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Updated: July 8, 2025
She broods over the wrong done to her, and decides to go to Flint House that night and see her father, though not, I think, with the premeditated idea of murder. Her idea was to plead and remonstrate with him." "Why do you think that?" asked Dawfield. "She could not have foreseen that her absence from the hotel would pass unnoticed. That was pure luck, due to Mrs.
They drove on in silence until they reached the churchtown. Inspector Dawfield steered the car to the modest dwelling of Sergeant Pengowan, whom they found at his gate awaiting their arrival a shaggy figure of a rural policeman of the Cornish Celtic variety, with no trace of Spanish or Italian ancestry in his florid face, inquisitively Irish blue-grey eyes, reddish whiskers, and burly frame.
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.
"Do not be a fool. Sit down and let us have lunch, and we'll discuss afterwards what's best to be done." With a slightly incredulous air Inspector Dawfield placed his London colleague in possession of his own knowledge of the facts of the case, based on the statements made to him by Mrs. Pendleton that morning and the facts as set forth in Sergeant Pengowan's report.
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.
Something in his companion's tone caused Inspector Dawfield to direct an interrogative glance at him. "Have you discovered something?" he asked. "Finger-marks on the left arm, a left-hand impression, I should say." He drew back the loose sleeve of the dead man, and Dawfield examined the marks attentively. "This is strange," he said. "It looks suspicious."
The following morning he sought out Inspector Dawfield at his office in Penzance and disclosed to him his conclusions about the case. "I intend to go to London by this morning's train, Dawfield," he announced. "We must find Robert Turold's daughter." "You think she has gone to London?" "I feel sure of it, and I do not think it will be difficult to trace her. I shall try first at Paddington.
Pendleton's chance visit to Flint House. It was just chance that the girl did not encounter her aunt there. She must have got away from Flint House shortly before Mrs. Pendleton arrived. But the strongest proof that there was no premeditation is to be found in the fact that Miss Turold made the journey openly, in a public conveyance." "And returned the same way," put in Dawfield.
Fair lay almost hidden in a bend or fold of the moors about a mile before them, and beyond it Dawfield pointed out to his companion Flint House, standing in gaunt outline on a tongue of coast thrust defiantly into the restless waters of the Atlantic. "A lonely weird place," said Barrant, eyeing his surroundings attentively. "An ideal setting for a mysterious crime."
By her constant association of the eyes with the disliked face of her brother's servant, she had unconsciously reached the conclusion that she had all along recognized the eavesdropper as Thalassa. "You say your brother was talking about some family matters at the time?" asked Inspector Dawfield, as she related that part of her story. "Yes," responded Mrs. Pendleton.
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