Upstairs Mr. Brimsdown made unavailing search among Robert Turold’s papers for proofs of his statement about his marriage. The lawyer believed that they existed, and his failure to find them brought with it a belated realization of the fact that he, too, had been cherishing hopes of Sisily’s innocence. It was the memory of her face which had inspired that secret hope. That was not sentiment (so Mr. Brimsdown thought), but the worldly wisdom of a man whose profession had trained him to read the human face. Sisily’s face, as he recalled it now, had looked sad and a little fearful that night at Paddington, but there was nothing furtive or tainted in her clear glance. He felt that a judge would look with marked attention at such a face in the dock. Judges, like lawyers, and all whose business it is to trip their kind into the gins of the law, scan faces as closely as evidence in the effort to read the stories written there.

But the disappearance of certain papers which had probably been abstracted from that room weighed more in the scale of suspicion against Sisily than her look of innocence. She stood to gain most by the suppression or destruction of the proofs of her mother’s earlier marriage. But Mr. Brimsdown could not see that this rather negative inference against the girl brought the actual solution of the mystery any nearer. It did nothing to explain, for instance, the marks on the dead man’s arm and his posthumous letter. The letter! What was the explanation of the letter? Was it not an argument of equal weight for Sisily’s innocence, suggesting the existence of some hidden avenging figure glimpsed by Robert Turold in time to give him warning of his death, but not in time to enable him to avert it?

There were other things too. What was the meaning of that sly and stealthy shake of the head which Austin Turold had given his son that afternoon. A warning obviously—but a warning for what purpose? Mr. Brimsdown could not guess, but his contemplation of the incident brought before him the image of the restless and unhappy young man, as he stood by the bedside in the next room, pointing to the marks on the dead man’s arm. Even in his vehement assertions of Sisily’s innocence Mr. Brimsdown had conceived the impression that he was keeping something back. What did Charles Turold know? Did his father share his secret knowledge? Mr. Brimsdown could not answer these questions, and he was greatly perturbed at the way in which they brought a host of other thoughts and doubts in their train. He reflected that the Turolds, father and son, were after all the greatest gainers by their relative’s death. The father came into immediate possession of a large and unexpected fortune which he would bequeath to his son. And Austin Turold was not anxious apparently to proceed with his brother’s claim for the title.

These were facts which could not be gainsaid, but where did they lead? The trouble was that no conceivable theory covered the facts of the case, so far as they were known. So far as they were known! That was the difficulty. Any line of thought stopped short of the real solution, because the facts themselves were inconclusive. There was much that was still concealed—Mr. Brimsdown felt sure of that.

As he applied his mind to the problem, the definite impression came back to him, and this time with renewed force, that the mystery surrounding Robert Turold’s death was something which might not bear the light of day. He set his lips firmly as he considered that possibility. If that proved to be the case it would be his duty to cover it up again. He was an adept at such work, as many of his clients, alive and dead, could have approvingly testified. He had spent much time in safeguarding family secrets. Several old families had found him their rock of refuge in distress. If he had been a man of the people, baby lips might have been taught to call down Heaven’s blessings on his discreet efforts. Those members of the secluded domain of high respectability for whom he strived showed their gratitude in a less emotional but more substantial way—generally in the mellow atmosphere of after-dinner conferences … “You had better see my man, Brimsdown. I’ll give you a note to him. He’ll square this business for you. Safe? None safer.”

Mr. Brimsdown did not accept the axiom of a great English jurist that every man is justified in evading the law if he can, because it is the duty of lawmakers not to leave any loophole for evasion. That point of view of justice as a battle of wits, with victory to the sharpest, was a little too cynical for his acceptance. But he believed it to be his duty to safeguard the interests of his client. Robert Turold was dead, and no longer able to protect his own name. It might be that the facts of his death involved some scandalous secret of the dead man’s which was better undivulged, and if so it would remain undivulged, could Mr. Brimsdown contrive it. For the time being he would pursue his investigations and keep his own counsel.

The sound of an opening door and a shadow athwart the threshold disturbed his meditations. He looked up, and was confronted by the spectacle of Thalassa advancing into the room with his eyes fixed upon him.

“Well, Thalassa,” he said, “what do you want?”

“To ask you something,” was the response. “It’s this. It’s every man for himself—now that he’s gone.”

He jerked his thumb in the direction of the next room. “He took this house for twelve months, and so it’ll have to be paid for. Can I stop here for a bit? I suppose it’s in your hands to say yes or no.”

His face was hard and expressionless as ever, but there was a new note in his voice which struck the lawyer’s keen ear—an accent of supplication. He looked at Thalassa thoughtfully.

“You wish to stay on here until you have made other arrangements for your future—is that so?” he asked.

“That’s it,” was the brief reply.

Mr. Brimsdown felt there was more than that—some deeper, secret reason. Before granting the request it occurred to him to try and get what he could in exchange. Self-interest is the strongest of human motives, and men wanting favours are in a mood to yield something in return.

“Well, Thalassa,” he said, amiably enough, but watching him with the eye of a hawk, “I do not think your request is altogether unreasonable—in the circumstances. I dare say it could be arranged. I’ll try to do so, but I should like you to answer me one or two questions first.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Was your master’s daughter here—in the house, I mean—on the night of his death?”

Thalassa’s face hardened. “You, too?” he said simply. “I say again, as I said before, that she was not.”

“You said so,” rejoined Mr. Brimsdown softly. “The question is—are you telling the truth? If you know anything of the events of that night you may be injuring Miss Turold by your silence.”

For a moment Mr. Brimsdown thought his appeal was going to succeed. He could have sworn that a flicker of hesitation—of irresolution—crossed the old man’s stern countenance. But the mood passed immediately, and it was in an indifferent voice that Thalassa, turning to go, replied—

“If that’s what you’re reckoning on, I’d better go and pack my traps.”

“Oh, I don’t make that a condition,” replied the lawyer, acknowledging his defeat in a sporting spirit. “You can remain here and look after the house until you decide what to do. As Robert Turold’s old servant you are entitled to consideration. I will help you afterwards, if you will let me know your plans. I am sure that would have been your late master’s wish.”

“I want nothing from him,” Thalassa rejoined, “a damned black scoundrel.”

Mr. Brimsdown was shocked at this savage outburst, but there was something so implacable in the old man’s air that the rebuke he wished to utter died unspoken. Thalassa regarded him for a moment in silence, and then went on—

“Thank’ee for letting me stop on here a bit. Now I’ll tell you something—about him.” Again his thumb indicated the next room. “It was the night after.”

“Do you mean the night after he met his death?”

“Yes. Some one was upstairs in his room—in this room.”

Mr. Brimsdown gave a startled glance around him, as though seeking a lurking form in the shadows. “Here?” he breathed.

“Here, sure enough. I woke up in my bed downstairs, staring wide awake, as though somebody had touched me on the shoulder. I was just turning over to go to sleep again, when I heered a noise up here.”

“What sort of a noise?”

“Like the rustling of paper. I listened for a bit, then it stopped. I heard a board creak in the next room, where we’d carried him. Then the rustling started in the other room again, right over my head. The dog downstairs started to bark. I got up, and went upstairs as quickly as I could, but there was nobody—except him. The dog frightened whoever it was, I suppose. Next morning I found the front room window wide open.”

“Were there any footprints outside the window?”

“A man doesn’t leave footprints on rocks.”

“What time was it?”

“It would be about midnight, I reckon.”

“Did your wife hear the noise?”

“No. She was in bed and asleep.”

“Are you sure you didn’t dream this?” Mr. Brimsdown asked, with a shrewd penetrating glance.

“The open window wasn’t a dream,” was the dogged reply.

“You might have left it open yourself.”

“No, I didn’t. I close the windows every night before dark.”

“And lock them?”

“Not always.”

The incident did not sound convincing to Mr. Brimsdown, but his face did not reveal his scepticism as he thanked Thalassa for the information. Thalassa lingered, as if he had something still on his mind. He brought it out abruptly—

“Has anything been seen of Miss Sisily?”

“Nothing whatever, Thalassa.”

On that he turned away, and went out of the room, leaving the lawyer pondering over his story of a midnight intruder. Mr. Brimsdown came to the conclusion that it was probably imagination, and so dismissed it from his mind.

He resumed his work of working over the papers, but after a few minutes discontinued his search, and walked restlessly about the room. The air seemed to have the taint of death in it, and he crossed over to one of the windows and flung it up.

The window looked out on the sea, though far above it, but the slope of the house embraced in the view a portion of the cliffs at the side. As Mr. Brimsdown stood so, breathing the sea air and looking around him, he espied a woman, closely veiled, walking rapidly across the cliffs in the direction of the house.

She vanished from the range of his vision almost immediately, but a few minutes later he heard footsteps and an opening door. He was again confronted by the presence of Thalassa on the threshold. But this time Thalassa did not linger. “Somebody to see you,” he announced with gruff brevity, and turned away.

The open door now revealed the figure of the woman he had seen outside. She advanced into the room.

“Mr. Brimsdown?” she said.

“That is my name,” said the lawyer, eyeing her in some surprise. He recognized her as the woman who had stared after him when he left Austin Turold’s lodgings, but he could not conjecture the object of her visit.

“I see you do not remember me,” she sadly remarked.

“You are Mrs. Brierly, I think.”

“Yes. But I was Mary Pleasington before I was married. I remember you very well, but I suppose that I have changed.”

Mr. Brimsdown recalled the name with a start of surprise. He found it difficult to recognize, in the faded woman before him, the pretty daughter of his old client, Sir Roger Pleasington, whose debts and lawsuits had been compounded by death ten years before. He remembered his daughter as a budding beauty, with the airs and graces of a pretty girl w............