That thought pursued him in his walk that night, and was his constant companion in the lonely days and nights of his wanderings which followed.  He had banished it before, but that course was no longer possible.  The impalpable yet terribly real menace of authority overshadowing them both now made it imperative that all the facts should be faced.  All the facts—­but what were they?  It was the question he asked himself again and again as he strove to twist out of the black fantasy of that horrible night some tangible shred of truth which might help them both.  His own incredible share in it was forever being re-enacted in his mind, and haunted his dreams.  In the night, at early dawn, at odd moments of his eternal quest, the curtain of his mind would rise on that unforgettable scene—­the cliffs, the rocks, the darkling outline of Flint House, with a feeble beam of light slanting down from the upstairs window at the back which looked out on the sea.  Then the gush of light from the open door, and her shape stealing forth into the darkness, followed by another—­Thalassa’s.  And then, the final phase—­the desolate house, the wind rushing noisily along dark passages, the dead form of Robert Turold in the room upstairs.  What did these things mean, and what was to be the end?

His hope was that Sisily could reveal something which would furnish the key to the enigma of that night’s events.  From her lips he might learn enough to guide him to the hidden truth, and save them both.  Sustained by the feeling that she existed somewhere near him, he continued his search day after day until in the abstracted intensity of his fancy London assumed the appearance of a wilderness of unending streets filled with pallid faces which flitted past his vision like ghosts.  But the face he was seeking was never among them.

He searched with the wariness of one whose own liberty depended upon his watchfulness.  A second glance, an indignant look, a turn of the head, a policeman’s casual eye—­any of these things would place him immediately on his guard and turn his footsteps in a different direction.  He chose his sleeping places with care at the last minute, and left them at early morning when only a yawning night porter or a sleepy maid servant was astir.  He never returned to the same place, nor did he go to the same restaurant twice.  Most carefully did he read the newspapers, but nothing appeared in their columns to alarm him; merely an occasional perfunctory paragraph about the Cornwall murder.  The favourite adjective in the journalistic etymological garden was culled for the heading, and it was described as an amazing case.  Charles felt that the definition was correct enough.  Early developments were faithfully promised—­by the newspaper.  Charles understood very well what was meant by that.  It was hoped he would provide the development by falling into the hands of the police.  He smiled a little at that, but the unintended warning increased his vigilance.