“By the Metropolitan.”  He pointed to a blazing subterranean archway which at that late hour was still vomiting forth a mass of people.  “Book at the first winder.”

Mr. Brimsdown watched the girl until she disappeared out of sight down the steps.  He then turned away to seek his own train, the insistent feeling still haunting him that he had seen her pretty wistful face before.  He taxed his memory to recall where, but memory made no response.  It seemed a long time ago—­like a glimpse from the face of the dead.  Mr. Brimsdown strove to put the idea from him as a trick of the imagination.

He beckoned to a porter, who took his bag to a first-class carriage in the Penzance train.  Mr. Brimsdown settled himself comfortably in a corner seat.  A few minutes later the train moved out on the long night journey to Penzance.

CHAPTER XVIII

The clock in Dr. Ravenshaw’s study ticked loudly in the perfect stillness and then struck ten with a note of metallic derision as though rejoicing in the theft of an hour from a man who prided himself on knowing the value of time.  Startled to find that it was so late, Barrant sprang to his feet and rang the bell.  A sleepy Cornish maid appeared in answer, and Barrant informed her that he could not wait any longer.

“The doctor may be in at any time now, sir,” the girl eagerly assured him, as though she were in league with the clock to steal more of his time.

“I will call again,” said Barrant curtly.

“Any message, sir?  Oh, here’s the doctor now.  A gentleman to see you, sir.”

Dr. Ravenshaw advanced into the room.  He looked tired and weary, as if he had spent a long vigil by a patient.  He dismissed the girl with a nod, and turned inquiringly to his visitor.

“I am Detective Barrant, doctor; I have waited to see you on my way back from Flint House.  I am investigating the case.”

“Yes?” said the doctor inquiringly.  “Please be seated.”

“It is a strange case, you know,” began the detective.  “And one of the strange things about it is that the dead man’s relatives differ whether it is murder or suicide.  That’s what brings me to you.  You are a medical man, and you knew Robert Turold intimately.  Would you consider him a man of suicidal tendencies?”

“Many men have tendencies towards suicide at odd moments,” replied the doctor, “particularly men of Robert Turold’s temperament.”

“Was there anything in Robert Turold’s demeanour which suggested to you recently that he valued his life lightly, or was likely to take it?”

“I would rather not give a definite opinion on that point.  I have to give evidence at the inquest, you know.”

Barrant nodded.  He realized the force of the doctor’s objection to the expression of a view which might be proved erroneous later.  So he turned to another phase of the case.