“Oh, I wouldn’t like to say that I suspect Thalassa, or anybody else.”  Mrs. Pendleton was prompt with this assurance.  “But there are certain things which seem to me to need further investigation.  There’s the question of the door being locked on the inside.  It seems to me that the door might have been locked on the outside, and the key dropped in there afterwards.  The door had to be smashed before we could get in, and the key wasn’t in the door then, you know.”

Dawfield nodded thoughtfully.  “Who has charge of the keys in your brother’s house?  This servant with the strange name—­Thalassa, is it?”

“Yes, and he was upstairs in my brother’s room last night, after we came down.  And when we got there he was ready to go out, with his hat and coat on.  It all seems very strange.”

Again the courteous inspector hid a slight smile.  His lady visitor might disclaim suspecting anybody, but her inferences carried her to the same point.

“What do you wish me to do?” he asked.

“I feel there should be further inquiries.  Sergeant Pengowan does not strike me as the kind of man capable of bringing to light any mystery which may be hidden behind my brother’s supposed suicide.  He does not look at all intelligent.  I thought of sending a telegram to Scotland Yard, but I decided to see you first.”

The hint was not lost on Inspector Dawfield, but it was unnecessary.  It was his duty to look into her complaint and make further inquiries into the case.

“Your statement shall certainly be investigated,” he said emphatically.  “I am rather short of men just now, but I’ll see if I can get Bodmin to send over a man.  I will inquire immediately, if you will excuse me.”

He retired into a curtained recess in a corner of the room, where Mrs. Pendleton could see him holding a colloquy over the telephone.  After rather a lengthy conversation he returned to announce that a detective was coming over by the next train to investigate the case.

“The Bodmin office is sending over Detective Barrant, of Scotland Yard,” he explained.  “He happens to be in Cornwall on another case, and was just on the point of returning to London.  I was able to speak to him personally and relate the facts of your brother’s death.  He decided to telephone to Scotland Yard, and come over here at once.  He will arrive soon after lunch.  I will take him to Flint House myself.  He may wish to see you later on.  Will you be at your hotel?”

“If not, I will leave word where I can be found,” replied Mrs. Pendleton, rising as she spoke.  “Good morning, and thank you.”

She left the police station feeling that she had accomplished an excellent morning’s work, and hurried back to the hotel with visions of letters to be written and telegrams to be sent before lunch.  But she was destined to do neither.  As she entered the lounge, her eye fell upon its solitary occupant, a male figure in a grey lounge suit sitting in her favourite corner by the window.  It was her brother Austin.