“He then went upstairs.  I again retired shortly afterwards, but I could not sleep.  I was too upset—­too nervous.  I could not get Mr. Robert Turold’s suicide out of my head.  It seemed such a dreadful thing for a wealthy man to do—­so common and vulgar!  Suicide sticks to a family so—­it is never really forgotten.  It is much easier to live down an embezzlement or misappropriation of trust funds.  The thought of it put the other thing—­the fire and young Mr. Turold and his wet clothes—­out of my head completely, for the time.

“As I was lying there tossing and thinking I heard a light footstep pass my door.  I slipped out of bed, and opening the door a little, looked out.  I saw Mr. Turold, fully dressed, a light in his hand, turning down the passage which led to his son’s room.  Then I heard the sound of a creaking door, the murmur of a low conversation, cut short by the shutting of the door.  I stood there for a few minutes, and then went back to my bed and fell asleep.

“The next day it all came back to me.  I had gone into Charles Turold’s room for some reason when he was out, and there, on the hearth, I could see the remains of the fire he had lit overnight to dry his clothes.  He had made some clumsy man-like attempt to clean up the grate, but he left some ends of the charred kindling wood lying about.”

This final revelation brought a silence between Mrs. Brierly and the lawyer; a silence broken only by the distant deep call of the sea beneath the open window.  The silence lengthened into minutes before Mr. Brimsdown found his voice.

“You have said nothing to anybody else about this?” He spoke almost abstractedly, but she chose to regard this question in the light of a reproach.  She hurriedly rejoined—­

“I did not see the necessity—­then.  If young Mr. Turold got caught in the storm, and chose to dry his clothes in his room, instead of putting them out for the maid, why should I tell anybody?  I did not connect it with his uncle’s death.  I was under the impression that Mr. Robert Turold had taken his own life.  It was not until the detective called to see Mr. Austin Turold that I learnt there was a suspicion of—­murder.  My maid overheard the detective say something while she was in and out of the room serving tea, and she told me what she had heard.  I saw things in a new light then, and I was terribly upset.  But I could not see my way clear until you came to the house to-day.  Then I decided to tell you.”

“Can you tell me what time Charles Turold came in that night?”

“I have no idea.  He and his father have separate keys of the front door.”

It was evident that she had told all she knew.  She rose to her feet in agitation.

“I must go.  My husband will be wondering where I am.  But tell me, Mr. Brimsdown, do you imagine ...  Is it possible ...”  Her voice dropped to the ghost of a frightened whisper.

He evaded this issue with legal caution.