“Good God!” ejaculated Austin Turold, as the full force of his sister’s impressions reached his mind.  “Do you mean to say that because you took a dislike to this unfortunate man’s face, you think he has murdered Robert?  And yet there are some feminists who want to draw our judges from your sex!  My dear Constance, you cannot make haphazard accusations of murder in this reckless fashion.”

“I am not accusing Thalassa of murder,” said Mrs. Pendleton, with a fine air of generosity.  “And there’s more than my dislike of his face in it, too.  He was looking through the door in the afternoon—­”

“You only think that,” interrupted her brother.

“I feel sure it was he.  It was also strange to see him with his hat and coat on when he answered our knock.  He told Dr. Ravenshaw that he was going to the churchtown for him.”

“That reminds me that I haven’t yet heard what took you up to Flint House last night, Constance,” said her brother, looking at her fixedly.  “What were you doing there at that late hour, and why was Ravenshaw with you?”

Mrs. Pendleton told him, and he listened coldly.  “I think you might have consulted me first before Dr. Ravenshaw,” he observed.

“I didn’t because I thought you would have put obstacles in my way,” she replied with frankness.

“I most certainly should.  Of course the whole position may be altered now, with Robert’s death.  Have you told Sisily?”

“Yes.  She took it almost passively.  She is the strangest girl, but after last night I look upon her as a sacred charge—­Robert’s last wish.”

“It will be best for you to take charge of her, I think,” said Austin absently.  “I expect she is provided for in Robert’s will.  I found that in the old clock case last night, and I’ve handed it to the local lawyer who drew it up.  But this is beside the point, Constance.  I have come over here this morning to beg of you to let this terrible business rest where it is.  There is not the slightest doubt in my mind that our unhappy brother has ended his own life—­all the facts point to it only too clearly—­and I particularly desire, for all our sakes, that you do nothing to put your ill-informed suspicions into action.  Let the thing drop.”

“It is too late,” said Mrs. Pendleton decidedly.  “I have already been to the police.  There is a detective from Scotland Yard on his way over from Bodmin.”

“You might have told me this before and saved my time,” said Austin, rising with cold anger.  “In my opinion you have acted most ill-advisedly.  However, it’s too late to talk of that.  No, there is no need to rise.  I can find my way out.”

Austin Turold left the hotel, and made his way up the crooked street to the centre of the town.  His way lay towards Market Jew Street, where he intended to hire one of the waiting cabs to drive him back to St. Fair.  As he neared the top of the street which led to the square, his eye was caught by the flutter of a woman’s dress in one of the narrow old passages which spindled crookedly off it.  The wearer of the dress was his niece Sisily.  She was walking swiftly.  A turn of the passage took her in the direction of the Morrab Gardens, and he saw her no more.