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Updated: May 10, 2025
"The doctor may be in at any time now, sir," the girl eagerly assured him, as though she were in league with the clock to steal more of his time. "I will call again," said Barrant curtly. "Any message, sir? Oh, here's the doctor now. A gentleman to see you, sir." Dr. Ravenshaw advanced into the room. He looked tired and weary, as if he had spent a long vigil by a patient.
"Indistinguishable, of course," he muttered, returning the letter to the envelope. "Had Robert Turold any enemies?" he asked. "I never heard him speak of any." "How did he come by his money?" asked Barrant, struck by a sudden thought. "His sister tells me that he made his money abroad." "That I cannot tell you." "But you invested his fortune for him, did you not?" "I did," the lawyer agreed.
"No, he did not." "Where did he go?" "These are strange questions, Detective Barrant. I really cannot tell you that either, because I do not know." He put up his glasses to look at Barrant with an assumption of resentment, but the detective's return glance was hard and searching. "Was your son in to dinner that night?" he asked. "We have midday dinner, in this house." "Well, supper.
When I grip you firmly, as I do now, you can feel my fingers pressing their whole length on your flesh, can you not?" "I can indeed," said Dawfield, wincing. "You've a pretty powerful grip. I shall be black and blue." "The grip on Robert Turold's arm is quite a different thing," pursued Barrant earnestly. "Do not be afraid, I am not going to demonstrate again.
The subject was not without its fascination for him, because it suggested a strange train of thought about the hood clock which was the text, as it were, of the lawyer's discourse. He looked up. Mr. Brimsdown, in front of the clock, was discoursing about dials and pendulums. Barrant broke in abruptly with the question on his mind
A lusty voice hailed out of the darkness, and then Barrant was aware of somebody entering the wagonette, a large male body which plumped heavily on his knees as it started again. "Bed pardin, I'm sure. Aw dedn't knaw Crows had another passenger to-night." A husky voice spoke unseen. "'Taint often it 'appens."
Pendleton could see him holding a colloquy over the telephone. After rather a lengthy conversation he returned to announce that a detective was coming over by the next train to investigate the case. "The Bodmin office is sending over Detective Barrant, of Scotland Yard," he explained. "He happens to be in Cornwall on another case, and was just on the point of returning to London.
Inside, some stout women with bundles waited patiently until it suited the autocrat on the box seat to start on his homeward way. Mr. Crows showed no indication of being in a hurry. His head nodded drowsily, and a little saliva trickled down his nether lip. He straightened himself with a sudden jerk as Barrant climbed up beside him. "What be yewer doin' yare?" he demanded. "I'm going to St.
Nonsense! He Barrant was not simple enough to believe that. What then? Barrant was not prepared to supply a ready answer to that question. But his trained ear had detected many gaps in the young man's own narrative which, filled in, might give it. Turold knew more than he had said he was keeping things back. Again what things?
Barrant recalled the strange case of a wealthy merchant who had cut his throat on a Bank holiday and confessed before death that he had felt the same impulse on that day for years past. He had whispered that the day marked to him such a pause in life's dull round that it seemed to him a pity to start again.
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