his thoughts. "Hadn't you some idea that the marks on the arm might have been caused by the removal of the body into the next room?" he hazarded. "Not now," Barrant replied.
Charles did not turn his head again, but, leaning back in his seat, kept the other under view from seemingly closed eyes. He was soon convinced that the man in the corner seat was watching him shooting furtive glances across the carriage from behind the screen of his newspaper. Was he a detective? Not if Barrant was a usual representative of the tribe.
The inference was plain. Dawfield had been sent off to intercept the flight or start the pursuit. Austin found himself profoundly hoping that his son was by that time out of England. He had not much leisure to think of that, for Barrant turned towards him again with an annoyance that he did not attempt to dissemble. "Why has your son gone to London perhaps you can tell me that much?" he exclaimed.
She paused, embarrassed by the recollection that her brother's real intention in placing Sisily in her charge was altogether different. Barrant noted her hesitation, and interpreted it aright. "No," he said. "The real reason of your brother parting with his daughter provides the motive for her return to his house last night. What happened between them is a matter for conjecture, at present.
"I confess that her action in taking that risk after the murder strikes me as remarkable," observed Barrant thoughtfully. "But she would be anxious to return as speedily as possible, and perhaps she was aware that the last wagonette from St. Fair to Penzance is generally empty. But we can only speculate about that.
There was something so startling in this action of the wind that Barrant stood motionless, looking round him. The cold current of air he had admitted died away in the draughty passages with queer gasping noises, like a wind strangled. Then there was the most absolute silence. The curtains hung perpendicular, as thickly motionless as blankets.
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