so annoyingly belated, he had reached the ultimate solution of the facts.  It was not that the theory of these two young people committing murder for love was too cynical for belief.  He had encountered more incredible things than that in his professional career.  Life was a cynical business, and youth could be brutal in pursuit of its aims, especially when the aim was passion, as it usually was.  In his experience youth and age were the dangerous periods—­youth, because it knew nothing of life, and age because it knew too much.  There were fewer surprises in middle-age.  That was the period of responsibility—­when humanity clung to the ordered way with the painful rectitude of a procession of laden ants toiling up a hill.  Youth was not like that—­nor age.

No, it was not that.  His difficulty was to fit all the circumstances into any compact theory of the case.  Try as he would, there were always some loose ends left over, some elements of uncertainty which left him perplexed.  He fashioned a new view of the murder, with Charles Turold as the principal figure in it—­the actual murderer.  He assumed that Charles and Sisily had gone to Flint House that night to prevent the truth about Sisily’s birth becoming known.  The assertion of her illegitimacy rested upon her father’s bare statement, but his lawyer was convinced he would not have made the statement without having the proofs in his possession.  These proofs had not been found.  Very well.  What inference was to be drawn from that?  Sisily knew that they were kept in the clock-case, and pointed out the hiding place to her lover.  In a struggle for their possession Robert Turold was shot down, or he might have been shot first and staggered to the clock afterwards to see if they had been stolen.  Either supposition accounted for the fallen clock, and fitted in with nearly all the known facts of the murder.

Nearly all, but not all!  In face of Mrs. Brierly’s disclosure it seemed a condition precedent to the elucidation of the mystery to substitute Charles Turold for Thalassa as the person whose undisciplined love for Sisily had led him to shoot her father to shield her name.  Nor was it incredible to suppose that he had remained in Cornwall to cover her flight in the hope of diverting suspicion from her.  But the loose end in the theory was Thalassa’s share in that night’s events, and his dogged silence since under strong suspicion.

Thalassa knew more than he had yet revealed, but what did he know?  What was his share in the business?  It was difficult to say.  Barrant was unable to accept the assumption that three people were concerned in the murder.  That idea, if not impossible, was at least contrary to reason.  But if it was excluded, how was the silence of Thalassa to be explained?  Was he afraid?  It was as difficult to associate that quality with him as with an eagle or beast of prey.

And the theory failed to explain the reason for Robert Turold’s frantic letter to his lawyer on the night of the murder.  That was another loose end.