“We have been talking family secrets with the door open,” she said, returning to her seat.  “I thought I saw one of the servants eavesdropping.”

“My servants would not listen at doors,” said Robert Turold coldly.  “You must have imagined it.”

Mrs. Pendleton made no rejoinder.  She had a strong belief that someone had been watching and listening, but she could not be sure.

“We must really be going,” she announced, with a glance at the clock.  “Joseph”—­such was her husband’s name—­“you had better go and see if the car is ready, and I will go for Sisily.  Is she upstairs in her room, Robert?”

“I believe so,” said Robert Turold, bending abstractedly over his papers.  “But you had better ask Thalassa.  He’ll tell you.  Thalassa will know.”

Mrs. Pendleton looked angrily at him, but was wise enough to forbear from further speech.  She instinctively realized that her brother was beyond argument or reproof.

She went upstairs to look for her niece, but she was not in her room.  She came downstairs again and proceeded to the kitchen.  Through the half-open door she saw the elderly male servant, and she entered briskly.

“Can you tell me where Miss Sisily is, Thalassa?” she asked.

“Miss Sisily is out on the cliffs.”  Thalassa, busy chopping suet with a knife, made answer without looking up.  There was something absurdly incongruous between the mild domestic occupation and the grim warrior face bent over it.

“When did she go out?” asked Mrs. Pendleton, struck by a sudden thought.

Thalassa threw a swift sidelong glance at her.  “It might be an hour ago,” he said.

“Do you know where I am likely to find her?”

Thalassa pointed vaguely through an open window.

“Somewhere along there,” he said.  “Miss Sisily is fond of the cliffs.  If you’re going to look for her you’d best not go round by the back of the house, or you’ll fall over, like as not.  It’s a savage spot, only fit for savages—­or madmen.”  He turned his back and bent over his chopping board again.

Mrs. Pendleton turned away in perplexity, and walked up the passage to the front door.  There her eye fell on the figure of Charles Turold, lounging moodily over the gate, smoking a cigarette.

She walked down the flinty path and touched his arm.  “Would you mind going and looking for Sisily?” she said.  “She is out on the cliffs, Thalassa says.”  She pointed a hand in the direction she supposed the girl to be.

The young man’s moodiness vanished in eager alacrity.  “Certainly,” he replied.  “I’ll go with pleasure.”  He tossed away his cigarette and disappeared around the side of the house.

CHAPTER IV