are provided with the lodgings by the estimable people of this house.  My landlord is an artist.  That is to say, he’s forever daubing pictures which nobody buys.  I’ve come to the conclusion that most people dislike Cornwall because of the number of bad pictures which are painted here.  You see some samples of my host’s brush on these walls.  They are actually too bad to be admitted to the Academy.  My poor host and hostess, being unable to make ends meet, were obliged to take in lodgers.  The fact, however, is not unduly obtruded.  We discuss Art at night, and not the scandalously high price of food.  I get on very well, but then I can adapt myself to any society.  I pride myself on being a philosopher.  But my son is not so facile.  My worthy entertainers regard him as a Philistine, and bestow very little of their attention upon him.  He spends his time in taking long walks through the wilds.  He is out walking at present.  I am sorry he is not here.”

The conversation was suspended by the entrance of an elderly maid servant with a long and melancholy white face, thickly braided hair, strongly marked black eyebrows, wearing a black dress with white apron, and a white bow in her hair, who came to ask if Mr. Turold required any more tea.  On learning that he did not she withdrew as noiselessly as she had entered.

“I see you are looking at our parlour-maid,” said Austin Turold, following the direction of his visitor’s glance.

“She’s a strange sort of parlour-maid,” admitted the detective.  “She reminds me of—­of—­”

“A study in black and white,” suggested his host.  “Her face is her fortune.  She’s sitting to Brierly—­that’s my host—­for his latest effort.  He’s painting her as the Madonna or Britannia—­I really forget which.  A new type, you know.  The servants in this house are engaged for their faces.  They had a villainous scoundrel of a man-servant—­a returned soldier—­engaged as Judas Iscariot, who bolted last week with the silver spoons.  But all this is beside the point, Mr. Barrant, and I must not waste your time.  You have come here for a specific purpose—­to turn me inside out.  What can I tell you?”

“I want to know all that you can tell me about your brother’s death,” said the other, with emphasis.

“But what can I tell you that you do not already know?” exclaimed Austin, raising his eyebrows with a helpless look.  “Ask me what questions you like, and I’ll endeavour to answer them.  When the famous Detective Barrant—­for I understand from the newspapers that you are famous—­takes an interview in hand I expect him to handle the situation in a masterly fashion, as befits his reputation.  So ask your questions, my dear fellow, and I’ll do my utmost to respond.”  Austin Turold took off his glasses, and posed himself in an attitude of expectation, with his eyes fixed upon the detective’s face.