“I think I would like to be left alone for a little while, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, you mustn’t sit here moping, my dear,” said Mrs. Pendleton, with an attempt at cheerfulness which she felt to be clumsy and ill-timed, but Sisily’s manner had momentarily disconcerted her.  “You had better put on your hat and coat and go out with your uncle.  He is waiting downstairs for you.  It is very sad, very terrible, but you must let us help you bear it.  You must not stay here alone.”

“You are very kind”—­the girl’s lips quivered slightly, though her face remained calm—­“but I would rather not go out.  I should prefer to be left alone.”

There was in her expression a despairing yet calm detachment and resolve which forced Mrs. Pendleton in spite of herself to yield to her wish with a meekness which was almost timidity.

“Very well, dear,” she said.  “If you feel like a walk later on, you will find your uncle downstairs.”

As she left the room she heard the door shut behind her.

But Mrs. Pendleton had other things to think about that morning than the strangeness of her niece’s disposition and the manner in which she had received the news of her father’s death.  The horror of that event filled her own thoughts to the exclusion of everything else, and she was determined to remain in Cornwall until the mystery was explained.

She glanced at her watch as she reached the bottom of the stairs.  She had breakfasted early, and it still wanted a few minutes to ten o’clock.  The lobby of the hotel was deserted, and through the glass doors leading to the breakfast-room she could see a few guests still at their morning meal.  A porter was sweeping the front entrance, and of him she enquired the way to the police station, and set out for it.

’It was chill and grey after the storm, with a sky obscured by scudding clouds, but a gleam of truant sunshine was sporting wantonly on the hoary castled summit of St. Michael’s Mount, and promised to visit the town later on.  Mrs. Pendleton walked briskly, and soon arrived at the police station.

A young constable in the office came forward as she entered and enquired her business.  She disclosed her name, and her relationship with the inmate of Flint House, deeming that would be sufficient to gain her an interview with somebody in authority.  In that expectation she was not disappointed.  The constable favoured her with a good hard stare, went into another room, and reappeared to say that Inspector Dawfield would see her at once.

She followed him into the inner room, where a slight man of middle age was seated at a leather-covered table opening his morning correspondence.  He looked up and bowed as he saw his visitor, but waited until the constable had retired before he spoke.

“Good morning,” he said.  “What can I do for you?”

His eye regarded her with a thoughtful glance.  His professional interest had been aroused by the strange death of the occupant of Flint House, whose object in visiting Cornwall had been common gossip in the district for some time past.