“Don’t be afraid, Mrs. Thalassa,” said Barrant, approaching her, but she backed hurriedly away towards the door.

“Coming with the supper tray—­coming with the supper tray....  What’s that?  Ah-h-h-h-h!”

Her disjointed mutterings ended in a shrill scream which went ringing through the stillness and seemed to linger in the room after she had disappeared.  Barrant heard her muttering and laughing as she descended the stairs.

The sounds died away into a silence so absolute as to suggest the impression of a universe suddenly stricken dumb.  Barrant crossed the room to the window, where he stood looking out, deep in thought.

What was the meaning of it all—­of this latest scene in particular?  The game of patience so tempestuously concluded had occupied half-an-hour.  He had noted the time.  Yet Mrs. Thalassa insisted she had played only one game after half-past eight on the night of the murder.  If he dared accept such a computation of time an unimagined possibility in the case stood revealed.  But—­a demented woman.  “A parable in the mouth of a fool.”  Perhaps it was because she was a fool that he had stumbled on this revelation.  She lacked the wit to lie about it.

If so—­

His eyes, straying incuriously over the outstretched panorama of sea and cliffs beneath the window, fell upon a man’s outline scaling the cliff path near the Moon Rock.  Disturbed in his meditations, Barrant watched the climber.  He reached the top and appeared in full view on the bare summit of the cliffs.  Barrant stared down upon him, amazed beyond measure.  The advancing figure was Charles Turold.

CHAPTER XXX

Barrant hastened from the room downstairs to the front door.  From the open doorway he saw Charles Turold advancing across the rocks in the direction of the house, and he ran swiftly down the gravel path to intercept him.

Charles looked up and came on as if there was nothing to turn back for.  His clear glance dwelt on the figure by the gate without fear—­with seeming gratification.  Barrant was amazed.  He had been prepared for an attempt at flight, but not this welcoming look.  Never before had he known a man show joy at the prospect of arrest.  The experience was so disturbing that he went across the intervening space to meet Charles, and laid a hand upon his arm.

“I suppose you know you are wanted by the police?” he said.

“I am aware of it,” was the quiet reply.  “I was going to give myself up.”

“Did you come back to Cornwall for that purpose?” asked the detective, shooting another puzzled glance at him.

“I came back to try and discover the truth.”

“About what?”

“About my uncle’s death.”

“And have you discovered it?”

“I have.”

Barrant did not understand the young man’s attitude, or the tone of heartfelt relief in which he uttered these words, but he felt that the conversation in its present form had gone far enough.