“I have heard nothing of this,” commented Barrant.  “Is the story to be believed, do you think?”

“A fisherman of the churchtown told my man in a graphic sort of way.  He says that Robert Turold had a dog which he used to take with him on these walks, and he says that the master used to cover the ground with such great strides that the dog had to run after him panting, with lolling tongue.”

“That sounds stretched,” said Barrant.  “Most fishermen exaggerate.  However, I’ll look up this man when I return, and question him.  It never does to throw away a chance.”  He glanced at his watch and rose to his feet.  “I’ll be off now to catch the train.  If anything important occurs during my absence you’d better send me a wire to Scotland Yard.”

CHAPTER XIX

It was from Mrs. Pendleton that Mr. Brimsdown gained his first real knowledge of the drama of strange events surrounding Robert Turold’s death.  In response to his call at the hotel she came down from her room fingering his card nervously, her eyes reddened with weeping, and an air of tremulous bewilderment about her which sat ill on her massive personality.

The lawyer greeted her with formal courtesy.  He was newly shaved and bathed, his linen was spotless, and his elderly grey eyes looked out with alert watchfulness on a world of trickery.

“As your late brother’s legal adviser for many years, I felt it incumbent upon me to come down,” he said, fixing a grave glance on the distracted lady before him.  “It seemed to me that I might be of some use, perhaps, assistance.  That is the object of my call.”

The fact that she had not seen Mr. Brimsdown before did not lessen the hysterical gratitude with which Mrs. Pendleton received this piece of information.  The events of the last forty-eight hours had shaken her badly.  Her brother’s tragic death, and the terrible suspicion which enveloped Sisily, had stripped her of her strength, and left her with a feminine longing to cast her burden on a man’s shoulders.  She had discovered to her dismay that a husband who has been snubbed and kept under for twenty years is apt to prove a thing of straw when a woman likes to feel that the male sex was devised by Providence to take the wheel from female hands if the barque of life drifts on the breakers.  But Mr. Pendleton had revealed no latent capacity to play the part of the strong man at the helm in the crisis.  He had shown himself a craven and kept out of the way, leaving his wife to her own resources.  The appearance of Mr. Brimsdown was as timely to her as the arrival of a heaven-sent pilot in a storm.

“Thank you,” she murmured incoherently.  “Such a dreadful end.  Poor dear Robert.”  She sobbed into her handkerchief.