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In short, he was aware of the whole sequence of events preceding Robert Turold's violent and mysterious death, with the exception of the revelation of his life's secret, which Mrs. Pendleton had withheld from Inspector Dawfield. Barrant had heard all he wanted to know at second hand at that stage of his investigations, and he now preferred to be guided by his own impressions and observations.
"Pengowan wants us to look at the outside first," said Dawfield, but Barrant was already mounting the stairs. "You do so," he called back, over his shoulder. "I'll go up." At the top of the staircase he waited until Thalassa reached him. "Where are Mr. Turold's rooms?" he asked. Thalassa pointed with a long arm into the dim vagueness of the passage. "Down there," he said, "at the end.
He was able to make out that they had reached the highest elevation of the moors the cross-roads from where Inspector Dawfield had shown him Flint House in the distance that afternoon. He could just discern the outlines of the wayside cross and the old Druidical monolith, both pointing to the silent heavens in unwonted religious amity. "Good ebenen', Garge."
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.
When the knock came at his own door he was in complete command of himself as he went to open it. He was well aware of the ordeal before him, but he did not show it. There was nothing but ironical self-possession in the glance which took in the figures of Detective Barrant and Inspector Dawfield, revealed on the threshold of the opening door. Barrant lost no time in coming to the point.
"Sergeant Pengowan regards it as a case of suicide, does he not?" asked Mrs. Pendleton rigidly. "Well, yes, I believe he does," replied Inspector Dawfield. "There is no doubt on that point, is there? Your brother's revolver was lying near him, and the door was locked on the inside." "There is the greatest doubt in my mind," returned Mrs. Pendleton vehemently.
"I want to see your son," he said, entering and glancing quickly round the apartment. "I am afraid that is impossible." "Why?" "He is not here." "Where is he?" "I think he has gone to London." Barrant was plainly taken aback at this unexpected piece of news. "When did he go?" he demanded. "Yesterday evening." Barrant cast a look at Dawfield, which said plainly: "He's had word of this and bolted."
Observe, there are no finger-prints merely faint marks of the middle of the fingers, and a kind of blur for the thumb. But the thing is suspicious, undoubtedly suspicious." "Still, the door was locked from inside," said Dawfield. "We mustn't lose sight of that fact." "And the key was found in the room.
He had chosen to commence inquiries into Sisily's disappearance as soon as he had reached London instead of going to Scotland Yard, where a guarded telegram from Inspector Dawfield awaited him, and although he had hastened to obey the summons back to Cornwall as soon as he received it, two valuable days had been lost.
"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.
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