When She died in the house on the cliffs where they had come six months before, Robert Turold had accomplished the task to which his life had been devoted.  Some weeks before he had summoned his brother from London to disclose his future plans.  The brothers had not met for many years, but Austin was quick to obey when he learnt that a fortune and a title were at stake.  The sister and her husband, Mr. and Mrs. Pendleton, had reached Cornwall two days before the funeral.  They were to take Sisily back to London with them.  It was Robert Turold’s intention to part with his daughter and place her in his sister’s charge.  For a reason he had not yet divulged, Sisily was to have no place in his brilliant future.  He disliked his daughter.  Her sex was a fatal bar to his regard.  He had heaped so many reproaches on her mother for bringing another girl into the world that the poor woman had descended to the grave with a confused idea that she was to blame.

Sisily had a strange nature, reticent, yet tender.  She had loved her mother passionately, and feared and hated her father because he had treated his wife so harshly.  She had been the witness of it all—­from her earliest childhood to the moment when the unhappy woman had died with her eyes fixed on her husband’s implacable face, but holding fast to her daughter’s hand, as though she wanted to carry the pressure of those loving fingers into the grave.

A clock on the mantel-piece ticked loudly.  But it was the only sound which disturbed the quietness of the room.  The representatives of the family eyed one another with guarded indifference.  Circumstances had kept them apart for many years, and they now met almost as strangers.

Mrs. Pendleton sat on a sofa with her husband.  She was a notable outline of a woman, large and massive, with a shrewd capable face and a middle-class mind.  She lived, when at home, in the rarefied atmosphere of Golders Green, in a red house with a red-tiled roof, one of a streetful similarly afflicted, where she kept two maids and had a weekly reception day.  She was childless, but she disdained to carry a pet dog as compensation for barrenness.  Her husband was a meagre shrimp of a stockbroker under his wife’s control, who golfed on Sundays and played auction bridge at his club twice a week with cyclic regularity.  He and his wife had little in common except the habit of living together, which had made them acquainted with each other’s ways.

Mrs. Pendleton had not seen either of her brothers for a long time.  Robert had been too engrossed in digging into the past for the skeletons of his ancestors to do more than write intermittent letters to the living members of his family, acquainting them with the progress of his search.  Austin Turold, Robert’s younger brother, had spent a portion of his life in India and had but recently returned.  He had gone there more than twenty years before to fill a Government post, taking with him his young wife,