What a case!  It was an abnormal and sinister mystery in any light, with no absolute or demonstrative certainty of proof by any of its circumstances, however regarded.  The effect of its perplexing clues distorted the imagination, outraged the sense of possibility and experience.  To reach conclusiveness in it seemed as impossible as an attempt to scale an unending staircase in a nightmare.  The facts were there, but they were inexplicable, or at least they stared at him with the aspect of many faces.

As he weighed these doubts he found his thoughts reverting with increasing frequency to the hood clock in Robert Turold’s study and the question of its connection with the crime.  He pondered over the point with the nervous anxiety of a puzzled brain, and it seemed to him now that he had not devoted as much investigation to this peculiar clue as it deserved.  He recalled Mr. Brimsdown’s conversation on the matter.  He remembered that he had been struck at the time by the penetration of his remarks about the clock, and while not accepting his fantastic theory, had determined to give more careful thought to the point.  But Mrs. Brierly’s disclosure put the idea out of his head.

It recurred to him with renewed force when he found himself in Exeter nearly a fortnight later on another case.  It was a good opportunity to go on to Cornwall, and he took it.  His business completed, he caught the early train, and in due time arrived at Penzance.  With an obscure instinct for solitude he hastened through the town and struck out across the moors.

The afternoon was waning when he reached Flint House and pulled the old-fashioned bell-handle of the weatherbeaten door.  There was no reply, and a second ring passed disregarded.  That was disconcerting and unexpected.  He wondered whether Thalassa and his wife had left the place.  Then he noticed that the door was merely closed and not shut.  He lifted the heavy iron knocker, and knocked loudly.  The repeated knocking sent the door flying open, and Barrant found himself looking into an empty hall.  Half-way down a pair of curtains stirred slightly and parted suddenly, revealing a narrower passage which led to the door of the kitchen.  The curtains streamed horizontally, twisting and coiling like snakes.  Barrant stepped quickly inside and closed the door.  The curtains fell together again.

There was something so startling in this action of the wind that Barrant stood motionless, looking round him.  The cold current of air he had admitted died away in the draughty passages with queer gasping noises, like a wind strangled.  Then there was the most absolute silence.  The curtains hung perpendicular, as thickly motionless as blankets.  Barrant noticed that the hallstand and a chair beside it were thick with dust.  Evidently the house was empty.

Turning first to make quite sure that the front door was securely shut, he took his way upstairs to Robert Turold’s study.