“And suppose the police call during your absence?” said Austin Turold, glancing sharply at his son.

“Then you had better tell the truth. I am tired of it all.”

“I might ask, with Pilate, What is truth?—in your case.”

“You know it already, father, whether you believe me or not.”

Austin Turold looked strangely at him—a look in which anger was mingled with something deeper and more searching, as though he sought to reach some secret in the depth of his soul. Impatiently he crossed the room to the fireplace, and stood with his back to the fire, facing his son.

“I do not see that there’s any more risk than there was before,” said Charles gloomily.

“I say there is,” returned his father sharply. “What! Do you suppose you can go off to London like this, leaving me here alone, at such a moment? Do you not see that your unexplained absence, in itself, is likely to bring suspicion upon you, indeed, upon both of us?”

“I cannot help that,” returned the young man desperately. “I must go and find Sisily.”

“You are not likely to find her. You do not even know that she has gone to London.”

“Yes. I have found out that much. She took a ticket by the midday train on the day after—it happened.”

“And why do you wish to find her?”

“Because she is deeply wronged—she is innocent.”

“You should be able to speak with authority on that point,” said Austin, with a cold glance, which the other did not meet. “You are acting very foolishly, rushing off to London on this quixotic mission. You won’t find her. Besides, no woman is worth what you are risking in this wild-goose chase. You are jeopardizing your future by an act of the maddest folly.”

“There is nothing in life for me but the shadow of things—now,” returned the young man in low tones. “I want nothing except to find Sisily and prove her innocence. I’m going to look for her, whatever you say.”

Austin Turold made an impatient gesture.

“Very well,” he said. “If Providence has made you a fool you must fulfil Providence’s decree. Only, I warn you, I think you are going the right way to bring trouble on yourself. That lawyer who was here to-day—what’s his name, Brimstone, Brimsdown?—has his suspicions, unless I’m very much mistaken.”

Charles turned pale. “What makes you think that?” he asked.

“By the way he watched both of us.”

“That accounts for his attitude when I saw him afterwards,” said Charles in a startled voice.

“Afterwards—where?”

“I went after him to tell him that Sisily was innocent.”

“And what else did you tell him?”

“Nothing but that—nothing that counted, at least.”

“Really, Charles, your lack of intelligence is a distinct reflection on me as a parent. Fancy a son of mine trying to make a lawyer’s bowels yearn with compassion! I’m positively ashamed of you. Why are you so elementary? The situation must have contained some elements of humour, though. I should like to have witnessed it. Did you call down Heaven’s vengeance on the murderer in approved fashion? How did the man of parchments take it?”

“You have no heart,” said his son, flushing darkly under this sarcasm. He walked towards the door as he spoke. “I am going,” he said. “There is an excursion train through to Paddington to-night, and I shall catch it.”

“You are determined on it, then?”

“I should be in an unendurable position if I didn’t,” replied the young man, and without another word he left the room.

Austin looked after him a little wistfully, as though remembering that the other was, after all, his son. He remained motionless for a moment, then crossed over to the window and looked out. As he stood so his eye was caught by two figures beneath. One was his son, walking down the garden path. The other was Mrs. Brierly, returning to the house. She walked past Charles with downcast eyes, but Austin from the window saw her turn and cast a frightened fluttering glance at the young man’s retreating figure. She had seen him, then, but did not want to recognize him. As she hurried up the garden path Austin caught a glimpse of her face, and observed that it was white and drawn.

“What’s the matter with my estimable landlady?” he murmured as he withdrew from the window.

His quick intelligence, playing round this incident and seeking to pierce its meaning, grew alarmed. There seemed to be a menace in it. Did she know or guess something of the hidden events of that night, or had she played the spy since? He turned pale as he considered these possibilities. Women had an unerring instinct for a secret once their curiosity was aroused. But he had been careful, very careful. What did she suspect?

He thought over this problem until night fell, and retired to bed with it still unanswered.

But the solution flashed into his mind at breakfast next morning, suddenly, like light in a dark place. He was amazed that he had not seen it before. “If it is that …” he whispered. But he knew it was that; knew also, that it meant the worst. He got up from the table, then forced himself to sit down again and eat. An untouched breakfast tray might quicken the suspicions in the mind of that most treacherous woman downstairs, might hasten her hand. But why had she delayed so long?

He passed the morning between his chair and the window, watching, and listening for footsteps. He saw Mrs. Brierly leave the house early, and wondered if she would return with the police. Another reflection came to his mind. Charles had some inkling, and had fled in time. Perhaps that was just as well, if he got out of England. For himself there was no such retreat, nor did he wish it. He would have to face things out, if they had to be faced, and he did not yet despair of saving the situation, so far as it affected himself. What did that diabolical female know, really? He had a momentary vision of her stealing about the house, prying, watching, listening. He sank into a motionless brooding reverie.

The day passed its meridian, but he still sat there in solitude with his anxious thoughts. As the afternoon declined his hopes rose. Could it be that he was mistaken, that his fears were imaginary? Perhaps, after all—

At that sharp ring of the doorbell downstairs he walked noiselessly to the window, and shrank back with the startled look of a man who has had his first glimpse of the bared teeth of the law. He stood still, listening intently. He heard the door opened, a sharp question, then the sound of ascending footsteps. 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. “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 ca............