The clock in Dr. Ravenshaw’s study ticked loudly in the perfect stillness and then struck ten with a note of metallic derision as though rejoicing in the theft of an hour from a man who prided himself on knowing the value of time. Startled to find that it was so late, Barrant sprang to his feet and rang the bell. A sleepy Cornish maid appeared in answer, and Barrant informed her that he could not wait any longer.

“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. He dismissed the girl with a nod, and turned inquiringly to his visitor.

“I am Detective Barrant, doctor; I have waited to see you on my way back from Flint House. I am investigating the case.”

“Yes?” said the doctor inquiringly. “Please be seated.”

“It is a strange case, you know,” began the detective. “And one of the strange things about it is that the dead man’s relatives differ whether it is murder or suicide. That’s what brings me to you. You are a medical man, and you knew Robert Turold intimately. Would you consider him a man of suicidal tendencies?”

“Many men have tendencies towards suicide at odd moments,” replied the doctor, “particularly men of Robert Turold’s temperament.”

“Was there anything in Robert Turold’s demeanour which suggested to you recently that he valued his life lightly, or was likely to take it?”

“I would rather not give a definite opinion on that point. I have to give evidence at the inquest, you know.”

Barrant nodded. He realized the force of the doctor’s objection to the expression of a view which might be proved erroneous later. So he turned to another phase of the case.

“You saw Robert Turold’s body soon after you arrived at Flint House?”

“Within a few minutes.”

“How long had he been dead?”

“About ten minutes, I should say.”

“What was the cause of death?”

“He was shot through the main blood vessel of the left lung. It was possible to arrive at that conclusion from the very severe haemorrhage. The blood was still flowing freely when we broke into the room. That would cause death from heart failure, following the haemorrhage, within two or three minutes, in all probability.”

“He was quite dead when you entered the study?”

“Quite.”

“How long after was the body carried into the bedroom?”

“An hour or more. It was some time before Pengowan arrived, and Thalassa and he removed the body a little later.”

Barrant looked disappointed at his reply. “Would it be possible to make marks on a corpse after that length of time?” he asked.

“What sort of marks?” asked the doctor.

“There was a mark of five fingers on the left arm, made by a left hand.”

“Then you have finger-prints to help you?”

“Unfortunately no. It’s a grip—a clutch—which, will not reveal print marks in the impressions. I thought they might have been caused during the removal of the body.”

“It is not possible to make such marks on a corpse. Reaction sets in at the moment of death. Sometimes blue spots appear on a dead body, and such appearances have been occasionally mistaken for bruises.”

“Did you observe any marks when you examined the body?” asked Barrant as he rose to his feet.

“No, but my examination was confined to ascertaining if life was extinct.”

Barrant thanked him and said good night. The doctor rose also, and escorted him to the door.

Outside, a wild west wind sprang at him. Barrant pulled his hat over his eyes and hurried away.

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. I will get the warrant for her arrest backed at Bow Street, and put a couple of good men on the search before returning here. You had better have the inquest adjourned until I come back. This is no suicide, Dawfield, but a deep and skilfully planned murder.”

“I should think the flight of the girl makes that pretty clear,” said Dawfield, as he made a note on his office pad.

Barrant shook his head. “It’s too strange a case for us to have any feeling of certainty about it yet,” he said. “There is some very deep mystery behind the facts. Every step of my investigation convinces me of that. The disappearance of Miss Turold does not explain everything.”

“She was up at Flint House on that night, and now she is not to be found. Surely that is enough?”

“This is not a straightforward case. It’s going to prove a very complicated one. But I have come to the conclusion that the quickest way to get at the truth is to find Sisily Turold. Her flight suggests that she is implicated in the crime in some way, and it may even mean that she is guilty.”

“Do not the circumstances point to her guilt?”

“Circumstances can lie with the facility of humanity, at times. Moreover, we do not know all the circumstances yet. But let us examine the facts we have discovered. We believe that the girl visited her father’s house on the night of his death, and has since disappeared. We must assume that it was she who was seen listening at the door during the afternoon by Mrs. Pendleton, because that assumption provides strong motive for the murder by giving the key of interpretation to Miss Turold’s subsequent actions. We must picture the effect of that overheard conversation on the girl’s mind. She had been kept in ignorance about the secret of her birth, and she suddenly discovers that instead of being a prospective peeress and heiress, she is only an illegitimate daughter, a nameless thing, a reproach in a world governed by moral conventions. Her prospects, her future, and her life are shattered by her father’s act. The effect might well be overwhelming. 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. 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.

“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 sp............