WIDENER
HN PAKV
F THE
MOON
ROCK
ARTHUR-J-REES



3753.24.140
HARVARD COLLEGE
LIBRARY

VERII
SA
FROM THE BEQUEST OF
ROLAND BURRAGE DIXON
CLASS OF 1897
PROFESSOR OF ANTHROPOLOGY
1916–1935








THE MOON ROCK


BY ARTHUR J. REES
THE SHRIEKING PIT
THE HAND IN THE DARK


THE
MOON ROCK
BY
ARTHUR J. REES

“There is no help for all these things are so,
And all the world is bitter as a tear,
And how these things are, thougb ye strove to show,
She would not know.”
-SWINBURNE
NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
1922


23753.24.140
HARVARD COLLSCE LERARY
BEQUEST OF
ROLAND CURSAGE DIXON
MAY 19, 1936
COPYRIGHT 1922
BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, LNG.
PRINTED IN THE U. S. A. BY
Che Quinn & Poden Company
BOOK MANUFACTURERS
RAMWAY NEW JERSEY


THE MOON ROCK





THE MOON ROCK
CHAPTER I
M HE voice of the clergyman intoned the last sad
hope of humanity, the final prayer was said, and
the mourners turned away, leaving Mrs. Turold
to take her rest in a bleak Cornish churchyard among
strangers, far from the place of her birth and kindred.
The fact would not have troubled her if she had
known. In life she had been a nonentity; in death she
was not less. At least she could now mix with her bet-
ters without reproach, free (in the all-enveloping si-
lence) from the fear of betraying her humble origin.
Debrett's Peerage was unimportant in the grave;
breaches of social etiquette passed unnoticed there; the
wagging of malicious tongues was stopped by dust.
Her husband lingered at the grave-side after the
others had departed. As he stood staring into the open
grave, regardless of a lurking grave-digger waiting to
fill it, he looked like a man whose part in the drama
of life was Care. There was no hint of happiness in
his long narrow face, dull sunken eyes, and bloodless
compressed lips. His expression was not that of one
unable to tear himself away from the last glimpse of
a loved wife fallen from his arms into the clutch of
Death. It was the gaze of one immersed in anxious
thought.
The mourners, who had just left the churchyard,
awaited him by a rude stone cross near the entrance
to the church. There were six-four men, a woman,


THE MOON ROCK
and a girl. In the road close by stood the motor-car
which had brought them to the churchyard in the wake
of the hearse, glistening incongruously in the grey Cor-
nish setting of moorland and sea.
The girl stood a little apart from the others. She
was the daughter of the dead woman, but her head was
turned away from the churchyard, and her sorrowful
glance dwelt on the distant sea. The contour of her
small face was perfect as a flower or gem, and colourless
except for vivid scarlet lips and dark eyes gleaming
beneath delicate dark brows. She was very young-
not more than twenty—but in the soft lines of her
beauty there was a suggestion of character beyond
her years. Her face was dreamy and wayward, and
almost gipsy in type. There was something rather
disconcerting in the contrast between her air of inex-
perienced youth and the sombre intensity of her dark
eyes, which seemed mature and disillusioned, like those
of an older person. The slim lines of her figure had
the lissome development of a girl who spent her days
out of doors.
She stood there motionless, apparently lost in medi-
tation, indifferent to the bitter wind which was driving
across the moors with insistent force.
“Put this on, Sisily.”
Sisily turned with a start. Her aunt, a large stout
woman muffled in heavy furs, was standing behind her,
holding a wrap in her hand.
“You'll catch your death of cold, child, standing
here in this thin dress," the elder lady continued. “Why
didn't you wear your coat? You'd be warmer sitting
in the car. It's really very selfish of Robert, keeping
us all waiting in this dreadful wind !” She shivered,
and drew her furs closer. “Why doesn't he come away?
As if it could do any good!”
As she spoke the tall form of Robert Turold was seen
approaching through the rank grass and mouldering


THE MOON ROCK
tombstones with a quick stride. He emerged from the
church-yard gate with a stern and moody face.
“Let us get home,” he said, and his words were more
of a command than request.
He walked across the road to the car with his sister
and daughter. The men by the cross followed. They
were his brother, his brother's son, his sister's husband,
and the local doctor, whose name was Ravenshaw. With
a clang and a hoot the car started on the return jour-
ney. The winding cobbled street of the churchtown was
soon left behind for a road which struck across the
lonely moors to the sea. Through the moors and
stony hills the car sped until it drew near a solitary
house perched on the edge of the dark cliffs high above
the tumbling waters of the yeasty sea which foamed
at their base.
The car stopped by the gate where the moor road
ended. The mourners alighted and entered the gate.
Their approach was observed from within, for as they
neared the house the front door was opened by an
elderly man-servant with a brown and hawk-beaked face.
Walking rapidly ahead Robert Turold led the way
into a front sitting-room lighted by a window overlook-
ing the sea. There was an air of purpose in his move-
ments, but an appearance of strain in his careworn face
and twitching lips. He glanced at the others in a pre-
occupied way, but started perceptibly as his eye fell
upon his daughter.
“There is no need for you to remain, Sisily,” he said
in a harsh dry voice.
Sisily turned away without speaking. Her cousin
Charles jumped up to open the door, and the two ex-
changed a glance as she went out. The young man then
returned to his seat near the window. Robert Turold
was speaking emphatically to Dr. Ravenshaw, answer-
ing some objection which the doctor had raised.
“... No, no, Ravenshaw-I want you to be present.


THE MOON ROCK
You will oblige me by remaining. I will go upstairs and
get the documents. I shall not keep you long. Thalassa,
serve refreshments."
He left the room quickly, as though to avoid further
argument. The elderly serving-man busied himself by
setting out decanters and glasses, then went out like
one who considered his duty done, leaving the company
to wait on themselves.


CHAPTER II
M H E group in the room sat in silence with an air
I of stiff expectation. The members of the family
knew they were not assembled to pay respect to
the memory of the woman who had just been buried.
Her husband had regarded her as a drag upon him, and
did not consider her removal an occasion for the display
of hypocritical grief. Rather was it to be regarded as
an act of timely intervention on the part of Death,
who for once had not acted as marplot in human af-
fairs.
They were there to listen to the story of the triumph
of the head of the family, Robert Turold. Most famil-
ies have some common source of interest and pride. It
may be a famous son, a renowned ancestor, a faded
heirloom, even a musical daughter. The pride of the
Turold family rested on the belief that they were of
noble blood—the lineal inheritors of a great English
title which had fallen into abeyance hundreds of years
before.
Robert Turold had not been content to boast of his
nobility and die a commoner like his father and grand-
father before him. His intense pride demanded more
than that. As a boy he had pored over the crabbed
parchments in the family deed-box which indicated but
did not record the family descent, and he had vowed
to devote his life to prove the descent and restore the
ancient title of Turrald of Missenden to the Turolds
of which he was the head.
There was not much to go upon when he commenced
the labour of thirty years—merely a few old documents,
a family tradition, and the similarity of name. And


THE MOON ROCK
fortune bi away. aturnines in the wil unders
the Turolds were poor. Money, and a great deal of it,
was needed for the search, in the first instance, of the
unbroken line of descent, and for the maintenance of
the title afterwards if the claim was completely estab-
lished. But Robert Turold was not to be deterred by
obstacles, however great. He was a man with a single
idea, and such men are hard to baulk in the long run.
He left England in early manhood and remained
away for some years. His family understood that he
had gone to seek a fortune in the wilds of the earth. He
reappeared-a saturnine silent man-as suddenly as he
had gone away. In his wanderings he had gained a
fortune but partly lost the use of one eye. The partial
loss of an eye did not matter much in a country like
England, where most people have two eyes and very
little money, and therefore pay more respect to wealth
than vision.
Robert Turold invested his money, and then set to
work upon his great ambition with the fierce restless-
ness which characterized all his proceedings in life. He
married shortly after his return. He soon came to the
conclusion that his marriage was a great mistake-the
greatest mistake of his life. His wife had borne him
two girls. The first died in infancy, and some years
later Sisily was born. His regrets increased with the
birth of a second daughter. He wanted a son to suc-
ceed him in the title-when he gained it. Time passed,
and he became enraged. His anger crushed the timid
woman who shared his strange lot. His dominating
temperament and moody pride were too much for her
gentle soul. She became desperately afraid of him and
his stern ways, of that monomania which kept them
wandering through the country searching for links in
a pedigree which had to be traced back for hundreds of
years before Robert Turold could grasp his heart's
desire.
When she died in the house on the cliffs where they


THE MOON ROCK
his sisters was his dauernd healther
a fatafuture. He dily was to have or a reason her and
that the pober for bringind heaped so
had come six months before, Robert Turold had accom-
plished the task to which his life had been devoted. Some
weeks before he had summoned his brother from London
to disclose his future plans. The brothers had not met
for many years, but Austin was quick to obey when he
learnt that a fortune and a title were at stake. The
sister and her husband, Mr. and Mrs. Pendleton, had
reached Cornwall two days before the funeral. They
were to take Sisily back to London with them. It was
Robert Turold's intention to part with his daughter and
place her in his sister's charge. For a reason he had
not yet divulged, Sisily was to have no place in his bril-
liant future. He disliked his daughter. Her sex was
a fatal bar to his regard. He had heaped so many
reproaches on her mother for bringing another girl into
the world that the poor woman had descended to the
grave with a confused idea that she was to blame.
Sisily had a strange nature, reticent, yet tender. She
had loved her mother passionately, and feared and
hated her father because he had treated his wife so
harshly. She had been the witness of it all—from her
earliest childhood to the moment when the unhappy
woman had died with her eyes fixed on her husband's
implacable face, but holding fast to her daughter's
hand, as though she wanted to carry the pressure of
those loving fingers into the grave.
A clock on the mantel-piece ticked loudly. But it
was the only sound which disturbed the quietness of the
room. The representatives of the family eyed one an-
other with guarded indifference. Circumstances had
kept them apart for many years, and they now met
almost as strangers.
Mrs. Pendleton sat on a sofa with her husband. She
was a notable outline of a woman, large and massive,
with a shrewd capable face and a middle-class mind. She
lived, when at home, in the rarefied atmosphere of
Golders Green, in a red house with a red-tiled roof, one


THE MOON ROCK
of a streetful similarly afflicted, where she kept two
maids and had a weekly reception day. She was child-
less, but she disdained to carry a pet dog as compen-
sation for barrenness. Her husband was a meagre
shrimp of a stockbroker under his wife's control, who
golfed on Sundays and played auction bridge at his
club twice a week with cyclic regularity. He and his
wife had little in common except the habit of living
together, which had made them acquainted with each
other's ways.
Mrs. Pendleton had not seen either of her brothers
for a long time. Robert had been too engrossed in dig-
ging into the past for the skeletons of his ancestors to
do more than write intermittent letters to the living
members of his family, acquainting them with the prog-
ress of his search. Austin Turold, Robert's younger
brother, had spent a portion of his life in India and had
but recently returned. He had gone there more than
twenty years before to fill a Government post, taking
with him his young wife, but leaving his son at school
in England for some years. His wife had languished
and died beneath an Indian sun, but her husband had
become acclimatized, and remained until his time was
up and he was free to return to England with a pen-
sion. His sister and he met on the previous day for
the first time since he had left England for India, and
Mrs. Pendleton had some difficulty in identifying the
elderly and testy Anglo-Indian with the handsome
young brother who had bade her farewell so many years
before. And, she had even more difficulty in recognizing
the fair-haired little boy of that time in the good-looking
but rather moody-faced young man who at the present
moment was seated near the window, staring out of it.
The fifth member of the party was Dr. Ravenshaw,
who practised in the churchtown where Mrs. Turold
had been buried, and had attended her in her illness..
odleton had Somad left Englandrevious day


THE MOON ROCK
But he had not been asked to share in the family council
on that account. His presence was due to his intimacy
with Robert Turold, which had commenced soon after
the latter's arrival in Cornwall. The claimant for a
title had found in the churchtown doctor an antiquarian
after his own heart, whose wide knowledge of Cornish
antiquities had assisted in the discovery of the last
piece of evidence necessary to establish his claim.
Dr. Ravenshaw sat a little apart from the other, a
thickset grey figure of a man, with eyes reddened as
though by excessive reading, and usually protected by
glasses, which just then he had removed in order to
polish them with his handkerchief. In age he was sixty
or more. His thick grey beard was mingled with white,
and the heavy moustache which drooped over his mouth
was quite white. He presented a common-place figure
in his rough worn tweeds and heavy boots, but he was a
man of intelligence in spite of his unassuming exterior.
He lived alone, cared for by a single servant, and he
covered on foot a scattered practice among the fishing
population of that part of the coast. His knowledge
of Cornish antiquities and heraldic lore had won him
the confidence of Robert Turold, and his kindness to
Mrs. Turold in her illness had gained him the gratitude
Mrs. "I taughter Sisilya who causedhe table and
It was Austin Turold who caused a diversion in this
group of lay figures by walking to the table and helping
himself to a whisky-and-soda. Austin bore very little
resemblance to his grim and dominant elder brother.
He had a slight frail figure, very carefully dressed, and
one of those thin-lipped faces which seem to wear a per-
petual sneer of superiority over commoner humanity.
The movements of his white hands, the inflection of his
voice, the double eyeglass which dangled from his
vest by a ribbon of black silk, revealed the type
of human being which considers itself something


10
THE MOON ROCK
rarer and finer than its fellows. The thin face,
narrow white forehead, and high-bridged nose might
have belonged to an Oxford don or fashionable preacher,
but, apart from these features, Austin Turold had
nothing in common with such earnest souls. By tem-
perament he was a dilettante and cynic, who affected
not to take life seriously. His axiom of faith was that
a good liver was the one thing in life worth having,
and a far more potent factor in human affairs than
conscience. He had at one time regarded his brother
Robert as a fool and visionary, but had seen fit to
change that opinion latterly.
He paused in the act of raising his glass to his lips,
and looked over the silent company as though seeking
a convivial companion. His son was still staring out
of the window. The little stockbroker, seated on the
sofa beside his large wife, made a deprecating move-
ment of his eyebrows, as though entreating not to be
asked. Austin's cold glance roved to Dr. Ravenshaw.
“Doctor," he said, “let me give you a whisky-and-
soda.”
Doctor Ravenshaw shook his head. "I have a pa-
tient to visit before dark,” he said, “a lady. I do not
care to carry the smell of spirits into a sick-room.”
“But this is a special occasion, Ravenshaw," per-
sisted the other. “We do not restore a title every
day.”
“Austin!” The voice of Mrs. Pendleton sounded
from the sofa in shocked protest.
“What's the matter?” said Austin, pausing in the
act of pouring some whisky into a glass.
“It would be exceedingly improper to drink a toast
at such a moment.”
“What's the matter with the moment?”
“The day, then. Just when we have buried poor
Alice.” Mrs. Pendleton had not seen her brother's wife
for ten years before her death, but she had no difficulty


THE MOON ROCK
11
in bringing tears to her eyes at the recollection of her.
She dried her eyes with her handkerchief, and added in
a different tone: “I fancy Robert is coming.”
A heavy step was heard descending the stairs. Aus-
tin drained his glass, and Dr. Ravenshaw adjusted his
spectacles as Robert Turold entered the room.


CHAPTER III
T ITH parchments and papers deep on the table
before him, Robert Turold plunged into the
history of his life's task. The long hand of
the mantelpiece clock slipped with a stealthy movement
past the twelve as he commenced, as though determined
not to be taken by surprise, but to keep abreast of him.
An hour passed, but Robert Turold kept steadily on.
His hearers displayed symptoms of boredom like people
detained in church beyond the usual time. Humanity
is interested in achievement, but not in the manner of
its accomplishment. And Robert's brother and sister
knew much of his story by heart. It had formed the
sole theme of his letters to them for many years past.
Mrs. Pendleton's thoughts wandered to afternoon tea.
Her husband nodded with closed eyes, and recovered
himself with convulsive starts. Austin Turold fixed his
glance on the ceiling, where a solitary fly was cleaning
its wings with its legs. From the window Charles
Turold presented an immobile profile. Only Dr. Raven-
shaw seemed to listen with an interest which never
flagged.
Yet it was a story well worth hearing, that record of
indomitable pertinacity which had refused to be
baulked by years or rebuffs. Men have acquired titles
more easily. That was apparent as Robert Turold re-
lated the history of his long and patient investigation;
of scents which had led nowhere; of threads which had
broken in his hand; of fruitless burrowings into the
graves of past generations. These disappointments had
lengthened the search, but they had never, baffled the
searcher nor broken his faith.
12


THE MOON ROCK
13
The story began in the fourteenth century, when the
second Edward had summoned his trusty retainer Rob-
ert Turrald from his quiet home in leafy Buckingham-
shire to sit in Parliament as a baron, and by that act
of kingly grace ennobled him and his heirs forever. Suc-
cessive holders of the title were summoned to Parlia-
ment in their turn until the reign of the seventh Henry,
when one succeeded whose wife brought him three
daughters, but no sons. At his death the title went into
abeyance among this plurality of girls. In peerage law
they were his coheirs, and the inheritance could not
descend because not one of them had an exclusive right
to it. The daughters entered a convent and followed
their parents to the grave within a few years, the
Crown resumed the estate, and the title had remained
in abeyance ever since.
But the last Lord Turrald had a brother Simon, a
roystering blade and lawless adventurer, who disap-
peared some years before his elder brother's death. Lit-
tle was known of him except that he was supposed to
have closed a brawling career on the field of Bosworth,
when Richard the Crookback was killed and the short-
lived dynasty of York ended.
The Turolds' family deed-box told a different story.
There was a manuscript in monkish hand, setting forth,
“in the name of God, Amen," the secret history of
Simon, as divulged by him on his deathbed for the in-
formation of his two sons. In this confession he claimed
kinship with the last Lord Turrald of Great Missenden.
But he had not dared to claim the title and rich estates
on his brother's death, because he was a proscribed
man. He had been a Yorkist, and had fought for
Richard. That might have been forgiven him if he had
not unhorsed his future king at Bosworth and almost
succeeded in slaughtering him with his own reckless
hands. So he had fed, and had remained in obscurity
and a safe hiding-place after his brother's death, pre-
But he haith the lase sons. Lon his dea


14
THE MOON ROCK
ferring his head without a title to a title without a
head.
On this document, unsigned and undated, with noth-
ing to indicate the place of its origin, the Turold family
based its claim of descent from the baronial Turralds
of Great Missenden. But the Turold history was a
chequered one. Their branch was nomadic, without
territorial ties or wealth, without continuance of chron-
ology. They could not trace their own genealogy back
for two hundred years. There was a great gap of miss-
ing generations which had never been filled in. It was
not even known how the document had come into their
possession. Simon's two sons and their descendants had
vanished into unknown graves, leaving no trace. But the
family clung fast to their belief that they were the
lineal descendants of the Turralds of Buckinghamshire.
It had remained for Robert Turold to prove it. His
father and grandfather had bragged of it, had fabri-
cated family trees over their cups, and glowed with
pride over their noble blood, but had let it go at that.
Robert was a man of different mould. In his hands,
the slender supposition had been turned into certainty.
By immense labour and research he built a bridge from
the first Turold of whom any record existed, back-
wards across the dark gap of the past. He traced
the wanderings of his ancestors through different gen-
erations and different counties to Robert Turold, who
established himself in Suffolk forty years after the last
Lord Turrald was laid to rest in his family vault in
the village church of Great Missenden.
The construction of this portion of his family tree
occupied Robert Turold for ten years. There were
scattered records to be collected, forgotten wills to be
sought in county offices, parochial registers to be
searched for births and deaths. A nomadic family has
no traditions ; Robert Turold had to trace his back to
the darkness of the Middle Ages. It was a notable feat


THE MOON ROCK
15
wed the other of the the Turon his claim remained in
to trace the wanderings of an obscure family back so
far as he did, but even then he seemed as far away from
the attainment of his desire as ever. There remained a
gap of forty years. To establish his claim to the title
he had to prove that the Turolds sprang from the
younger brother of the last Lord Turrald, who had
allowed the title to lapse for fear of losing his head
if he came forward to claim it.
It did not seem a great gap to bridge after following
a wandering scent through four centuries, but the
paltry forty years almost beat Robert Turold, and cost
him five years additional search. It was a lucky chance,
no more, which finally led him to Cornwall, but it was
the hand of Providence (he said so) which directed his
footsteps to the churchtown in which Dr. Ravenshaw
lived. It was there he discovered the connecting link
in the signature of a single witness on a noble charter
which granted to the monks of St. Nicholas "all wreck
of sea which might happen in the Scilly Isles except
whales.” To the eye of Robert Turold's faith the
illegible scrawl on this faded scroll formed the magic
name of Simon Turrald.
For once, faith was justified by its works. The sig-
nature was indeed Simon Turrald's; not the younger
brother of the last Lord Turrald, but Simon's son.
Bit by bit, Robert Turold succeeded in fitting to-
gether the last pieces of the puzzle which had eluded
him for so long. Simon Turrald, the brother, had fled
to Cornwall, where he had married a Cornishwoman who
had brought him two sons. The elder, Simon, had
taken religious vows, and established a priory at St.
Fair, a branch of the great priory of St. Germain. The
holy fathers of the order had long since vanished from
this earth to reap the reward of their goodness (it is
to be hoped) in another world, but the remains of the
priory still stood on a barren headland near Cape
Cornwall. And there was a tomb in St. Fair church,


16
THE MOON ROCK
behind the altar, marked by a blue slab, with an indent
formerly filled by a recumbent figure. On the blue slab
was a partly obliterated inscription in monkish Latin,
which yielded its secret to him, and divulged that the
remains beneath were those of Father Simon of St.
Fair.
With this important discovery to help him, Robert
Turold had very little difficulty in completing the par-
ticulars of the family genealogy. Further search of
the churchtown records brought to light that Simon's
other son, Robert, left Cornwall as a young man, and
after some years of wandering had settled in Suffolk.
Father Simon, of course, died without family, but
Robert married, the family name came to be spelt
“Turold," and thus was founded that branch of the
family of which the last Robert Turold was now the
head. The family tree was complete.
Such was the substance of Robert Turold's life
quest, and the story had occupied two hours in telling.
“I have petitioned the King's most excellent majesty
to terminate the abeyance in my favour and declare
that I am entitled to the peerage,” he concluded. “I
have no doubt that my claim will be admitted. I have
set out the facts with great care, and in considerable
detail. I have traced a clear line of descent back to
Simon Turrald, younger brother of the last baron, and
there are no coheirs in existence. Ours is the last
surviving branch, or it would, perhaps, be better if I
said that Austin and myself, and Austin's son, are the
only male members of the family. It is a difficult
matter to give effectual proof of a long pedigree, but
my lawyer has not the least doubt that the House of
Lords will admit the validity of my claim, and will ter-
minate the abeyance in my favour. The Attorney
General has inspected my proofs, and I am to appear
before the Committee for Privileges next week. In a


THE MOON ROCK
17
few weeks at the outside, allowing for the worst of law's
delays, I shall be Lord Turrald.”
Robert Turold's whole bearing was transfigured as
he made this announcement. His sound eye gleamed,
his shrunken form seemed to expand and fill, and his
harsh sallow features took on an expression which was
almost ecstatic. It was his great moment, the moment
for which he had lived for twenty years, and it com-
pensated him for all his worry, delayed expectation,
fruitless labour, and the bitter taste of the waters of
despair,
"I shall be Turrald of Great Missenden,” he said,
and again the expression of his face showed what the
words meant to him.
"Bob! So you've actually succeeded after all !” Mrs.
Pendleton stepped quickly across to her brother as he
sat regarding his audience from behind his pile of
documents. It was like a sister, at that moment, to
slip back to the juvenile name and kiss his elderly face
with tears in her eyes. Robert Turold received the
caress unmoved, and she went back to the sofa.
"Lord Turrald! It sounds well,” murmured her
husband, whose ideas were sufficiently democratic to
give him a sneaking admiration for a title. He gazed
at his brother-in-law with a new respect, discerning
unsuspected indications of noble blood in his grim
visage.
"How do you account for the two forms of spelling
your family name?” observed Dr. Ravenshaw. “The
House of Lords will require proof on that point, will
they not?”
"I shall be able to satisfy them,” returned Robert
Turold. “The first Robert Turold reverted to the
Norman spelling when he settled in Suffolk. Turrald
is the corrupted form, doubtless due to early Saxon
difficulties with Norman names. The Saxons were never
difiche corrupted when he sett Turold r


THE MOON ROCK
19
at Robert Turold. “This is a barony by writ that you
are claiming. Does not your daughter succeed you if
you gain it, and not your brother?”
“No,” replied Robert Turold. “The next holder of
the title, after me, will be my brother, and his son will
succeed him.”
Little Mr. Pendleton looked questioningly at his
brother-in-law.
“A similar question was on my lips," he said hesi-
tatingly. “I know very little of such matters, but in
view of our family's probable entry into the ranks of
the old nobility I have deemed it my duty to make
myself acquainted, to some extent, with the history of
the Turrald title and peerage law. It seems a very
complicated business-peerage law, I mean—in the
case of baronies by writ, but I certainly gathered the
impression that a sole daughter can succeed, although
several daughters are regarded as coheirs.”
“My daughter cannot succeed to the Turrald title,"
rejoined Robert Turold. The words seemed to be wrung
out of him reluctantly.
“It is not for me to question your knowledge-your
great knowledge of English peerage law, Robert,"
pursued Mr. Pendleton with a kind of timid persistence.
"But I brought a book down with me in the train in
which I remember reading that the right of a single
daughter to succeed to a barony by writ had been well
established by the Clifton case and several others. I am
not precisely aware what the Clifton case is, but I've no
doubt that you are well versed in the particulars of it.
As you have no son your daughter has priority of claim
over your brother and his son. From what you say I can
see that I must be quite wrong, but I'd be glad if you
would explain to me.”
“You have stated the law accurately enough,” said
Robert Turold, “but my daughter does not succeed to
the title.”


20
THE MOON ROCK
sion his sisthat was wha? “Oh, I
“Why not?”
Embarrassment, perceptible as a cloud, deepened on
Robert Turold's face. He regained his self-control with
an effort.
“There was an informality in my marriage,” said he
at last. “My daughter's birth was irregular.”
“Do you mean that she is illegitimate?” asked Dr.
Ravenshaw.
Robert Turold inclined his head. “Yes,” he said.
At this admission his sister bounced from the sofa
with a startled cry. “So that was why there was no
name plate on the coffin,” she exclaimed. “Oh, Robert,
what a terrible thing_what a disgrace !"
“Spare me your protests until you have heard the
explanation,” Robert coldly rejoined. “She”-he
pointed a hand in the direction of the churchyard-
wwas married before she met me. She kept the fact
from me. It was apparently a secret passage in her
life. During our long association together she gave
no hint of it. She confessed the truth on her death-
bed. In justice to her memory let me say that she be-
lieved her husband dead.”
Robert Turold told this with unmoved face in barest
outlineetched in dry-point, as it were leaving his
hearers to fill in the picture of the unhappy woman
who had gone through life tormented by the twin de
mons of conscience and fear, which had overtaken her
and brought her down before she could reach the safe
shelter of the grave.
Mrs. Pendleton, whose robust mind had scant pa-
tience with the policy of cowardice which dictates
death-bed confessions, regretted that Alice, having re-
mained silent so long, had not kept silence altogether.
“You do not intend to make this scandal public, Rob-
ert?" she said anxiously.
“I am compelled to do so," was the gloomy response.
“Is it necessary?” she pleaded. “Cannot the story


THE MOON ROCK
21
be kept quiet—if not for Alice's sake, at least for
Sisily's? You must consider her above all things. She
is your daughter, your only child."
“I agree with Aunt,” said Charles Turold. He rose
from the window-seat and approached the table. “Sisily
must be your first consideration,” he said, looking at
Robert Turold.
“This has nothing to do with you, Charles,” in-
terposed Austin hastily.
“I think it has,” said his son. “You told me nothing
about this, you know.”
"I was not aware of it myself,” replied his father.
"Now that I know, I shall have nothing further to do
with this,” continued the young man. “I'm not going
to help you wrong Sisily."
“I hardly expected such lofty moral sentiments from
you," said Austin, with a dark glance.
His son flushed as though there was a hidden sting
behind the jibe. He appeared to be about to say some-
thing more, but checked himself, and went back to his
seat by the window.
“Is there no way of keeping this matter quiet, Rob-
ert?" said his sister imploringly.
“I see none,” was the rejoinder. “It is a very painful
disclosure, but I think it is inevitable. Do you not
agree with me, Austin?”
“Do not ask my opinion," his brother coldly re-
plied. “It is for you to decide.”
Robert Turold paused irresolutely. “What do you
say, Ravenshaw?” he said, glancing round at the silent
figure of the doctor. "I asked you to be present this
afternoon to have the benefit of your advice. I owe
much to you, so I beg you to speak freely."
"Since you have asked my advice,” said Dr. Raven-
shaw gravely, “I say that I entirely agree with Mrs.
Pendleton. Your first duty is to Sisily. She should out-
weigh all other considerations. If you make her ille-


22
THE MOON ROCK
u ma
gitimacy, public you may live to be sorry for having
done so."
Mrs. Pendleton cast a moist, grateful glance at the
speaker, but Austin Turold turned on him a look of
cold hostility.
Robert Turold sat brooding for a few moments in
silence. He had asked advice, but his own mind was
made up. The humane views of his sister and Dr.
Ravenshaw were powerless to affect his decision. The
monstrous growth of his single purpose had long since
strangled such transient plants as human affection and
feeling in his heart and mind.
“The facts must be made public,” he said inexorably.
“The honour of a noble family is in my hands, and I
must do my duty. It would be an insult to my Sover-
eign and my peers, and a grievous wrong to our family,
if I concealed any portion of the truth. I shall make
adequate provision for Sisily. You will not refuse to
take charge of her, Constance, because of this dis-
closure?”
“You ought to know me better than that, Roberto
She'll need somebody to take care of her, poor child!
But who is to tell her the truth? For I suppose she
must be told?”
“I want you to tell her,” said Robert Turold.
“Choose your time. There is no immediate hurry, but
she must be in no false hopes about the future. She
had better be told before the Investigations Commit-
tee meets."
“Bother the Investigations Committee !” exclaimed
Mrs. Pendleton. “Really, Robert-
Mrs. Pendleton broke off abruptly, in something like
dismay. She had a fleeting impression of a pair of eyes
encountering her own through a crack in the doorway,
and as swiftly withdrawn. She walked quickly to the
door and flung it open. There was nobody outside, and
the passage was empty.


THE MOON ROCK
23
“We have been talking family secrets with the door
open,” she said, returning to her seat. “I thought I
saw one of the servants eavesdropping."
“My servants would not listen at doors,” said Robert
Turold coldly. “You must have imagined it.”
Mrs. Pendleton made no rejoinder. She had a strong
belief that some one had been watching and listening,
but she could not be sure.
“We must really be going,” she announced, with a
glance at the clock. “Joseph”-such was her husband's
name"you had better go and see if the car is ready,
and I will go for Sisily. Is she upstairs in her room,
Robert?"
“I believe so,” said Robert Turold, bending abstract-
edly over his papers. “But you had better ask Tha-
lassa. He'll tell you. Thalassa will know.”
Mrs. Pendleton looked angrily at him, but was wise
enough to forbear from further speech. She instinc-
tively realized that her brother was beyond argument
or reproof.
She went upstairs to look for her niece, but she was
not in her room. She came downstairs again and pro-
ceeded to the kitchen. Through the half-open door she
saw the elderly male servant, and she entered briskly.
“Can you tell me where Miss Sisily is, Thalassa ?”
she asked.
"Miss Sisily is out on the cliffs.” Thalassa, busy
chopping suet with a knife, made answer without look-
ing up. There was something absurdly incongruous
between the mild domestic occupation and the grim war-
rior face bent over it.
“When did she go out?” asked Mrs. Pendleton,
struck by a sudden thought.
Thalassa threw a swift sidelong glance at her. “It
might be an hour ago," he said.
“Do you know where I am likely to find her?”
Thalassa pointed vaguely through an open window.


24
THE MOON ROCK
“Somewhere along there,” he said. “Miss Sisily is fond
of the cliffs. If you're going to look for her you'd best
not go round by the back of the house, or you'll fall
over, like as not. It's a savage spot, only fit for sav-
ages-or madmen.” He turned his back and bent over
his chopping board again.
Mrs. Pendleton turned away in perplexity, and
walked up the passage to the front door. There her
eye fell on the figure of Charles Turold, lounging mood-
ily over the gate, smoking a cigarette.
She walked down the flinty path and touched his
arm. “Would you mind going and looking for Sisily?”
she said. “She is out on the cliffs, Thalassa says.” She
pointed a hand in the direction she supposed the girl
to be.
The young man's moodiness vanished in eager alac-
rity. “Certainly,” he replied. “I'll go with pleasure."
He tossed away his cigarette and disappeared around
the side of the house.


CHAPTER IV
( ISILY first opened her eyes on a grey day by a
grim coast, and life had always been grim and
grey to her. Her memory was a blurred record
of wanderings from place to place in pursuit of some-
thing which was never to be found. Her earliest recol-
lection was of a bleak eastern coast, where Robert
Turold had spent long years in a losing game of pa-
tience with the sea. He had gone there in the belief
that some of his ancestors were buried in a forgotten
churchyard on the cliffs, and he spent his time attempt-
ing to decipher inscriptions which had been obliterated
almost as effectually as the dead whose remains they
extolled.
The old churchyard had been called “The Garden of
Rest” by some sentimental versifier, but there was no
rest for the dead who tried to sleep within its broken
walls. The sea kept undermining the crumbling cliffs
upon which it stood, carrying away earth, and tomb-
stones, and bones. Nor was it a garden. Nothing grew
in the dank air but crawling things which were horrible
to the eye. There were great rank growths of toad-
stools, yellow, blue, livid white, or spotted like adders,
which squirmed and squelched underfoot to send up a
sickly odour of decay. The only green thing was some
ivy, a parasitic vampire which drew its lifeblood from
the mouldering corpse of an old church.
It was in this desolate place that the girl conceived
her first impression of her father as a stern and silent
man who burrowed among old graves like a mole. Rob-
ert Turold had fought a stout battle for the secret con-
tained in those forgotten graves on a bleak headland,
25


26
THE MOON ROCK
but the sea had beaten him in the long run, carrying off
the stones piecemeal until only one remained, a sturdy
pillar of granite which marked the bones of one who,
some hundred and fifty years before had been "An Eng-
lish Gentleman and a Christian”—so much of the epi-
taph remained. Robert Turold hoped that it was an
ancestor, but he was not destined to know. One night
the stone was carried off with a great splash which
was heard far, and left a ragged gap in the cliffside,
like a tooth plucked from a giant's mouth.
When Sisily first saw the cliffs of Cornwall she was
reminded of those early days, with the difference that
the Cornish granite rocks stood firm, as though saying
to the sea, “Here rises England.”
The house Robert Turold had taken looked down on
the sea from the summit. It was a strange place to
build a house, on the brink of a broken Cornish cliff-
line, above the grey surges of the Atlantic, among a
wilderness of dark rocks, facing black moors which
rolled away from the cliffs as lonely and desolate as
eternity. The place had been built by a London artist,
long since dead, who had lived there and painted sea-
scapes from an upstairs studio which overlooked the
sea.
The house had remained empty for years until Robert
Turold had taken it six months before. It was too
isolated and lonely to gain a permanent tenant, and it
stood in the teeth of Atlantic gales. The few scattered
houses and farms of the moors cringed from the wind
in sheltered depressions, but Flint House faced its ever-
lasting fury on the top of the cliffs, a rugged edifice of
grey stone, a landmark visible for many miles.
The house suited Robert Turold well enough, be-
cause it was near the churchtown in which he was con-
ducting his final investigations. It never occurred to
him to consider whether it suited his wife and daughter.
It was a house, and it was furnished; what more was


THE MOON ROCK
27
necessary? It was nothing to him if his wife and
daughter were unhappy. It was nothing to him if the
sea roared and the house shook as he sat poring at
nights over his parchments in the dead artist's studio.
He had other things to occupy his mind than Nature's
brutality or the feelings of womanhood.
Sisily had climbed down to the foot of the rocks. She
was sitting in her favourite spot, a spur of rock over-
hanging a green nook in the broken ugliness of the
cliffs, sheltered from the sea by an encircling arm of
rock, and reached by a steep path down the cliff.
Around her towered an amphitheatre of vast cliffs in
which the sea sang loud music to the spirit of solitude.
In the moaning waters in front of the cove a jagged
rock rose from the incomparable green, tilted back-
ward and fantastically shaped, like a great grave face
watching the house on the summit of the cliff.
The rock had fascinated the girl from the first moment
she had seen it. In the summer months, tourists came
from afar to gaze on its fancied resemblance to one
of the illustrious dead. But to Sisily there was a secret
brooding consciousness in the dark mask. It seemed
to her to be watching and waiting for something. For
what? Its glance seemed to follow her like the eyes
of a picture. And it conveyed a menace by its mere
proximity, even when she could not see it. When she
looked out of her window at night, and saw only the
shadow of the rock with the face veiled in darkness,
she seemed to hear the whisper of its words: “I am
here. Do not think to escape. I will have you yet.”
Among the fisher-folk of that part of the coast it was
known as the Moon Rock. The old Cornish women had
a tradition that when a fishing-boat failed to return
to that bay of storms, the spirit of the drowned man
would rise to the surface and answer his wife if she
hailed him from the shore. It was a rite and solemn
ceremony, now fallen into decay. There was a story of


28
THE MOON ROCK
one young wife who, getting no answer, left her desolate
cottage at midnight and swam out to the Moon Rock
at high tide. She had scrambled up its slippery sides
and called her husband from the summit. She had
called and called his name until he came. In the morn-
ing they were found—the wife, and the husband who
had been called from the depth of the sea, floating to-
gether in one of the sea caverns at the base of the Moon
Rock, their white faces tangled in the red seaweed which
streaked the green surging water like blood.
Sisily knew this story, and believed it to be true.
Sometimes, when the moon lingered on the black glisten-
ing surface of the Moon Rock, she fancied she could
see a misty fluttering figure on the rock, and hear it
calling ... calling. She would sit motionless at her win-
dow, straining her ears for the reply. After a time
the response would come faintly from the sea, at first
far out, then sounding louder and clearer as the spirit
of the husband guided his drowned body back to his
wife's arms. When it sounded close to the rock the
evanescent figure on the summit would vanish to join
the spirit of her husband in the churning waters at the
base. Then the face of the Moon Rock seemed to smile,
and the smile was so cruel that Sisily would turn from
the window with a shudder, covering her face with her
hands.
Her strange upbringing may have contributed to
such morbid fancies. In his monstrous preoccupation
with a single idea Robert Turold had neglected his duty
to his daughter. She counted for nothing in his scheme
of life, and there were periods when he seemed to be
unconscious of her existence. She had been allowed to
grow up with very little education or training. She had
passed her childhood and girlhood in remote parts of
England, without companions, and nobody to talk to
except her mother and Thalassa, who accompanied the
family everywhere. She loved her mother, but her love


THE MOON ROCK
29
was embittered by her helplessness to mitigate her
mother's unhappy lot. Thalassa was a savage old
pagan whose habitual watchful secretiveness relaxed
into roaring melody in his occasional cups; in neither
aspect could he be considered a suitable companion for
the budding mind of a girl, but he loomed in her
thoughts as a figure of greater import than her father
or mother. Her father was a gloomy recluse, her
mother was crushed and broken in spirit. Thalassa
had been the practical head of the house ever since
Sisily could remember anything, an autocrat who man-
aged the domestic economy of their strange household
in his own way, and brooked no interference. “Ask
Thalassa—Thalassa will know,” was Robert Turold's
unvarying formula when anybody attempted to fix upon
him his responsibility as head of the house. Sometimes
Sisily was under the impression that her father for
some reason or other, feared Thalassa. She could recall
a chance collision, witnessed unseen, through a half-
open door. There had been loud voices, and she had
seen a fiery threatening eye-Thalassa's—and her
father's moody averted face.
From a child she had developed in her own way, as
wild and wayward as the gulls which swooped around
the rocks where she was sitting. Nature revealed
her heart to her in long solitary walks by sea and
fen. But of the world of men and women Sisily knew
nothing whatever. The secrets of the huddle of civi-
lization are not to be gathered from books or solitude.
Sisily was completely unsophisticated in the ways of
the world, and her deep passionate temperament was
full of latent capacity for good or evil, for her soul's
salvation or shipwreck. Because of her upbringing
and temperament she was not the girl to count the
cost in anything she did. She was a being of impulse
who had never learnt restraint, who would act first
and think afterwards.


30
THE MOON ROCK
Her dislike of her father was instinctive, almost im-
personal, being based, indeed, on his treatment of her
mother rather than on any resentment of his neglect
of herself. But Robert Turold had never been able
to intimidate his daughter or tame her fearless spirit.
She had inherited too much of his own nature for
that.
At that moment she was sitting motionless, im-
mersed in thought, her chin on her hand, looking across
the water to the horizon, where the Scilly Islands
shimmered and disappeared in a grey, melting mist.
She did not hear the sound of Charles Turold's foot-
steps, descending the cliff path in search of her.
The young man stood still for a moment admiring
her exquisite features in their soft contour and deli-
cate colouring. He pictured her to himself as a white
wildflower in a grey wilderness. He could not see him-
self as an exotic growth in that rugged setting-a
rather dandified young man in a well-cut suit, with an
expression at once restless and bored on his good-look-
ing face.
He scrambled down the last few slippery yards of
the path and had almost reached her side before she
saw him.
“I have been sent for you," he explained. “I knew
I should find you here.”
She got up immediately from the rock where she
had been sitting, and they stood for a moment in
silence. She thought by his look that he had some-
thing to say to her, but as he did not speak she com-
menced the ascent of the stiff cliff path. He started
after her, but the climb took all his attention, and she
was soon far ahead. When he reached the top she was
standing near the edge looking around her.
“This is my last look,” she said as he reached her
side. Her hand indicated the line of savage cliffs, the
soon far a the edge looking said as he reacliffs, the


THE MOON ROCK
31
tossing sea, the screaming birds, the moors beyond the
rocks.
“Perhaps you will come back here again some day,"
he replied.
She made no answer. He drew closer, so close that
she shrank back and turned away.
“I must go now,” she hurriedly said.
“Stay, Sisily," he said. “I want to speak to you.
It may be the final opportunity—the last time we shall
be alone together here.”
She hesitated, walking with slower steps and then
stopping. As he did not speak she broke the silence
in a low tone
“What do you wish to say to me?"
“Are you sorry you are leaving Cornwall?” he hesi-
tatingly began.
She made a slight indifferent gesture. “Yes, but it
does not matter. Mother is dead, and my father does
not care for me.” She flushed a deep red and hastily
added, “No one will miss me. I am so alone.”
“You are not alone!” he impetuously exclaimed—“I
love you, Sisily—that is what I wished to say. I came
here to tell you."
He caught a swift fleeting glance from her dark
eyes, immediately veiled.
“Do you really mean what you say?" she replied,
a little unsteadily.
“Yes, Sisily. I have loved you ever since I first
met you," he replied. “And, since then, I have loved
you more and more.”
“Oh, why have you told me this now?” she exclaimed.
“You think I am lonely, and you are sorry for me. I
cannot stay longer. Aunt will be waiting for me."
He sprang before her in the narrow path.
“You must hear what I have to say before you go,"
he said curtly. “We are not likely to meet again for


32
THE MOON ROCK
some time if we part now. I intend to leave England.”
She looked at him at those words, but he was at a
loss to divine the meaning of the look.
“You are leaving England?” A quick ear would have
caught a strange note in her soft voice. “Oh, but you
cannot—you have responsibilities.”
“Are you thinking of the title, and your father's
money?” he observed, glancing at her curiously. “What
do you know about it, Sisily?”
"I have heard of nothing but the title ever since I
can remember,” she replied.
“I learnt for the first time this afternoon that I
was brought down here to rob you,” he said gloomily.
“I am glad for your sake if you are to have it—the
money,” she simply replied.
He answered with a bitter, almost vengeful aspect.
“I would not take the money or the title, if they ever
came to me. They should be yours. I will show them.
I will let them know that they cannot do what they like
with me." He brought out this obscure threat in a
savage voice. "If I had only known—if I had guessed
that your father— " He ceased abruptly, with a
covert glance, like one fearing he had said too much.
She kept her eyes fixed on the lengthening shadows
around the rocks.
“Do not take it so much to heart,” she timidly coun-
selled. “It is nothing to me the title or the money.
They made my mother's life a misery. My father was
always cruel to her because of them, I do not know
why. It is in his nature to be cruel, I think. He has
a heart of granite, like these rocks. I hate him!” She
brought out the last words in a sudden burst of passion
which startled him.
"What nonsense it all is !” he exclaimed, suddenly
changing his tone. “All this talk about a title which
may never be revived. Let them have it between them,
and the money too. Sisily, I love you, dear, love you


THE MOON ROCK
33
better than all the titles and money in the world. I am
not worthy of you, but I will try to be. Let us go
away and start life ... just our two selves.”
“I cannot.” She stood in front of him with down-
cast gaze, and then raised her eyes to his.
Had he been as experienced in the ways of her sex
as he believed himself to be, he would have read more
in her elusive glance than her words.
“You may be sorry if you do not,” he said, with a
sudden access of male brutality. “There are reasons-
reasons I cannot explain to you "
“Even if there are I cannot do what you ask," she
replied. Her face was still averted, but her voice was
steady.
“Then do you want to go with Aunt to London?” he
persisted, trying to catch a glimpse of her hidden face.
She shook her head.
“Or to stay with your father?”
“No!" There was a strange intense note in the brief
word.
“Then come with me, Sisily. I love you more than
all the world. We have nobody to please except our
two selves.”
“You have your duty to your father to consider.”
“Let us leave him out of the question," said the
young man hurriedly. “He is as selfish and heartless
as—his brother. I tell you again, I'll have nothing
to do with this title or your father's money. I will
make my own way with you by my side. I have a friend
in London who would be only too glad to receive you
until we could be married. You are leaving your home
to-night, and you are as free as air to choose. Will
you come?”
“Of course,” he began again, in a different tone, as
she still kept silent, “it may be that I have misunder-
stood. I thought that you had learnt to care for me.
But if you dislike me


34
THE MOON ROCK
“Do not say that,” she replied, turning a deeply
wounded face towards him. “It is not that-do not
think so. You have been kind and good to me, and I
-I shall never forget you. But I-I have a contempt
for myself.”
"I have a contempt for myself also after this after-
noon," he retorted. “Come, Sisily— "
"No, it is impossible. Hark, what was that?” The
girl spoke with a sudden uplifting of her head. Above
them, from the direction of the house, the sound of a
voice was heard.
“It is Aunt calling me,” she said, “I must go. Good-
bye.”
“Is it good-bye, then?”
"It must be. But I shall often think of you."
He had the unforgettable sensation of two soft burn-
ing lips touching the hand which hung at his side, and
turned swiftly—but too late. She was speeding along
the rocky pathway which led to the house.
“Wait, Sisily !” he cried.
A seabird's mournful cry was the only answer. He
glanced irresolutely towards the path, and then re-
traced his steps towards the edge of the cliffs.
A cold sun dipped suddenly, as though pulled down
by a stealthy invisible hand. The twilight deepened,
and in the lengthening shadows the rocks assumed
crouching menacing shapes which seemed to watch the
solitary figure standing near the edge, lost in thought.


CHAPTER V
M HROUGH the flowers on the hotel dining-table
Mrs. Pendleton was able to watch her niece un-
noticed, because the flowers occupied sich an
unreasonably large space on the little round table set
for three. Besides, Sisily had been engrossed in her
own thoughts throughout the meal. Mrs. Pendleton
was disturbed by her quietness. There was something
unnatural about it—something not girlish. She had
not spoken once during the drive from Flint House to
Penzance, and she sat through dinner with a still white
face, silent, and hardly eating anything.
Mrs. Pendleton supposed Sisily was fretting over her
mother, but she did not understand a girl whose grief
took the form of silence and stillness. She would have
preferred a niece who would have sobbed out her grief
on her shoulder, been reasonably comforted, and eaten
a good dinner afterwards. But Sisily was not that
kind of girl. She was strange and unapproachable.
There was something almost repellent in her reserve,
something in her dark preoccupied gaze which made
Mrs. Pendleton feel quite nervous, and unfeignedly re-
lieved when Sisily had asked to be allowed to go to her
room immediately the meal was concluded.
As she sat at the table, reviewing the events of the
afternoon, after the girl had taken her departure, Mrs.
Pendleton regretted that she had consented to take
charge of Sisily. She flattered herself that she was
sufficiently modern not to care a row of pins for the
stigma on the girl's birth, but there were awkward cir-
cumstances, and not the least of them was her own
rash promise to break the news to Sisily that she was
chargently moderni's birth
35


36
THE MOON ROCK
illegitimate. That disclosure was not likely to help
their future relations together. Mrs. Pendleton reflected
that she knew very little about her niece, whom she
had not seen since she was a small girl, but the recollec-
tion of her set face and tragic eyes at the dinner table
impelled prompt recognition of the fact that she was
going to be difficult to manage.
But there was more than that. With a feeling of
dismay Mrs. Pendleton's mind awoke to a belated reali-
zation of the scandal which would fasten on Sisily and
her birth if Robert succeeded in establishing his claim
to the title. A peer of the realm with an illegitimate,
disinherited daughter! The story would be pounced
upon by a sensational press, avid for precisely such
topics. In imagination Mrs. Pendleton saw the flaming
headlines, the photographs, and the highly spiced re-
ports in which every detail of her brother's private life
was laid bare for a million curious eyes.
Such an exposure was too terrible to be faced. Mrs.
Pendleton saw her own comfortable life affected by it;
saw her position in her small social circle shaken and
overwhelmed by the clamour of notoriety. She saw
herself the focus of the malicious tea-table gossip of all
her friends. Decidedly, it would not do.
She did her brother the justice to realize that he
had overlooked the public effect of the disclosure of
his painful domestic secret as completely as she had.
He had forgotten that his accession to the peerage
would make him, as it were, a public figure, and the
glamour which the newspapers would throw over his
lifelong quest would invest every act of his life with a
publicity from which he could not hope to escape. If
he had foreseen this, he would have made some other
arrangement for his daughter's future, not for the
girl's sake, but for the honour of the famous old name
of which he was so fanatically proud.
The question remained, what was to be done? Rob-
him, as it weapers would this life with a


THE MOON ROCK
37
ert would have to be told, of course. Mrs. Pendleton's
first impulse was to retract her promise to take charge
of Sisily, and wash her hands of the whole affair. Then
she thought of the money, and wavered. Robert had
made her a generous offer, and the money would have
helped so much! She had already planned the spend-
ing of the cheque he had given her that afternoon. She
had thought of a new suite of drawing-room furniture,
and bedroom carpets. She had a vision of a small
motor-car, later on.
As she pondered over the situation she thought she
saw a way outwa way so simple and practical that she
was astonished that it had not occurred to her before.
Mrs. Pendleton was a woman of decision and prompt
of action when she made up her mind. Her mind was
made up now. She glanced across the table at her hus-
band. “Joseph !" she said.
Mr. Pendleton, hidden behind the sheets of a news-
paper just arrived from London, had the temerity not
to hear. He was in a grumpy mood, arising, in the
first instance, from having been dragged away from his
business and his club to Cornwall. It was nothing to
him that he was in the Land of Lyonesse. His brief
impression of the Duchy was that it was all rocks, and
that Penzance was a dull town without a proper sea-
front, swarming with rascally shopkeepers who tried
to sell serpentine match-boxes at the price of gold ones,
and provided with hotels where dull tourists submitted
to a daily diet of Cornish pasties and pollock under
the delusion that they were taking in local colour in
the process. Mr. Pendleton's stomach resented his
own rash deglutition of these dainties, and in conse-
quence he was suffering too much with acute indigestion
to think of the compensation he would gain at next
year's Academy by standing with a bragging knowing
air before pictures of the Cornish coast, expatiating
to his bored acquaintances (who had never been to


38
THE MOON ROCK
Cornwall) on their lack of merit compared with the
real thing. Like most husbands, Mr. Pendleton had
been able to reach the conclusion that the real cause
of his bodily and mental discomfort was his wife, so
he maintained a sulky silence behind the pages of his
ne with that lackers in the femthe paper fromnt to talk
With that lack of ceremony which the familiarity of
marriage engenders in the female breast, his wife leant
across the table and plucked the paper from his hand.
“Listen to me, Joseph,” she said, “I want to talk
to you."
Lacking the newspaper screen, Mr. Pendleton's rebel-
lious tendencies instantly evaporated beneath his wife's
searching eye.
“Yes, my dear,” he replied meekly. “What about?”
“About Sisily. Did you notice that she did not speak
a word during dinner?”
"Perhaps she was overcome with grief, my dear.”
“Nonsense! Grief does not make a woman speech-
less. She's one of the dumb sort of girls. I always
mistrust a girl who hasn't plenty to say for herself.”
“Well, you know, my dear, she has had a strange
sort of life. She hasn't had the educational advan-
tages of other young women”—Mr. Pendleton was
going to add "in her station of life," but a timely
recollection of the afternoon's disclosures caused him
to substitute: “with wealthy fathers."
“Robert has neglected his duty to her shamefully.
I've been thinking it all over, and I'm half sorry now
that I consented to take charge of her.”
“Then why do it?” said her husband placidly.
“It's the scandal I fear,” rejoined his wife, pursuing
her own thought. “There's bound to be a lot of talk
and newspaper publicity when Robert comes into the
title. It would be much better to keep this quiet, after
all these years. There is really no occasion for it, if


THE MOON ROCK
39
Robert will only listen to reason. Robert wishes to
avoid future trouble and complications about the suc-
cession. That could be arranged by getting Sisily to
sign some agreement renouncing all claim on the title."
“I doubt if such a document would be legal, my
dear," said her husband dubiously.
“That wouldn't matter in the least,” replied Mrs.
Pendleton, with a woman's contempt for the law. “It
would be purely a family arrangement. Sisily could be
assured by somebody in whom she has reliance-not
her father, of course—that there was some legal reason
why she could not succeed. I do not think there would
be any trouble with her. She does not look the kind of
girl to delight in a title and a lot of money. Robert
would have to settle a handsome allowance on the poor
child-indeed, it is the very least he can do! If Rob-
ert agreed to this course there would be no need to blurt
out the brutal truth, and I would take Sisily under my
charge.”
Mr. Pendleton saw several objections to his wife's
plan, but he had long learnt the futility of domestic
argument on the husband's side at least. “How much
do you consider your brother ought to allow Sisily?”
he asked.
“Two thousand a year. Robert can well afford it.”
“Do you think your brother Austin would agree?”
“Of course he wouldn't. Austin is horribly selfish.
He wouldn't give Sisily a penny if he had his way, now
that he knows the truth. But I don't intend to consult
Austin in the matter. I thought of asking Dr. Raven-
shaw to go with me and try and influence Robert. Rob-
ert trusts him implicitly, and he seems to have a great
deal of influence with him. I feel sure he would do his
utmost to bring Robert to listen to reason. Do you
not think my plan a good one?"
In the secret depth of his heart Mr. Pendleton did


40
THE MOON ROCK
not, but with the moral cowardice of a husband he
forebore from saying so. “It might be tried,” he
feebly muttered.
“Very well, we will try it, then," said his wife, rising
from her seat as she spoke. “Go and order that motor-
car we had this afternoon while I get ready.”
Mr. Pendleton was accustomed to his wife's energetic
way of doing things on the spur of the moment, but he
had never become used to it. “Do you intend to go
and see your brother to-night?” he said, with an air
of surprise.
“Why not?”
Mr. Pendleton sought for a reason, but could find
none. “It's rather late, isn't it?” he suggested.
"Nonsense!” Mrs. Pendleton glanced at her wrist
watch. “It's not much past eight."
“Why not leave it until the morning?” said her hus-
band, with a lingering glance at the cheery glow of
the log-fire in the lounge. “It's a beast of a night to
be out. Hark to the wind !"
“If it is to be settled, it must be settled to-night,"
said Mrs. Pendleton decisively. “There'll be no time
in the morning for anything, if we are to catch the ten
o'clock train for London. Beside, Austin would see us
if we went there in daylight, and I do not want him to
know anything about it-he would only try and put
obstacles in our way.”
“What about Sisily?”
“She will be quite all right in her room. She looked
tired out, and needs a good night's rest. You had
better see about the car at once.”
Mr. Pendleton said no more, and his wife bustled
away to put on her outdoor things. When she de-
scended from her room her husband was awaiting her
in the lounge, and the head-light of the hired motor-car
gleamed in the darkness outside.
They set out through the narrow uneven streets,


THE MOON ROCK
41
which smelt strongly of mackerel and pitch. In a few
minutes the car was clear of the town, and running at
an increased pace through the gusty darkness of the
moors.


CHAPTER VI
T TITH a face grimly immobile as the carved head
of a heathen god, Thalassa stood at the front
door watching the departure of Sisily and her
aunt until the car was lost to sight in a dip of the
moors. Then with a glance at the leaping water at the
foot of the cliffs, grey and mysterious in the gloaming,
he turned and went inside the house.
It was his evening duty to prepare the lamps which
lighted up the old house on the cliffs. Sisily generally
helped him in that tedious duty, but she was gone, and
for the future he must do it alone.
The lamps were kept in a little lowbrowed room off
the stone kitchen. There Thalassa betook himself.
Robert Turold disliked the dark, and a great array of
lamps awaited him: large ones for the rooms, small
ones for the passages and staircase. Thalassa set to
work with a will, filling them with oil, trimming the
wicks, and polishing the glasses with a piece of chamois
leather.
As he filled and trimmed and polished he sang to
himself an old sea song:
“The devil and me, we went away to sea,
In the old brig 'Lizbeth-Jane'- "
His voice was gruff and harsh, and the melody, such
as it was, did nothing to relax his expression, which
remained grim and secret as ever.
Each lamp he lit as he finished it, and their gathered
strength gushed in a flood of yellow light on his crafty
brown face and deep-set eyes. He placed several of the
42


THE MOON ROCK
43
lamps on a tray, carefully lowered the wicks, and car-
ried them to their allotted places, returning for others
until only half a dozen small lamps remained. These he
gathered on the tray and took upstairs.
Night had fallen; the wind was rising without, and
seemed to rustle and whistle in the draughty passages
of the old house. Thalassa placed one lamp at the head
of the stairs, and others in the niches of the passage,
where they flickered feebly and diffused a feeble light.
Halfway down the passage he paused before a closed
door. It was the room in which Sisily's mother had
died. With an expressionless face he went in and left
the last lamp burning dimly on the mantelpiece, like
a votary candle on an altar of the dead. Issuing forth
again he cast a look around him and walked to Robert
Turold's study at the end of the passage. The door
was closed, but he opened it and entered.
Robert Turold was busily engaged writing at a large
table by the light of a swinging lamp. He looked up
from his papers as Thalassa entered, and thought-
fully watched him as he trimmed the lamp and tended
the fire. With these duties completed Thalassa still
lingered, as though he expected his master to speak.
“What's the glass like to-night, Thalassa ?” re-
marked Robert Turold absently.
The allusion was to a weather glass which hung in
the hall downstairs. As a topic of conversation it was
as useful to master and servant as the weather is to
most English people. That is to say, it helped them
when they were wordbound.
“Going down fast,” replied Thalassa.
“Then I suppose we are in for another rough night.”
“The glass is always going down in Cornwall, and
we are always in for another rough night,” responded
the servitor curtly. “Are you going to stay much
longer in the forsaken hole?”
“Not much longer," replied his master in a mild tone.


44
THE MOON ROCK
“It is, perhaps, a dreary spot to you, but not to me
no, never to me. The last link in my long search has
been found here-hidden away in this little out-of-the-
way Cornish place. Think of that, Thalassa! I shall
be Lord Turrald.”
“I don't see what good it will do you,” retorted the
man austerely. “You've spent a mint of money over it.
I suppose that's your own affair, though. But what's
to come next? That's what I want to know."
“When I leave Cornwall— "
“You mean we, don't you?” Thalassa interrupted.
“Of course I mean you as well as myself,” Robert
Turold replied almost humbly. “I should be sorry to
part with you, Thalassa, you must be well aware of
that. It is my intention to purchase a portion of the
family estate at Great Missenden, which is at present
in the market, and spend the remainder of my life in
the place which once belonged to my ancestors. That
has been the dream of my life, and I shall soon be able
to carry it out.”
A silence fell between them upon this statement, and
Robert Turold's eyes turned towards his papers again.
But Thalassa stood watching him, as though he had
something on his mind still. He brought it out
abruptly—
“And what about your daughter?”
“My daughter is going to London with my sister for
a prolonged visit,” said Robert Turold hurriedly. “She
needs womanly training and other advantages which I,
in my preoccupations, have been unable to bestow upon
her. It is greatly to her advantage to go."
Robert Turold gave this explanation with averted
face, in a tone which sounded almost apologetic. The
relative positions between them seemed curiously re-
versed. It was as though Thalassa were the master,
and the other the man.
“Oh, that's it, is it?” Thalassa turned a cautious


THE MOON ROCK
45
deindows which looked
and smote themed sharply.
yet penetrating eye upon his master. “Well, she's
your own daughter, so I suppose you know what's the
best for her.” He spoke indifferently, but there was an
odd note in his voice. He picked up his tray, and care-
lessly added: "For my part I shall be glad to get out
of Cornwall. It's a savage place, only fit for savages
and seagulls. There's the wind rising again.”
A violent gust shook the house, and rattled the win-
dow-panes of the room. It was the eyrie in which the
deceased artist had painted his pictures, with two large
windows which looked over the cliff. Again the gale
sprang at the house, and smote the windows with
spectral blows. Downstairs, a door slammed sharply.
“Damn the wind !” exclaimed Thalassa peevishly.
“There's no keeping it out. I'm going downstairs to
lock up now. You'll have your supper up here, I
suppose?”.
“Yes. I have a lot of work to do before I go to bed.”
Thalassa left the room without further speech, and
Robert Turold began rummaging among his papers
with a hand which trembled slightly. The table was
littered with parchments, old books, and some sheets
of newly written foolscap. He picked up his pen and
plunged it into a brass inkstand, then paused in
thought. His face was perturbed and uneasy. It may
be that he was reviewing the events of the day, wonder-
ing, perhaps, whether he had paid too high a price for
the attainment of his ambition. For it he had sacri-
ficed his daughter and the woman who now slept in the
churchyard near by, indifferent to it all. Nothing could
restore to him the secret he had divulged that afternoon.
A shade of apprehension deepened on his downcast
face. Then he frowned impatiently, and plunged into
his writing again.
face shade of the secret hierent to it ho now she


CHAPTER VII
N leaving his master's room Thalassa went
swiftly downstairs and disappeared into some
remote back region of the lonely old house. He
had other duties to perform before his day's work was
finished. There was wood to be chopped, coal to be
brought in, water to be drawn. Nearly an hour elapsed
before he reappeared, candle in hand, and entered the
kitchen.
A little woman with a furtive face, sharp nose, and
blinking eyes was seated at one end of the kitchen table
with playing-cards spread out in front of her. She
looked up at the sound of the opening door, and fear
crept into her eyes. She was Thalassa's wife, but the
relationship was so completely ignored by Thalassa that
other people were apt to forget its existence. The
couple did the work of Flint House between them, but
apart from that common interest Thalassa gave his
wife very little of his attention, leading a solitary
morose life, eating and sleeping alone, and holding no
converse with her apart from what was necessary for
the management of the house.
How he had ever come to bend his neck to the matri-
monial yoke was one of those mysteries which must be
accounted a triumph for the pursuing sex-a tribute
to the fearlessness of woman in the ardour of the chase.
On no other hypothesis was it possible to understand
how such a feeble specimen of womanhood had been
able to bring down such an untoward specimen of the
masculine brute. Outwardly, Thalassa had more kin-
ship with a pirate than a husband. There was that
in his swart eagle visage and moody eyes which sug-
46


48
THE MOON ROCK
He thed upsta of hi troublicht wbi table 1
Thalassa watched them moodily until the sound ceased.
He then left the kitchen with deliberate tread, and
stalked upstairs.
The door of his master's study was closed. He
opened it without troubling to knock, but started back
in astonishment at the sight which met his eyes. Robert
Turold was crouching by the table like a beaten dog,
whimpering and shaking with fear. He sprang to his
feet as Thalassa entered, and advanced towards him.
“Thank God you've come, Thalassa,” he cried.
“What's the matter with you?" said Thalassa
sternly.
"He's come back, Thalassa—he's come back.”
“He? Who?”
“You know whom I mean well enough. It was- "
His voice sank suddenly, and he whispered a name in
the man's ear.
Thalassa's brown cheek paled slightly, but he an-
swered quickly and roughly-
“What nonsense are you talking now? How can he
have come back? How often must I tell you that he is
dead?”
“You mean that you thought he was dead, Thalassa.
But he is alive."
“How do you know?”
“I heard him.”
“Heard him! What do you mean?”
“I heard his footsteps pattering around the house,
as clear and distinct as that night on that hellish
island. Shall I ever forget the sound of his footsteps
then, as he raced over the rocks, looking back at us
with his wild eyes, and the blood streaming down his
face-running and running until he stumbled and fell?
The sound of his running footsteps as he clattered
over the rocks have haunted me day and night ever since.
I heard them again to-night."
“I tell you again that he is dead. What! Do you


THE MOON ROCK
49
think that you could hear footsteps on a night like
this?” The man stepped quickly across to the nearest
window and flung it open. The room was filled with
rushing wind, and the window curtains flapped noisily.
“And where would he be running to? Do you suppose
he could climb up here from outside?”
"It might have been his spirit,” murmured the other.
“Spirits don't cross the ocean, and their footsteps
don't clatter,” responded Thalassa coldly. “The house
is all locked up, and there is no other house near by.
Come, what are you afraid of? You are worrying and
upsetting yourself over nothing. I'll bring you up
your supper, and some whisky with it. And the sooner
you leave this cursed hole of a place, the better it
will be.”
He crossed over to the fireplace and poked the coal
into a red glow, and then turned to leave the room. It
was plain that his words had some effect on Robert
Turold, and he made an effort to restore his dignity
before the witness of his humiliation left him.
“No doubt you are right, Thalassa,” he said in his
usual tone. “My nerves are a little overstrung, I
fancy. You said the house was locked up for the night,
I think?"
“Everything bolted and barred," said Thalassa, and
left the room.
He returned downstairs to the kitchen, where he wan-
dered restlessly about, occasionally pausing to look out
of the window into the darkness of the night. The rain
had ceased, but the wind blew fiercely, and the sea thun-
dered at the foot of the cliffs. The gloom outside was
thinning, and as Thalassa glanced out his eye lighted
on a strange shape among the rocks. To his imagina-
tion it appeared to have something of the semblance of
a man's form standing motionless, watching the house.
Thalassa remained near the window staring out at
the object. While he stood thus, a faint sound reached
nding on somethincks. To


50
THE MOON ROCK
him in the stillness. It was the muffled yet insistent tap
of somebody apparently anxious to attract attention
without making too much noise, and coming, as it
seemed, from the front door. Thalassa glanced at his
wife, but she appeared to have heard nothing, and her
grey head was bent over her cards. He walked noise-
lessly out of the kitchen, closing the door gently behind
him.
His wife remained at the table, unconscious of every-
thing but the lay of her cards; shuffling, dealing, set-
ting them out afresh in perpendicular rows, muttering
at the obstinacy of the kings and queens as though
their painted faces were alive and sensitive to her re-
proof. The old house creaked and groaned in the wind,
then became suddenly silent, like a man overtaken by
sleep in the midst of stretching and yawning Time
sped on. Thalassa did not return, but she did not
notice his absence. More rain fell, beating against the
window importunately, as if begging admission, then
ceased all at once, as at a hidden command, and again
there was a profound silence.
A piece of coal jumped from the fire with a hissing
noise, and fell at Mrs. Thalassa's feet. She got up to
replace it, and observed that she was alone.
She thought she heard her husband's footsteps in the
passage, and opened the door. But there was nobody
there. The lower part of the house was gloomy and
dark, but she could see the lamp glimmering on the hall
stand. She was about to return to her seat when the
hall lamp suddenly mooned up, cast monstrous shadows,
and went black out.
This fantastic trick of the lamp frightened her.
What had made it flare up like that and go out? And
whose footsteps had she heard? With a chill feeling of
fear she shut the door and turned again to her game.
But for once the charm of the cards failed her. Where
was Jasper, and why did he not return? Silence held


THE MOON ROCK
51
oppressive empire; her fears plucked at her like ghostly
hands. The lamp and the footstep—what did they
mean? Had she really heard a footstep?
She thought she saw something white in the uncur-
tained space of the window. She buried her face in her
hands, lacking the courage to cross the room and pull
down the blind.
Mysterious noises overhead, like somebody creeping
on all-fours, drew her eyes back to the door opening
into the passage. With dismay she saw it was not
properly shut. She wondered if she dared go and lock
it. Suppose it was her husband, after all? And the
noises ? Were they real, or had she imagined them?
There came to her ear an unmistakable sound like
the slamming of a door above her. A sudden accession
in the quality of her fear sent her flying to the passage
door to lock it. Before she could get there the door
flew open violently, as though hit by a giant's hand,
and then the wind blew coldly on her face. The lamp
on the kitchen table sent up a straight tongue of flame
in the draught, and also went out. As she stood there
with straining eyes a cry rang out overhead, followed
in a space immeasurable to the listener in the gulf of
blackness, by a shattering sound which seemed to shake
the house to its foundations. Then the external black-
ness entered her own soul, shrouding her consciousness
like the sudden swift fall of a curtain.


CHAPTER VIII
a ked up the pathe road
ting, and sta and frecklell
TT seemed a long wild journey in the dark, but actu-
lally only half an hour passed before the car emerged
from the wind and rain of the moors into the
dimly-lighted stone street of the churchtown. A few
minutes later the car stopped, and the driver informed
Mr. and Mrs. Pendleton in a Cornish drawl that they
had reached Dr. Ravenshaw's.
Husband and wife emerged from the car and dis-
cerned a square stone house lying back from the road
behind a white fence. They walked up the path from
the gate and rang the bell.
A rugged and freckled servant lass answered the
ring, and stared hard at the visitors from a pair of
Cornish brown eyes. On learning their names she con-
ducted them into a small room off the hall and departed
to inform the doctor of their arrival.
Dr. Ravenshaw came in immediately. The quick
glance he bestowed upon his visitors expressed surprise,
but he merely invited them to be seated and waited for
them to explain the object of their late visit. The room
into which they had been shown was his consulting room,
furnished in the simplest fashion-almost shabbily.
There were chairs and table and a couch, a small stand
for a pile of magazines, a bookcase containing some
medical works, and a sprawling hare’s-foot fern in a
large flowerpot by the window. Mr. Pendleton seated
himself near the fern, examining it as though it was
a botanical rarity, and left his wife to undertake the
conversation. Mrs. Pendleton was accustomed to take
the lead, and immediately commenced-
“I have taken the liberty of coming to ask your
52


54
THE MOON ROCK
mother would be so terrible for all of us, and especially
for Sisily.”
"I should think your brother had foreseen all this,”
said Dr. Ravenshaw, after a short pause.
“I do not think Robert has realized it,” Mrs. Pendle-
ton eagerly rejoined. “He is a most unworldly man, and
lives in a world of his own. His whole life has been
devoted to the idea of restoring the title. He has
thought of nothing else since he was a boy. He is
quite incapable of understanding what a sensation this
story of an earlier marriage will cause if it is made
public. Indeed, I did not realize it myself until after-
wards. Then I decided to come and see you, and ask
your help.”
"I quite agree with you that it would be better if
the story could remain unknown, after all these years.
But how can I help you?”
She had anticipated that question, and proceeded to
unfold her plan.
“It might be kept quiet, I think,” she said medi-
tatively. “It is Robert's duty to keep it secret for
Sisily's sake. I am chiefly concerned about her. Girls
are difficult, so different from boys! It wouldn't be so
bad if she were a boy. A boy could change his name
and emigrate, go on a ranch and forget all about it.
But it is different for a girl. Leaving the shock out
of the question, this thing would spoil Sisily's life and
ruin her chances of a good marriage if it was allowed
to come out. People will talk. It is inevitable that
they should, in the circumstances. I fancy the matter
could be arranged in a way to satisfy Robert—so as
not to interfere with his plans about the title.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Sisily could be told that there is some obstacle
which prevents her succeeding to the title. Robert has
not brought her up as an heiress with expectations. He


THE MOON ROCK
55
has never treated her fairly, poor girl. It was his dream
to have a son to succeed him. Not that it would have
made any difference if Sisily had been a son, after
what's come to light! Sisily would never question any-
thing that was told her about this wretched title,
for I'm quite sure that the idea of inheriting it has never
entered her head. It certainly never entered mine. I
thought titles descended in the male line. I don't know,
really, but that has always been my idea."
“It depends on the terms of the original creation.
The Turrald barony originally went into abeyance
among several daughters. One daughter could have
succeeded. There is nothing in the wording of the
original writ to prevent it-no limitation to male heirs.
It is now well established by precedent that a daughter
can inherit a barony by writ. But for the unhappy
obstacle revealed by your brother's story, his daughter
would undoubtedly have succeeded to the restored title
on his death.”
“I'm sure it's very good of you to explain it to me,”
murmured Mrs. Pendleton, in some confusion of mind.
“It sounds quite reasonable, too. A woman can inherit
the throne of England, so why not a title? But it never
occurred to me before. Sisily, of course, cannot suc-
ceed to my brother's title because of her birth. But is
there any need for this to be known? Could she not
sign a paper renouncing her rights in return for a
share of my brother's fortune?”
“I doubt if the law would approve of the arrange-
ment if it became known.”
“The law should realize that it was done from the
best of motives to keep from an innocent girl a secret
which would darken her life,” responded Mrs. Pendle-
ton with decision.
“I wasn't looking at it altogether in that light,"
replied Dr. Ravenshaw with a slow shake of the head.
on I'm sure it's. Pendleton, 1700. A woma


56
THE MOON ROCK
“But it might have been tried—oh yes, it might have
been tried.” He rose from his chair, and paced
thoughtfully up and down the room.
“Is it too late to try it now?” she asked.
He looked at her thoughtfully.
“In what way?"
“By trying to persuade my brother to change his
mind.”
“He is not likely to change his mind.”
“That,” responded Mrs. Pendleton, “remains to be
put to the test. I intend to see him to-night, before it
is too late. I beg you for Sisily's sake to come with
me and try and persuade him."
“Such a request as you propose to make should come
only from a member of the family,” replied Dr. Raven-
shaw. “It is a matter in which I would rather not be
involved. If you wish support, I would remind you
that there are two other members of your own family,
your other brother and his son-staying temporarily
in this churchtown, not far from here. Why not go to
them?"
With a charmingly feminine gesture Mrs. Pendleton
washed her hands of the other members of the family.
“I would not dream of going to Austin,” she said in
decided tones. “He would not approve of my plan,
nor, indeed, would Robert listen to him if he did. But
he would listen to you, I feel sure. That is my reason
for coming to you.” She rose from her seat, and sought
to shepherd him into compliance by approaching him
with a propitiatory smile. “Do come, doctor. I have
trespassed too much on your kindness already, but
oblige me further in this."
“It's rather late for a visit,” he replied.
"It's only half-past nine,” she said, with a glance ať
her wrist watch. “My brother sits up till all hours
over his papers and books. I will take all responsibility
upon myself for the visit. I will tell Robert that I


THE MOON ROCK
57
literally had to drag you with me, and he will under-
stand that we simply had to see him to-night, as he
knows we are going home to London first thing in the
morning. Do come, Dr. Ravenshaw. The car is
waiting.”
He consulted his own watch.
“Very well, Mrs. Pendleton,” he assented. “I will
accompany you. Please excuse me while I get my
coat."
He rejoined them in a moment or two, and they pro-
ceeded outside to the waiting car,


CHAPTER X
FEW minutes later the car stopped in the gloom
outside the old house on the cliffs. The storm
had passed, but the sea still raged white beneath
an inky sky. A faint gleam from a shuttered front
window pointed a finger of light to the gravel path
which led to the front door.
Mrs. Pendleton knocked, and an answer came quickly.
The door was partly opened, and Thalassa's voice from
within parleyed: “Who's there?”
“Mrs. Pendleton—your master's sister," was the
reply. “Let us in, Thalassa."
The door was at once opened wide, and Thalassa
stood back for them to enter. By the light of the lamp
he carried they saw that he was dressed and coated for
a journey, with his hat on.
“I'm glad you've come,” he said to Dr. Ravenshaw.
“It's you I was just going out to fetch.”
There was something strange in his manner, and the
doctor looked at him quickly. “What's the matter
with you, man? Is there anything wrong?”
“That's what I don't know. But I'm afeered, yes,
by God, I'm afeered.”
His voice broke hoarsely, and he stood before them
with his eyes averted from the three wondering faces
regarding him. Mrs. Pendleton stepped quickly for-
ward, and grasped his arm.
“What is it, Thalassa? Has anything happened to
my brother?”
“There's been a great noise in his room, like as if
something heavy had crashed down, then silence like
the grave. I went up and called-an' tried to open the
door, but I couldn't.”


THE MOON ROCK
59
“Why didn't you try to break in the door?” said
Dr. Ravenshaw.
“Tweren't my place," was the dogged retort. “I
know my place. I was just going to St. Fair for you
and his brother.”
“How long is it since this happened-since you heard
the crash, I mean.”
“Not many minutes agone. Just before you came to
the door.”
“Light us upstairs at once, Thalassa,” said Mrs.
Pendleton sharply.
“Mrs. Pendleton, will you wait downstairs while we
investigate?” suggested Dr. Ravenshaw.
“No," she resolutely answered. “I will come with
you, doctor. Robert may need me. Do not let us
waste any more time.”
She slipped past him to Thalassa, who was mounting
the stairs. Dr. Ravenshaw hurried after her. Mr.
Pendleton, with an obvious call on his courage, followed
last. The lamp in Thalassa's hand burnt unsteadily,
first flaming angrily, then flickering to a glimmer which
brought them to a pause, one above the other on the
stairs, listening intently, and looking into the darkness
above.
"His bedroom is open and empty,” said Thalassa
when they had reached the end of the passage above.
“See !" He pointed to the gaping door, and then turned
to the closed one opposite. “He's in here.” His voice
bank to a whisper. “It was from here the noise came.”
He placed the lamp on the floor, and knocked hesi-
tatingly on the dark panel of the closed door, then again
more loudly, but there was no reply. Far beneath them
they could hear the solemn roar of the sea dashing
against the cliffs, but there was no sound in the closed
chamber. Its stillness and hush seemed intensified by
the clamour of the sea, as though calamity were brood-
ing in the darkness within.


60
THE MOON ROCK
“Robert, Robert !” The high pitch of Mrs. Pendle-
ton's voice shattered the quietude like the startling
clang of an unexpected bell. “Knock again, Thalassa,
more loudly, very loudly,” she cried, in the shrill ac-
cents of tightened nerves.
Thalassa approached the door again, but recoiled
swiftly. “God Aʼmighty!" he hoarsely exclaimed,
pointing, “what's that?"*
They followed the direction of his finger to the floor,
and saw a sluggish thin dark trickle making its way
underneath the door. Mr. Pendleton stooped and ex-
amined it, but rose immediately.
“There's been trouble in there,” he said, with a pale
face.
“How could anybody get in?" said Thalassa sullenly.
“The door is locked from the inside, and it's two hun-
dred feet from the windows to the bottom of the cliffs.”
“Oh, for pity's sake stop talking and do something,”
cried Mrs. Pendleton hysterically. “My poor brother
may be dying.” She rattled the door-handle. “Robert,
Robert, what is the matter? Let me in. It is I-
Constance.”
“We must break in the door,” said Dr. Ravenshaw.
“Stand away, Mrs. Pendleton, please. Now, Thalassa,
both together."
The doctor and the servant put their shoulders to the
door. Mr. Pendleton watched them with a white face,
but did not go to their assistance. At the fourth effort
there was a sound of splintering wood, the lock gave,
and the door swung back.
They peered in. At first they could see nothing.
The light of the swinging-lamp had been lowered, and
the interior of the room was veiled in shadow. Then
their eyes detected a dark outline on the floor between
the table and the window—the figure of a man, lying
athwart the carpet with arms outstretched, face down-


THE MOON ROCK
61
wards, the spread finger-tips clutching at some heavy
dark object between the head and the arms.
Thalassa stepped across the threshold, and with
shaking hand turned up the lowered wick of the swing-
ing lamp. The light revealed the stark form of Robert
Turold. At this sight Mrs. Pendleton broke into a
loud cry and essayed to cross the room to her brother's
side.
“Keep back, Mrs. Pendleton !" cried Dr. Ravenshaw,
interposing himself in front of her. “I begged of you
not to come upstairs. Mr. Pendleton, take your wife
away at once."
But Mr. Pendleton's timorous and inferior mind was
incapable of translating the command into action. He
could only stare dumbly before him.
“No, no! Let me stay, I will be calm,” Mrs. Pendle-
ton pleaded. “Is-is he dead, doctor?”
Dr. Ravenshaw crossed to the centre of the room
and bent over the body, feeling the heart. Husband
and wife watched him, huddled together, their white
faces framed in the shadow of the doorway. In a mo-
ment he was on his feet again, advancing towards them.
“We can do no good here, Mrs. Pendleton,” he said
gently. "Your brother is dead.”
“Dead? Robert dead!” Her startled eye sought
his averted face, and her feminine intuition gathered
that which he was seeking to withhold. “Do you mean
that he has been killed ?" she whimpered.
“I fear that there has been—an accident,” he replied
evasively. He stood in front of them in a way which
obscured their view of the prone figure, and a small
shining thing lying alongside, which he alone had seen.
“Come," he said, in a professional manner, taking her
by the arm. “Let me take you downstairs." He got
her away from the threshold, and pulled the broken door
to, shutting out the spectacle within.


62 -
THE MOON ROCK
“Are you going to leave him there like that?”
whispered Mrs. Pendleton.
"It is necessary, till the police have seen him," he
assured her. “We had better send Thalassa in the car
to the churchtown. Go for Sergeant Pengowan, Tha-
lassa, and tell him to come at once. And afterwards
you had better call at Mr. Austin Turold's lodgings and
tell him and his son. Hurry away with you, my man.
Don't lose a moment !”
Thalassa hastened along the passage as though glad
to get away. His heavy boots clattered down the stair-
case and along the empty hall. Then the front door
banged with a crash.
The others followed more slowly, stepping gently in
the presence of Death, past the little lamps, hardly
bigger than fireflies, which flickered feebly in their al-
coves. They went into the front room, where a table
lamp gave forth a subdued light. Mrs. Pendleton
turned up the wick and sank into a chair, covering her
face with her hands.
It was the room where only that afternoon Robert
Turold had unfolded the history of his life's quest: a
large gloomy room with heavy old furniture, faded
prints of the Cornish coast, and a whitefaced clock on
the mantel-piece with a loud clucking tick. Dr. Raven-
shaw knew the room well, but Robert Turold's sister
had seen it for the first time that day, and the recol-
lection of what had taken place there was so fresh in
her memory that it brought a flood of tears.
“Poor Bob!” she sobbed. “He denied himself all his
life for the sake of the title, and what's the good of it
all-now?”
That was the only light in which she was able to see
the tragedy in the first moment of the shock. Other
thoughts and revelations about her brother's strange
death were to come later, when her mind recovered its
bearings. For the moment she was incapable of think-


64
THE MOON ROCK
“The news has shocked me to the last degree," re-
sponded her brother. “What has happened? Did
somebody send for you? Is that what brought you
here?"
Mrs. Pendleton shook her head, embarrassed in her
grief. She remembered that she wished to keep the
object of her visit secret from her younger brother, and
she could not very well disclose the truth then.
“Not exactly,” she repied, a trifle incoherently. “I
wanted to see Robert again before I returned to Lon-
don in the morning. So we motored over after dinner,
and found him-dead.” Fresh tears broke from her.
Austin Turold wandered around the room quickly
and nervously, then drew Dr. Ravenshaw to the door
with a glance. “I should like to go upstairs before the
police come,” he whispered.
Dr. Ravenshaw nodded, and they went upstairs to-
gether. The shattered door creaked open to their
touch, revealing the lighted interior and the dead man
prone on the floor. Austin approached his brother's
corpse, eyed it shudderingly, and turned away. Then
he stooped to look at the small revolver lying alongside,
but did not touch it. Again he bent over the corpse,
this time with more composure in his glance.
The object on which the outstretched arms rested
was an old Dutch hood clock, which had fallen or been
dragged from a niche in the wall, and lay face upper-
most, the glass case open and smashed, the hands
stopped at the hour of half-past nine. It was a clock
of the seventeenth century, of a design still to be found
occasionally in old English houses. A landscape scene
was painted in the arch above the dial, showing the
moon above a wood, in a sky crowded with stars. The
moon was depicted as a human face, with eyes which
moved in response to the swing of the pendulum. But
the pendulum was motionless, and the goggle eyes of
the mechanism stared up almost reproachfully, as
more com Againrevolvered awayor


THE MOON ROCK
65
though calling upon the two men to rescue it from such
an undignified position. At the bottom of the dial
appeared the name of Jan Fromantel, the famous Dutch
clockmaker, and underneath was an inscription in Ger-
man lettering-
“Every tick that I do give
Cuts short the time you have to live.
Praise thy Maker, mend thy ways,
Till Death, the thief, shall steal thy days.”
“Look at the blood !” said Austin Turold, pointing
to a streak of blood on the large white dial. “How did
it happen?”
“I know very little more than yourself. Your sister
called at my house about an hour ago and asked me to
accompany her here. She wished to see your brother
on some private business, and she was very anxious that
I should accompany her. Thalassa let us in, and said
he was afraid that there was something wrong with his
master. We came upstairs immediately, burst in the
door, and found—this.”
“Did Thalassa hear the shot?”
“He says not, only the crash.”
“That would be the clock, of course. Was my brother
quite dead when you found him?"
“Just dead. The body was quite warm.”
“The door was locked from inside, I think you said.”
“We found it locked.”
“Then it must have been locked from inside," re-
turned the other, who appeared to be pursuing some
hidden train of thought. “But where's the key? I do
not see it in the door. Oh, here it is !" He stooped
swiftly and picked up a key from the floor. “Robert
must have taken it out after locking the door."
“Perhaps it fell out when we were breaking in the
door,” observed the doctor.
“Of course. I forgot that. I notice that the clock


66
THE MOON ROCK
is stopped at half-past nine.” He bent down to exam-
ine it. “My brother kept private papers in the clock-
case," he added. “Yes—it is as I thought. Here are
some private documents, including his will. I had
better take charge of them.”
“Yes; I should if I were you,” counselled his com-
panion.
Austin rose to his feet and placed the papers in his
pocket.
“It is plain to me-now-how it happened,” he
said. “Poor Robert must have shot himself, then
tried to get his will from the clock-case when he fell,
bringing down the clock with him.”
“Is that what you think?” said Dr. Ravenshaw.
“I see no other way of looking at it,” returned Aus-
tin rapidly. “The door was locked on the inside, and
the room couldn't be reached from the window. This
house stands almost on the edge of the cliff, which is
nearly two hundred feet high. My feeling is that after
my poor brother shot himself he remembered in his
dying moments that his will was hidden in the clock-
case and might not be found. He made a desperate
effort to reach it and dragged it down as he fell.”
The doctor listened attentively to this imaginary
picture of Robert Turold's last moments.
“But why should he destroy himself?” he queried.
“Grief and remorse. Do you remember the disclosure
he made to us this afternoon? It is a matter which
might well have preyed upon his mind.”
“I see,” said the other thoughtfully. “Yes, perhaps
you may be right.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of
a loud knocking downstairs.
“That must be the police,” observed Dr. Ravenshaw.
“Let us go down."


CHAPTER X
WAT HY should Robert commit suicide?"
That was the burden of Mrs. Pendleton's
cry, then and afterwards. There was an
angry scene in the old cliff house between brother and
sister before the events of that night were concluded.
She utterly refused to accept Austin's theory that their
brother, with his own hand, had discharged the revolver
bullet which had put an end to his life and ambitions.
Sitting bolt upright in indignant amazement, she re-
jected the idea in the sharpest scorn. It was nothing
to her that the police sergeant from the churchtown
shared her brother's view, and that Dr. Ravenshaw
was passively acquiescent. She brushed aside the
plausible web of circumstances with the impatient hand
of an angry woman. They might talk till Doomsday,
but they wouldn't convince her that Robert, of all men,
had done anything so disgraceful as take his own life.
Arguments and events, the locked door and the inacces-
sible windows—pathetically masculine insistence on
mere details—were wasted on her. The marshalled
array of facts made not the slightest impression on her
firm belief that Robert had not shot himself.
Shaking a large finger of angry import at Austin,
and addressing herself to him alone, she had said-
"Robert has been murdered, Austin, I feel sure. I
don't care what you say, but if there's law in England
I'll have his murderer discovered."
And with that conclusion she had indignantly left
the house with her husband, leaving her brother to
walk back to his lodgings at the churchtown in moody
solitude across the rainy darkness of the moors.
67


68
THE MOON ROCK
For herself, she returned to her hotel to pass a sleep
less night, tossing by the side of her placidly uncon-
scious husband as she passed the tragic events of the
night in review and vainly sought for some clue to the
mystery. The dreadful logic of the circumstances
which pointed to suicide, hammered at her conscious-
ness with deadening persistence, but she resolutely re-
fused to give it entry. Why should Robert commit
suicide? Why indeed? It was the question which had
sprung to her lips when she first heard Austin's belief,
and it was to that she now clung in the midst of her
agonizing doubts, as though the mere wordless insist-
ence in her mind made it an argument of negation which
gathered force and cogency by frequent repetition.
But in the mass of teeming thoughts which crowded
her brain in the silence of the small hours, she long and
vainly sought for any other theory which would account
for her brother's death. If he had been murdered, as
in the first flush of her indignation she had declared,
who had killed him? Who had gone to the lonely old
house in the darkness of the night, and struck him
down?
It was not until the first faint glimmering of dawn was
pushing its grey way through the closed shutters that
there came to her the recollection of an incident of the
previous day which had left a deep mark upon her mind
at the time, but had since been covered over by the
throng of later tremendous events. It was the memory
of that momentary glance of a pair of eyes through the
slit of the door while her brother was telling of his
daughter's illegitimacy and her mother's shame. In
the light of Robert's subsequent death that incident
appeared in a new sinister shape as a clue to the com-
mission of the deed itself. With the recollection of that
glance there sprang almost simultaneously before her
mental vision the grim and forbidding features of her
brother's servant, Thalassa.


THE MOON ROCK
69
If she had been asked, Mrs. Pendleton could not have
given a satisfactory reason for linking Thalassa with
the incident of the eyes, but she was a woman, and not
concerned about reasons. The two impressions had
scurried swiftfooted, into her mind together, and there
they remained. She was now convinced that she had
all along believed it was Thalassa she had seen watch-
ing through the door, watching and listening for some
fell purpose of his own. She knew nothing about Tha-
lassa, but she had taken an instant dislike to him when
she first saw him. That vague dislike now assumed
the form of active suspicion against him. She deter-
mined, with the impulsiveness which was part of her
temperament, to bring her suspicion before the police
at the earliest possible moment.
She was essentially a woman of action, and in spite
of her sleepless night she was up and dressed before her
husband was awake. He came down to breakfast to
find his wife had already finished hers, and was dressed
ready to go out.
“Where is Sisily?” he asked, with a glance at the
girl's vacant place.
"I've ordered her breakfast to be taken to her room,
and sent word to her to rest in bed until I go to her,"
his wife replied. “I have a painful ordeal before me in
breaking the news of Robert's death to her. It's all
over the hotel already, unfortunately. Sisily is out of
the way of gossip in her room. After I've seen her I
shall leave her in your charge, Joseph. I shall have
plenty on my hands to-day.”
Mr. Pendleton received this mandate with a blank
face, and momentarily regretted that the arrangements
for their departure by the morning's train had been
cancelled. Then his better nature asserted itself, and
he meekly replied that he would do what he could.
“What do you suggest?” he asked.


70
THE MOON ROCK
fast She put her., nt over
“Take her for a walk,” responded his wife. "Try and
keep her interested and her mind occupied.”
With these words she left the breakfast table and
proceeded upstairs to Sisily's room before going out.
On the way there she again regretted having under-
taken the responsibility of her niece's future. She had
not disturbed Sisily on the previous night. She had
tried her door on her way to her own room, but it was
locked, so she had let the girl sleep on, and deferred
breaking the tragic news until the morning.
She now paused outside the door reluctantly. But
she was not the woman to shrink from a duty because
it was unpleasant, and womanly sympathy for her
unhappy niece banished her diffidence. She knocked
lightly and entered.
Sisily was seated by the window reading. A break-
fast tray, still untouched, stood on a small table beside
her. She put down her book as her aunt entered, and
rose to greet her.
Mrs. Pendleton bent over the girl and kissed her, and
took her hand. As she did so she observed that Sisily
looked worn and fatigued, with black rings under her
eyes, as though she, too, had passed a sleepless night.
But she was wonderfully pretty, the elder woman
thought, and nothing could rob her of the fresh charm
of youth and beauty.
“Sit down, Sisily,” she said, leading her back to her
chair, and taking another one beside her. "I have sad
news for you, dear, and you must be a brave girl. Some-
thing has happened to your father.”
“What has happened?" asked Sisily quickly. Then,
as if taking in the import of her aunt's tone, rather
than her words, she added: “Do you mean that he is ...
dead?”
Mrs. Pendleton inclined her head with tears in her
eyes. “It is worse even than that,” she went on, her
voice drooping to a whisper. "He... he has been killed.


THE MOON ROCK
71
We found him last night. Listen, dear, I will tell you
all.”
She gave the cold fingers a comforting pressure as
she spoke, but the hand was immediately withdrawn,
and Sisily sprang away from her, then turned and
regarded her with blazing eyes and a white face.
“Tell me about it!" she said.
Mrs. Pendleton imparted as much of the facts as she
felt called upon to relate. There was something about
the girl's reception of the news which puzzled her, and
her own look fell before the sombre intensity of her
gaze. Sisily heard the story in silence, and when it
was finished, merely said-
“I think I would like to be left alone for a little
while, if you don't mind.”
“Oh, you mustn't sit here moping, my dear,” said
Mrs. Pendleton, with an attempt at cheerfulness which
she felt to be clumsy and ill-timed, but Sisily's manner
had momentarily disconcerted her. “You had better
put on your hat and coat and go out with your uncle.
He is waiting downstairs for you. It is very sad, very
terrible, but you must let us help you bear it. You
must not stay here alone.”
“You are very kind”—the girl's lips quivered
slightly, though her face remained calm—but I would
rather not go out. I should prefer to be left alone.”
There was in her expression a despairing yet calm
detachment and resolve which forced Mrs. Pendleton
in spite of herself to yield to her wish with a meekness
which was almost timidity.
“Very well, dear,” she said. "If you feel like a walk
later on, you will find your uncle downstairs."
As she left the room she heard the door shut behind
her.
But Mrs. Pendleton had other things to think about
that morning than the strangeness of her niece's dis-
position and the manner in which she had received the


172
THE MOON ROCK
news of her father's death. The horror of that event
filled her own thoughts to the exclusion of everything
else, and she was determined to remain in Cornwall until
the mystery was explained.
She glanced at her watch as she reached the bottom
of the stairs. She had breakfasted early, and it still
wanted a few minutes to ten o'clock. The lobby of the
hotel was deserted, and through the glass doors leading
to the breakfast-room she could see a few guests still
at their morning meal. A porter was sweeping the
front entrance, and of him she enquired the way to the
police station, and set out for it.
It was chill and grey after the storm, with a sky ob-
scured by scudding clouds, but a gleam of truant sun-
shine was sporting wantonly on the hoary castled sum-
mit of St. Michael's Mount, and promised to visit the
town later on. Mrs. Pendleton walked briskly, and
soon arrived at the police station.
A young constable in the office came forward as she
entered and enquired her business. She disclosed her
name, and her relationship with the inmate of Flint
House, deeming that would be sufficient to gain her an
interview with somebody in authority. In that ex-
pectation she was not disappointed. The constable
favoured her with a good hard stare, went into another
room, and reappeared to say that Inspector Dawfield
would see her at once.
She followed him into the inner room, where a slight
man of middle age was seated at a leather-covered table
opening his morning correspondence. He looked up
and bowed as he saw his visitor, but waited until the
constable had retired before he spoke.
“Good morning,” he said. “What can I do for you?"
His eye regarded her with a thoughtful glance. His
professional interest had been aroused by the strange
death of the occupant of Flint House, whose object in


THE MOON ROCK
73
visiting Cornwall had been common gossip in the dis-
trict for some time past.
“It is about my brother's death that I wished to see
you.” Mrs. Pendleton spoke earnestly, drawing her
chair closer with the feeling that the man before her
had sufficient intelligence to give her a sympathetic
hearing.
“So I gathered from your card. It seems a very sad
case. Sergeant Pengowan's report has just reached
me. Anything I can do for you— Inspector Daw-
field pretended to occupy himself in cutting open an
official envelope with scrupulous care.
“Sergeant Pengowan regards it as a case of suicide,
does he not?" asked Mrs. Pendleton rigidly.
“Well, yes, I believe he does,” replied Inspector Daw-
field. “There is no doubt on that point, is there? Your
brother's revolver was lying near him, and the door
was locked on the inside."
“There is the greatest doubt in my mind,” returned
Mrs. Pendleton vehemently. “I do not-I cannot be-
lieve that my brother has taken his own life. In fact,
I am sure he did not.”
On hearing these words Inspector Dawfield looked at
his visitor again, with something more than surprise
in his eyes, then he pulled a document from a pigeon-
hole and hastily scanned it.
“Pengowan's report states quite definitely that it is
suicide,” he said as he replaced it. “In the face of that,
do you think "
"I think my brother has been murdered,” she said in
a decided voice.
“This is a very grave statement to make, Mrs. Pen-
dleton. Have you anything to support it? Anything
which has not been brought to light, I mean?”
Mrs. Pendleton proceeded to give her reasons. She
had thought over what she was going to say as she came


174
THE MOON ROCK
along, and she spoke with growing conviction, intensi-
fied by the sight of the earnest attentive face before
her. The incident of the person she had detected look-
ing through the door took on a new significance as she
related it. By her constant association of the eyes
with the disliked face of her brother's servant, she had
unconsciously reached the conclusion that she had all
along recognized the eavesdropper as Thalassa.
“You say your brother was talking about some fam-
ily matters at the time?” asked Inspector Dawfield, as
she related that part of her story.
“Yes,” responded Mrs. Pendleton. She had repressed
all mention of her brother's announcement of his daugh-
ter's illegitimacy, but afterwards she tried to persuade
herself that it slipped her memory at the time.
“It's common enough for servants to listen at doors,"
remarked Inspector Dawfield. “In this case it may seem
to have a sinister interpretation because of what hap-
pened afterwards. How long has this man been in your
brother's employ?"
"A number of years, I believe," replied Mrs. Pendle-
ton. “But he has a wicked face," she added hastily,
as though that fact cancelled a record of lengthy
service. “I took a dislike to him as soon as I saw him."
Inspector Dawfield veiled a slight smile with a sheet
of foolscap. “Have you any other reason for suspect-
ing him?"
“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 MOON ROCK
75
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 Bar-
rant, 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


76
THE MOON ROCK
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 ac-
complished 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,


CHAPTER XI
I TE rose from his seat as he saw her, but waited
T for her to approach. Her eyes, dwelling on his
face, noted that it was not so angry as she had
last seen it, but smoothed into the semblance of sorrow
and regret, with, however, something of the character-
istic glance of irony which habitually distinguished
him, though that may have been partly due to the
pince-nez which glittered over his keen eyes. There was
something of an art in Austin Turold's manner of
wearing glasses; they tilted, superiorly, at the world in
general at an acute angle on the high bridge of a super-
cilious nose, the eyes glancing through them downwards,
as though from a great height, at a remote procession
of humanity crawling far beneath.
At that moment, however, there was nothing superior
in his bearing. It was so unwontedly subdued, so in-
sistently meek, that it was to be understood that his
mission was both conciliatory and propitiatory. That,
at least, was the impression Mrs. Pendleton gathered
as her brother informed her that he had been waiting
nearly an hour to see her.
She reflected that he must have arrived shortly after
she left the hotel to go to the police station, and she
wondered what had induced her brother to rise at an
hour so uncommonly early for him, in order to pay
her a morning visit.
"I was up betimes,” said Austin, as though reading
her thought. “Sleep, of course, was impossible. Poor
Robert!"
Mrs. Pendleton waited impatiently for him to dis-
close the real reason of an appearance which had more


78
THE MOON ROCK
behind it, she felt sure, than to express condolences
about their common bereavement. Of Robert she had
always stood a little in awe, but she understood her
younger brother better. As a boy she had seen through
him and his pretensions, and he did not seem to her
much changed since those days.
"I have been upset by our difference last night, Con-
stance,” he pursued. “It seems deplorable for us to
have quarrelled—yes, actually quarrelled-over our
poor brother's death."
His sister's face hardened instantly. “That wasn't
my fault,” she said distantly.
“You'll excuse me for saying that I think it was.
You took an altogether wrong view of his-his death;
a view which I hope you've seen fit to change after a
night's reflection."
“You mean about Robert committing suicide?"
Austin inclined his head.
“I haven't changed my opinion in the slightest de-
gree,” she retorted. “I am still quite convinced that
Robert did not commit suicide.”
Austin darted an angry glance at her, but controlled
himself with a visible effort. “Have you reflected what
that implies?” he asked in a low tone.
“What does it imply?”
“Murder.” He breathed the word with a hurried
glance around him, as though apprehensive of being
overheard, but the lounge was empty, and they were
quite alone.
“I am aware of that."
“Then is it still your intention to go to the police
with this terrible suspicion ?” he asked, in a voice that
trembled with agitation.
It was on the tip of Mrs. Pendleton's tongue to reply
that she had already been to the police, but she decided
to withhold that piece of information until she had
heard all that her brother had to say.


THE MOON ROCK
79
“Certainly,” she replied.
“Then you must be mad," was his indignant re-
joinder. “Have you considered the scandal this will
entail upon us all?”
“Not half such a scandal as that Robert should be
murdered and his family permit the crime to go un-
punished.”
"I do not think that you have given this matter suffi-
cient consideration. It is for that reason I have come
to see you this morning—before you take action which
you may have reason to regret later on. I want you to
think it over carefully, apart from a mere feminine
prejudice against the possibility of a member of the
family destroying himself. If you will listen to me I
think that I shall be able to convince you that Robert,
deplorable though it may seem, did actually commit
suicide.”
“What's the use of going through all this again ?”
said Mrs. Pendleton wearily. “Robert would not com-
mit suicide."
“Suicide is always difficult to explain. Nobody can
say what impels a man to it.”
“Robert had no reason to put an end to his life. He
had everything to live for-everything in front of him.”
“You cannot say that a man bordering on sixty has
everything in front of him. I know it's considered
middle-aged in this misguided country, where people
will never face the facts of life, but in simple truth
Robert had finished with life to all intents and pur-
poses."
“You won't say that when you come to sixty your-
self, Austin. Robert was a great strong man, with
years of activity before him. Besides, people don't
kill themselves because they are growing old.”
“I never suggested it. I was merely pointing out
that Robert hadn't everything in front of him, to use
your own phrase."


80
THE MOON ROCK
“In any case he would not have killed himself," re-
plied Mrs. Pendleton sharply. “Such a disgrace! He
was the proudest of men, he would never have done it.”
“You always hark back to that." There was faint
irritation in Austin's tone.
"I really cannot get away from it, Austin. Can you
conceive of any reason?"
“There was a reason in Robert's case. I did not
mention it to you last night in the presence of the police
sergeant, but I told Dr. Ravenshaw, and he is inclined
to agree with me. Since then I have thought it over
carefully, and I am convinced that I am right."
“What is the reason?"
“You recall the disclosure Robert made to us yes-
terday afternoon?”
“About his marriage and Sisily?"
“Yes. It must have been very painful to Robert, more
painful than we imagine. It would come home to him
later with stunning force all that it implied, I mean.
At the time Robert did not foresee all the consequences
likely to ensue from it. It was likely to affect his claim
for the title, because he was bound to make it known.
When he came to think it over he must have realized
that it would greatly prejudice his claim. A body like
the House of Lords would do their utmost to avoid
bestowing an ancient name on a man, who, by his own
showing, lived with a married woman for twenty-five
years, and had an illegitimate daughter by her. These
are painful things to speak of, but they were bound to
come out. My own feeling is that Robert had a bitter
awakening to these facts when it was too late—when he
had made the disclosure. And he may have felt
remorse-
“Remorse for what?”
“Remorse for giving the secret away and branding
his daughter as illegitimate on the day that her mother


THE MOON ROCK
81
etween Aued her nocturna, lum towards
was buried. It has an ugly look, Constance, there's no
getting away from that."
He lapsed into silence, and awaited the effect of his
words. Mrs. Pendleton pondered over them for some
moments in manifest perturbation. There was sufficient
resemblance between Austin's conclusions and the
thoughts which had impelled her nocturnal visit to Flint
House, to sway her mind like a pendulum towards
Austin's view. But that only lasted for a moment.
Then she thrust the thought desperately from her.
“No, no; I cannot, I will not believe it !" she cried
in an agitated voice. “All this must have been in Rob-
ert's mind beforehand. His letters to me about Sisily
indicated that there were reasons why he wished me to
take charge of her. Robert had weighed the conse-
quences of this disclosure, Austin—I feel sure of that.
He was a man who knew his own mind. How carefully
he outlined his plans to us yesterday! He was to ap-
pear before the Investigations Committee next week
to give evidence in support of his claim to the title. And
he told me that he was purchasing a portion of the
family estate at Great Missenden, and intended to live
there. Is it logical to suppose that he would terminate
all these plans and ambitions by destroying himself?
I, for one, will never believe it. I have my own
thoughts and suspicions "
He turned a sudden searching glance on her. “Sus-
picions of whom?”
“I took a dislike to that terrible man-servant of
Robert's from the moment I saw him," said Mrs. Pen-
dleton, setting her chin firmly.
This feminine flight was too swift for Austin Turold
to follow.
“What has that to do with what we are talking
about?” he demanded.
“When we reached the door last night it was Tha-


82
THE MOON ROCK
lassa who let us in, with his hat and coat on, ready to
go out. There was something strange and furtive
about his manner, too, for I never took my eyes off
him, and I'm sure he had something on his mind. I'm
quite convinced it was he who was listening at the door
yesterday afternoon. And he's got a wicked and crafty
face.”
“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 Con-
stance, you cannot make haphazard accusations of
ce, you careckless fashion." of murder;" sa there's
“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 ob-
stacles in my way,” she replied with frankness.
“I most certainly should. Of course the whole posi-
tion may be altered now, with Robert's death. Have
you told Sisily?”
be aliinly shouteplied on would be
you to


THE MOON ROCK
83
“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 pro-
vided 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.
Her appearance in that secluded spot was unex-
pected, but at the moment Austin Turold did not give
it more than a passing thought. He hurried across


84
THE MOON ROCK
Market Jem Street and engaged a cabman to drive
him home.
The ancient vehicle jolted over the moor road in
crawling ascent, and in due time reached the spot where
the straggling churchtown squatted among boulders in
the desolation of the moors, wanting but cave men to
start up from behind the great stones to complete the
likeness to a village of the stone age. The cab drifted
along between the granite houses of a wide street, like
a ship which had lost its bearings, but cast anchor
before one where a few stunted garden growths bloomed
in an ineffectual effort to lessen the general aspect of
appalling stoniness. Austin Turold paid the cabman
and walked into this house. He opened the door with
his latchkey, and ascended rapidly to the first floor.
Lunch was set for two in the room which he entered,
and Charles Turold was seated at the table, turning
over the pages of a book. He glanced up expectantly,
and his lips formed one word
“Well?"
“It is not well,” was the testy response. “My charm-
ing sister has called in the assistance of Scotland Yard.
You'll have to stay. We've got to face this thing out.”
His son received this piece of news with a pale face.
“You should have foreseen this last night,” he said.
“I saw Sisily in Penzance-near the gardens."
“Where was she going?” asked Charles, flushing
slightly.
"I really cannot say. You should be better ac-
quainted with her movements than 1,” was the ironical
response. “You do not suppose I have been altogether
blind to your infatuation, do you? If you choose to
go walking and flirting with a girl on Cornish moors
you must expect to be observed. As a matter of fact I
thought it rather a good move on your part, until I
learnt the secret of Sisily's birth.”
ponse, vour infatuation, th a girl on Corm of fact I


THE MOON ROCK
85
“I tell you I won't stand this,” exclaimed Charles,
springing up from the table.
“Won't ?» said his father. “You carry things with
a high hand-Jonathan.” His look dwelt coldly on his
son. "Do not be a fool. Sit down and let us have
lunch, and we'll discuss afterwards what's best to be
done,”


CHAPTER XII
T TITH a slightly incredulous air Inspector Daw-
field placed his London colleague in possession
of his own knowledge of the facts of the case,
based on the statements made to him by Mrs. Pendle-
ton that morning and the facts as set forth in Ser-
geant Pengowan's report.
Detective Barrant listened attentively, with the air
of a man smiling to himself. He was not actually doing
so, but that was the impression conveyed by his keen
bright eyes. He was a Londoner, with an assured
manner, and the conviction that his intelligence was
equal to any call which might be made upon it. By
temperament he was restless, but his work had given
him a philosophical outlook which in some measure
counterpoised that defect by causing him to realize that
life was a tricky and deceptive business in which in-
telligence counted for more than action in the long
run. He had a wider outlook and more shrewdness
than the average detective, and he already felt a keen
interest in the case he had been called in to investigate.
When the inspector had finished his story he picked
up the blue foolscap on which was inscribed the sprawl-
ing report of the churchtown sergeant. With a severe
effort he mastered the matter contaiued under the flow-
ing curves and flourishes.
“The local man seems certain that it is suicide," he
said, “but the sister's statement certainly calls for
further investigation. How far away is this place?"
“Flint House? About five miles across the moors.
I've hired a motor-car to drive you up. Nothing has
been disturbed so far. As soon as I learnt you were
86


88
THE MOON ROCK
modest dwelling of Sergeant Pengowan, whom they
found at his gate awaiting their arrival-a shaggy
figure of a rural policeman of the Cornish Celtic variety,
with no trace of Spanish or Italian ancestry in his
florid face, inquisitively Irish blue-grey eyes, reddish
whiskers, and burly frame.
Inspector Dawfield bade him good-day, and added
the information that his companion was Detective Bar-
rant, of Scotland Yard. Pengowan greeted Barrant
with the respect due to the name of Scotland Yard, and
took a humble seat at the back of the car.
They went on again, and in a few minutes the car
stopped at the end of the rough moor track, close to
where the black cliffs dropped to the grey sea.
Flint House rose solitary before them, perched with
an air of bravado upon the granite ledge, as though
defying the west wind which blustered around it. The
unfastened gate which led to the little path banged
noisily in the breeze, but the house seemed steeped in
desolation. A face peeped furtively at them from a
front window as they approached. They heard a shuf-
Aling footstep and the drawing of a bolt, and the door
was opened by a withered little woman who looked at
them with silent inquiry.
“Where's your husband?” asked Sergeant Pengowan.
She glanced timidly up the stairs behind her, and
they saw Thalassa descending as though in answer to
the question. He scanned the police officers with a
cautious eye. Barrant returned the look with a keen
observation which took in the externals of the man who
was the object of Mrs. Pendleton's suspicions.
“You are the late Mr. Turold's servant?” he said.
“Put it that way if you like," was the response.
“Who might you be?”
Barrant did not deign to reply to this inquiry.
“Take us upstairs," he said.
“Pengowan wants us to look at the outside first,"


THE MOON ROCK
89
said Dawfield, but Barrant was already mounting the
stairs.
“You do so,” he called back, over his shoulder. “I'll
go up."
At the top of the staircase he waited until Thalassa
reached him. “Where are Mr. Turold's rooms?” he
asked.
Thalassa pointed with a long arm into the dim vague-
ness of the passage. “Down there,” he said, “at the
end. The study on the right, the bedroom opposite."
“Very well. You need not come any further.”
The old man's eyes travelled slowly upward to the
detective's face, but he kept his ground.
“Did you hear me?” Barrant asked sharply. “You
can go downstairs again.”
Again the other's eyes sought his face with a brood-
ing contemplative look. Then he turned sullenly away
with moving lips, as though muttering inarticulate
words, leaving Barrant standing on the landing, watch-
ing his slow descent.
When he was quite sure that he was gone, Barrant
turned down the passage-way. He had his reasons for
wishing to be alone. The value of a vivid first impres-
sion, the effect of concentration necessary to reproduce
the scene to the eyes of imagination, the mental ar-
rangement of the facts in their proper order and con-
formity—these were things which were liable to be
broken into by the disturbing presence of others, by the
vexatious interruption of loudly proffered explanations.
He knew all the facts that Inspector Dawfield and
Sergeant Pengowan could impart. He knew of Robert
Turold's long quest for the lost title, the object of his
visit to Cornwall, his near attainment to success, his
summons to his family to receive the news. In short,
he was aware of the whole sequence of events preceding
Robert Turold's violent and mysterious death, with the
exception of the revelation of his life's secret, which


90
THE MOON ROCK
The isolation had
ng the desoccurely on the
Mrs. Pendleton had withheld from Inspector Dawfield.
Barrant had heard all he wanted to know at second hand
at that stage of his investigations, and he now pre-
ferred to be guided by his own impressions and ob-
servations.
His professional interest in the case had been greatly
quickened by his first sight of Flint House. Never had
he seen anything so weird and wild. The isolation of
the place, perched insecurely on the edge of the rude
cliffs, among the desolation of the rocks and moors,
breathed of mystery and hinted at hidden things. But
who would find the way to such a lonely spot to commit
murder, if murder had been committed ?
Reaching the end of the long passage, he first turned
towards the study on the right. The smashed door
swung creakingly back to his push, revealing the in-
terior of the room where Robert Turold had met his
death. Barrant entered, and closed the broken door
behind him. It was here, if anywhere, that he might
chance to find some clue which would throw light on
the cause.
The profusion of papers which met his eye, piled on
the table and filling the presses and shelves which lined
the musty room, seemed, at the outset, to give ground
for the hope that such an expectation might be realized.
But they merely formed, in their mass, a revelation of
Robert Turold's industry in gathering material for his
claim. There were genealogical tables without number,
a philology of the two names Turold and Turrald, ex-
tracts of parish registers and corporation records,
copies from inscriptions from tombstones and mural
monuments, copied pedigrees from the British Museum.
and the great English collections, a host of old deeds
and wills, and other mildewed records of perished
hands. But they all seemed to have some bearing on:
the quest to which Robert Turold had sacrificed the
years of his manhood.


THE MOON ROCK
91
He had died as he lived, engrossed in the labour of
his life. A copy of Burke's “Vicissitudes of Families"
was lying open on the table, and beside it were two
sheets of foolscap, covered with notes in thin irregular
handwriting. The first of these depicted the arms of
the Turrald family, as originally selected at the first
institution of heraldry, and the quarterings of the
heiresses who had married into the family at a later
date.
The second sheet was headed “Devonian and Corn-
wall branch of the Turolds,” and contained notes of
Robert Turold's ancestral discoveries in that spot. The
notes were not finished, but ended abruptly in the mid-
dle of a sentence: “It is necessary to make it clea- "
Those were the last words the dead man had written.
He had dropped the pen, which lay beside the paper,
without finishing the word “clear.”
The sight of this unfinished sheet kindled Barrant's
imagination, and he stood thoughtful, considering the
meaning of it. Was it the attitude of a man who had
committed suicide? Was it conceivable that Robert
Turold would break off in the middle of a sentence, in
the middle of a word, and shoot himself? It seemed a
strange thing to do, but Barrant's experience told him
that there were no safe deductions where suicides were
concerned. They acted with the utmost precipitation or
the utmost deliberation. Some wound up their worldly
affairs with businesslike precision before embarking on
their timeless voyage, others jumped into the black gulf
without, apparently, any premeditated intention, as if
at the beckoning summons of some grisly invisible hand
which they dared not disobey. Barrant recalled the
strange case of a wealthy merchant who had cut
his throat on a Bank holiday and confessed before
death that he had felt the same impulse on that day for
years past. He had whispered that the day marked
to him such a pause in life's dull round that it seemed


92
THE MOON ROCK
to him a pity to start again. He had resisted the im-
pulse for years, but it had waxed stronger with each
recurring anniversary, and had overcome him at last.
Every suicide was a law unto himself. Barrant will-
ingly conceded that, but he could not so easily con-
cede that a man like Robert Turold would put an end
to his life just when he was about to attain the sum-
mit of that life's ambition. It was a Schopenhauerian
doctrine that all men had suicidal tendencies in them,
in the sense that every man wished at times for the
cessation of the purposeless energy called life, and it
was only the violence of the actual act which prevented
its more frequent commission. But Barrant reflected
that in his experience suicides were generally people
who had been broken by life or were bored with it. Men
of action or intellect rarely committed suicide, not be-
cause they valued life highly, but because they had so
much to do in their brief span that they hadn't time to
think about putting an end to it. Death usually over-
took them in the midst of their schemes.
Robert Turold was not a man of intellect or action,
but he belonged to a type which, as a rule, cling to life:
the type from which zealots and bigots spring-men
with a single idea. Such men shrink from the idea of
destroying the vital engine by which their idea is driven
forward. Their ego is too pronounced for that.
It was true that Robert Turold believed he had real-
ized the aim for which he had lived, and therefore, in a
sense, had nothing more to live for. But that point of
view was too coldly logical for human nature. Its pre-
sumption was only applicable to a higher order of
beings. No man had ever committed suicide upon
achieving the summit of an ambition. There were al-
ways fresh vistas opening before the human mind.
Barrant left the study for the opposite room where
the body of Robert Turold had been taken. It was
his bedroom, and he had been laid upon the bed.


THE MOON ROCK
93
Death had not come to him easily. His harsh fea-
tures were set in a stern upward frown, and the lower
lip was slightly caught between the teeth, as though
bitten in the final rending of the spirit. But Barrant
had seen too much of violent death to be repelled by any
death mask, however repellent.
He eyed the corpse closely, and then proceeded to
examine the death wound. In doing so he had to move
the body, and a portion of the sleeve fell back, exposing
the left arm to the elbow. Barrant was about to re-
place it when his eye lighted upon a livid mark on the
arm. He rolled back the garment until the arm lay
bare to the shoulder. The disclosure revealed four faint
livid marks running parallel across the arm, just above
the elbow.
The arms had been straightened to the body to the
elbows, and then crossed decorously on the breast. Bar-
rant walked round to the other side of the bed, knelt
down by the edge of it, and examined the underneath
part of the arm. A single livid mark was imprinted
upon it.
The inference was unmistakable. The four upper
marks were fingerprints, and the lower one a thumb
mark. Somebody had caught the dead man's arm in
such a strenuous grip that the livid impression had re-
mained after death.
The discovery was significant enough, but Barrant
was not at that moment prepared to say how much it
portended. It seemed certain that the marks had not
been made by Robert Turold himself. Their position
suggested a left-hand clutch, though only a finger-print
expert could definitely determine that point. Even if
they were not, it was too far-fetched a supposition to
imagine a man gripping his own arm hard enough to
bruise it.
The relative weight of this discovery was, in Bar-
rant's mind, weakened by the fact that the marks might
such: Somebody had's, and the low the four upper


94
THE MOON ROCK
have been caused by the persons who had carried the
body from the next room. Nevertheless, the marks
must be regarded as infirmative testimony, however
slight, of the fallibility of the circumstantial deduc-
tions which had been made from the discovery of the
body in a locked room, with windows which could not
be reached from the outside.
The presumption of suicide rested on the theory that
the circumstances excluded any other hypothesis. But
Barrant reflected that he did not know enough about
the case to accept that assumption as warranted by
the facts. The one certainty was that the study could
not have been reached from the outside. Barrant had
noted the back windows before entering the house; his
subsequent interior examination had strengthened his
conviction that they were inaccessible. Underneath the
study windows there was only the narrowest ledge of
rock between that side of the house and the edge of
the cliffs. A descent from the windows with a rope was
hazardously possible, but ascent and entrance by that
means was out of the question.
On the other hand, the theory of interior inaccessi-
bility had a flaw in it, due to the presence of five differ-
ent people in the room before the police arrived. Their
actions and motives would have to be most carefully
weighed and sifted before the implication of the dis-
covery of the finger-marks could be determined.
The rather breathless entrance of Inspector Daw-
field put an end to Barrant's reflections. He explained
that Sergeant Pengowan, in his anxiety to maintain
the correctness of his official report, had taken him to
various breakneck positions at the back of the house
and along the cliffs in order to demonstrate the im-
possibility of anybody entering Robert Turold's rooms
from outside. The sergeant was at that moment en-
gaged in a room downstairs drawing up his reasons for
that belief. “A kind of confirmatory report,” Dawfield


THE MOON ROCK
95
explained. “He fears that his reputation is at stake.”
“He can save himself the trouble,” said Barrant.
“The solution of Robert Turold's death lies in these
two rooms, if anywhere.”
Something in his companion's tone caused Inspector
Dawfield to direct an interrogative glance at him.
“Have you discovered something?” he asked.
“Finger-marks on the left arm, a left-hand impres-
sion, I should say.”
He drew back the loose sleeve of the dead man, and
Dawfield examined the marks attentively. “This is
strange," he said. “It looks suspicious.”
“Strange enough, and certainly suspicious. The
point is, is it suspicious enough to upset the theory of
suicide? The marks are too faint to enable us to de-
termine whether they are of recent origin. But I think
that we must assume that they are. It has occurred to
me that they may have been caused when the body was
picked up from the floor of the other room and carried
in here.”
"In that case the marks would have been underneath
the arm. In lifting a heavy weight like a corpse it
would be natural to place the hands under the shoul-
ders, for greater lifting power.”
“There's something in that, but it's by no means
certain. It would depend on the position of the body.
According to Pengowan's report, Robert Turold was
found lying face downward. The body would have to be
turned over before it was lifted, and the grip might
have been made in pulling it over. We must find that
out."
“It's a point which can be settled at once by ques-
tioning Thalassa. He helped Pengowan carry the body
into this room.”
“That is the very thing I do not wish to do,” re-
joined Barrant quickly. “We have to remember that
Thalassa is, for the time being, suspect. Mrs. Pen-
somethiting powers, hands


96
THE MOON ROCK
dleton's suspicions of him may be based on the slight-
est foundation, but we are bound to keep them in
mind.”
“Do you not intend to question him at all?”
“Not at present. His attitude when he brought me
upstairs was that of a man on his guard, expecting
to be questioned. I saw that at once, and decided to say
nothing to him. I will take him by surprise later on,
when he is off his guard, and if he is keeping anything
back I may be able to get it out of him. But we must
not be too quick in drawing the conclusion that those
marks were made by him."
“What makes you say so?" asked Inspector Daw-
field.
“Thalassa has a long bony hand, with fingers thick-
ened by rough work. I noticed it when he was point-
ing to these rooms from the passage. This grip looks
as if it might have been made by a smaller hand, with
slim fingers. Look how close together the marks are !
Unfortunately, that's about all we're likely to deduce
from them, and I doubt if a finger-print expert will
be able to help us. Observe, there are no finger-prints
-merely faint marks of the middle of the fingers, and
a kind of blur for the thumb. But the thing is sus-
picious, undoubtedly suspicious.”
“Still, the door was locked from inside,” said Daw-
field. “We mustn't lose sight of that fact.”
“And the key was found in the room. We must also
remember that there were several people in the room
after the door was burst open, including the dead man's
brother. It seems that it was he who first propounded
the suicide theory to Dr. Ravenshaw, and subsequently
to Pengowan. Do you know anything about the
brother?”
“I know nothing personally. Pengowan tells me that
Robert Turold secured lodgings for his brother and his


THE MOON ROCK
97
son in an artist's house at the churchtown about six
weeks ago. They arrived next day, and are still there.
I understand that the brothers have been in pretty close
intimacy, meeting each other practically every day,
either at the churchtown or in this house."
“Do you know what took place at the family gather-
ing which was held in this house yesterday afternoon,
after the funeral ?”
"All I know is that Robert Turold informed his
family that he was likely to succeed in his claim for
the title. Mrs. Pendleton was rather vague about the
détails, but she did say that her brother had placed
his daughter in her charge, and had made a long state-
ment to them about his future plans.”
“She did not indicate what those plans were?”
“Only in the vaguest way. I remember her saying
that her brother was a wealthy man: the one wealthy
member of the family, was the way she put it. Her
principal preoccupation was her suspicion of the man-
servant, based on seeing him listening at the door. She
was very voluble and excited—so much so that I did
not attach much importance to what she said, and did
not ask her many questions.”
"It is of the utmost importance that we should find
out all we can about this family council yesterday. It
is possible that it may throw some light on Robert Tur-
old's death. I am not prepared at present to say
whether it is suicide or not, but apart from any sus-
picious circumstances, I feel that there is some justifi-
cation for Mrs. Pendleton's belief that a wealthy and
successful man like her brother was not likely to take
his own life, unless there was some hidden reason for
him to do so. If we knew more of what happened
downstairs yesterday we might be in a better position
to judge of that. The case strikes me as a very pe-
culiar one-indeed, it has some remarkable features.


98
THE MOON ROCK
My first task will be to interview all the persons who
were present at yesterday's gathering. Can you tell
me if the brothers were on good terms?"
“I believe so."
“Is Austin Turold a poor man?"
“I know nothing about him. But what has that got
to do with it?"
"It may have much to do with it. He may have
stood to inherit a fortune from Robert."
“You surely do not suspect the brother?"
“I suspect no one, at present,” returned Barrant.
“I am merely glancing at the scanty facts within our
knowledge and seeing what can be gathered from them.
Robert Turold is found dead in his study, with his
hands on an old clock, where he kept important papers,
including his will. We are indebted to Austin Turold
for that knowledge. But how did Austin Turold come
to know that his brother kept his will in the clock-case?
Did Robert tell him, or did he find it out? Was Austin
aware of the contents of the will? Why did Robert go
to the clock? Was his idea to destroy the will? And
was that after or before he was shot, or shot himself?
“These are questions we cannot answer without fur-
ther knowledge, but they seem to point to the existence
of some family secret of which we know nothing. We
must find out what it is. I shall first interview Austin
Turold, and then call on Dr. Ravenshaw, if time per-
mits. You'd better drop me at the churchtown on your
way back to Penzance. There's really nothing to detain
you any longer.”
They returned to the churchtown in the motor-car,
and Pengowan from the back seat directed the way to
Austin Turold's lodgings.


CHAPTER XIII
“ H yes, I'm modern enough,” said Austin Turold,
balancing his cigarette in his white fingers, and
glancing at Barrant with a reflective air-
“that is to say, I believe in America and the League
of Nations, but not in God. It's not the fashion to
believe in God or have a conscience nowadays. They
both went out with the war. After all, what's a con-
science to a liver? But here I am, chattering on to
distract my sad thoughts, although I can see in your
eye that you have it in you to ask me some questions.
Well, go ahead and ask them, and I will answer them-
if I can."
“I do wish to ask you some questions,” said Barrant
"questions connected with your brother's death."
“I know very little about it. It was a most terrible
shock to me, I assure you, and is likely to detain me
in this barbarous place longer than I intended-greatly
against my will."
“I understand you came to Cornwall at your
brother's request?""
“Yes. My brother sent for me and my son more
than a month ago, so we came at once. I'll forestall
the further inquiry I see on your lips, and tell you why I
came so promptly. My brother Robert was the wealthy
member of the family, and I was the poor one-a poor
devil of an Anglo-Indian with nothing on this side of the
grave but a niggardly Civil Service pension!
“When we arrived I found that Robert had already
taken these lodgings for us, which was as near as he
could get accommodation to his own house. I did not
object to that arrangement, because I do not like hotels
99


100
THE MOON ROCK
nowadays—not since the newly-rich started to patron-
ize them. So here I've been rusticating ever since, con-
ferring daily with my poor brother, and eating the
four meals a day which 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 Philis-
tine, 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 eye-
brows, 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


THE MOON ROCK
101
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 vil-
lainous 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 De-
tective 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 fash-
ion, 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.
Barrant eyed the elder man with a puzzled curiosity
which was tolerably masked by official impassivity.
Barrant had his own methods of investigation and in-
quiry. He brought an alert intelligence, a seeing eye,
and a false geniality to bear in his work. Unversed
in elaborate deduction, he flattered himself that he knew
enough about human nature to strike the balance of
probabilities in almost any case. His cardinal article
of faith was that there was nothing like getting on good
terms with those he was interviewing in order to find
out things. Most people were on their guard against
detectives, who too often took advantage of their posi-
tion to assume offensive airs of intimidation, whereas
the great thing was to disarm suspicion by a friendly


102
THE MOON ROCK
manner. Barrant had cultivated pleasantness with con-
siderable success. Some who were not good judges of
physiognomy were apt to overlook the watchful eyes
in his smiling affable presence, and talk freely-some-
times too freely, as they later on discovered to their
cost. A chance word, a significant phrase, was suffi-
cient to set him burrowing underground with the ac-
tivity of a mole, to burst into the open later on with all
his clues complete, to the confusion of the trusting per-
son with an unguarded tongue.
He had put these tactics into execution with Austin
Turold. Austin, taking tea when he called, in a bright
blue room hung with pictures, had received his visitor
with a charming cordiality, insisted on his taking tea
with him, and then let loose a flood of small-talk, as
though he were delighted with his visitor. His welcome
was so perfect, his manners so gracefully unforced, that
Barrant had an uneasy suspicion that he was being
beaten at his own game, and was slightly out of counte-
nance in consequence. Up to that moment he could not,
for the life of him, decide whether Austin Turold's
polished self-assurance was a mask or not. It seemed
too natural to be assumed.
“Your own opinion is that your brother committed
suicide?” he asked again.
“No other conclusion is possible, in my mind.”
“But did he have any reason, that you know of, to
commit suicide?”
Austin shrugged his shoulders. “Suicide is not
usually associated with reason," he observed. “But in
Robert's case there is a reason, or so it seems to me. I
have not seen him for many years, but during my re-
cent close association with him I was struck by two
things: the solitary aloofness of his mind, and his over-
whelming pride-pride in the family name. These two
traits in his character coloured all his actions. In the


THE MOON ROCK
103
first place, he disliked opening his mind to anybody, but
the stronger influence, his family pride, overcame his
habitual secretiveness when he thought it necessary and
desirable to do so in furtherance of his darling ambi-
tion—the restoration of this title. Men who lead a soli-
tary, self-contained life, like my brother, become intro-
spective and ultra-sensitive, and face any intimate per-
sonal revelation with the utmost reluctance. They will
nerve themselves to it when the occasion absolutely re-
quires, but the after effects—the mental self-probings,
the agonized self torture that a self-conscious proud
man can inflict on himself when he comes to analyze
the effects of his disclosure on other minds, are some-
times unendurable.”
Austin put forward this analysis of his brother's
state of mind with a gravity which was in complete
contrast with the light airiness of his tea-table gossip,
and Barrant felt that he was speaking with sincerity.
“Yes, I can understand that,” he said with a thought-
ful nod.
"I think that is what happened in my brother's case,
when he felt called upon to reveal, as he did yesterday,
a shameful family secret which hurt him in his strong-
est point-his family pride."
“Stop a minute," interrupted Barrant, in a surprised
voice. “I really do not follow you here. What is this
shameful secret to which you refer?”
Austin Turold looked surprised in his turn. “It had
to do with his marriage and his daughter's legitimacy,”
he slowly replied. “Surely my sister imparted this to
the Penzance police inspector, when she besought his
assistance?"
"I know nothing about it,” replied Barrant quickly
and emphatically. "I shall be glad if you will tell
h you retel in his turregitimacy;
me."
“Certainly."
Austin Turold related the story of his brother's dis-


104
THE MOON ROCK
closure. Again he spoke in careful grave words, and
with a manner completely divested of any trace of his
habitual flippancy.
"It appears to me that this revelation must have had
a very painful effect on Robert's mind," he added.
“You must remember that he was an abnormal type.
An ordinary man would not have made such a disclosure
on the day of the funeral of the woman who was sup-
posed to be his wife. But all Robert's acts hinged on
his one great obsession. He allowed nothing to come
between him and his one ambition—not even his wife
(let us call her so) and child. But it would come home
to him afterwards—I mean the normal point of view
—the way the world would regard such a disclosure
and I have no doubt that his belated mental anguish
and morbid thoughts impelled him to take his life. Un-
derstand me, Mr. Barrant, I do not mean that he did
this through remorse, but through the blow to his
pride. He couldn't face the racket-the gossip, the
notoriety and all the rest of it.”
“But according to your story, your brother had
nothing to blame himself for," said Barrant. “You
say that he was ignorant of this earlier marriage until
recently?"
“Public sentiment will not look at it that way. People
will say he sacrificed a dead woman and his daughter to
his own selfish ends—threw them over when he had
attained his ambition. That's what came home to him,
in my opinion.”
"I see.” Barrant was silent for a while, turning this
over in all its bearings. “Yes. There may be something
in that point of view. But did not your brother confide
this story to you before yesterday?"
“When we were alone together during the last few
days he frequently seemed on the point of telling
me something. I could see that by his manner. But he


THE MOON ROCK
105
never got beyond a certain portentousness, as it were,
It's my belief now that he wanted to tell me, but couldn't
quite bring himself to it. I am very sorry that he
didn't.”
“Do you know how long your brother has been aware
of this earlier marriage?"
“Quite recently, I believe. He gave us to understand
yesterday that it was a death-bed confession."
“Are there any proofs of the earlier marriage?”
“I am afraid I cannot enlighten you on that point
either.”
“This is very strange," said Barrant. "The proofs
are very important. This disclosure vitally affected
your brother's ambitions, and was therefore likely to
influence his views regarding the disposition of his
property.”
He shot a keen glance at his companion. Austin
laid aside his glasses and bent earnestly across the
table.
“I will be frank with you,” he said, “quite frank. My
brother told me a little more than a week ago that he
had made a new will, and that I was his heir."
“Where is this will?”
“I found it in the clock-case at Flint House last
night, and I have since handed it to the lawyer who
drafted it.”
“Your brother gave you no indication of this be-
fore?”
"No. He told me when I came that he had summoned
me to Cornwall because of the great change in the
family fortunes. As I was his only brother he desired
my presence in the investigation of the final proofs and
the preparation of his claim for the House of Lords.
Nothing was said about the succession then. Robert
was very excited, and talked only of his own future.
I feel sure that he was not then thinking of who was
bout the sunny of his of who was


106
THE MOON ROCK
to succeed to the title after his death. He looked for-
ward to enjoying it himself. I certainly did not give it
a thought, either. Who could have foreseen this tragic
event?”
“Do you know anything about this peerage?”
“Not till latterly. I never took it seriously, like
Robert. I looked upon it as a family fiction. I under-
stand that the Turrald barony was a barony by writ-
whatever that may be. The point is that if my brother
had lived to restore it, the title, on his death, would
have descended to his only daughter, if she had been
born in wedlock. As she is illegitimate, the title would
have descended to me, and after me to my son."
“You were here last night when they brought you
the news of your brother's death, I understand?” re-
marked Barrant, in a casual sort of way.
“Yes; I did not go out again after I returned from
the funeral.”
“Was your son home with you?”
“Most of the time. He came in later than I, and
then went out for a walk when the storm cleared away.
I did not see him again until this morning. Thalassa
came for me with the news of my brother's death, and
I did not get back from Flint House until very late.”
“I suppose you are aware your sister does not share
your view that your brother committed suicide?"
“I understand she has some absurd suspicion about
Thalassa, my brother's servant."
“Why do you call her suspicion absurd?” asked Bar-
rant cautiously.
"It is more than absurd,” replied Austin warmly.
“I am ashamed to think that my sister should have
given utterance to such a dreadful thought against
a faithful old servant who has been with Robert for
half a lifetime, and was devoted to him."
“Mrs. Pendleton saw him looking through the door."
“She only thought so. She went to the door imme-
on home wit came in orm clearedilassa


THE MOON ROCK
107
diately to find out who it was, but there was nobody
there."
“Do you think she imagined it?”
“No; I think somebody was there, but it is by no
means certain that it was Thalassa. It might have
been Thalassa's wife. It might even have been Rob-
ert's daughter.”
“Was not Miss Turold present at the family gath-
ering?”
“No; my brother naturally did not wish her to be
present, and she went upstairs. She went out while we
were in the room. The door was slightly open, and
she may have glanced in as she passed.”
“But this person was listening.”
Austin Turold shrugged his shoulders.
“Was your brother talking about his marriage at
the time?”
“Yes."
“Could Miss Turold have heard what he was say-
inei Anyboe is som
“Anybody could. The door was partly open.”
“There is some mystery here.”
Barrant spoke with the thoughtful air of one view-
ing a new vista opening in the distance. These sur-
mises about the listener at the door, by their manifest
though perhaps unintended implication, pointed to a
deeper and more terrible mystery than he had im-
agined.
Austin Turold did not speak. Darkness had long
since fallen, and a lamp, which had been brought in
by the maid who was also the model, stood on the table
between the two men, and threw its shaded beams on
their faces. A clock on the mantel-piece chimed eight,
and aroused Barrant to the flight of time.
"I must get back," he said. “I intended to see Dr.
Ravenshaw, but I shall leave that until later. Can
I get a conveyance back to Penzance?”


108
THE MOON ROCK
“There is a public wagonette. I am not sure when
it goes, but it starts from "The Three Jolly Wreckers'
at the other end of the churchtown.”
“ 'The Three Jolly Wreckers! That's rather a cyni-
cal name for a Cornish inn, isn't it?”
“Oh, the Cornish people are not ashamed of the old
wrecking days, I assure you."
He accompanied Barrant to the door with the lamp,
which he held above his head to light him down the
garden path. Barrant, glancing back, saw him looking
after him, his face outlined in the darkness by the yellow
rays of the lamp.


CHAPTER XIV
ARRANT found the inn at the dark end of a stone
D alley, with the sound of tipsy singing and shuf-
fling feet coming through the half-open door. He
made his way up three granite steps into a side-en-
trance, catching a glimpse through a glass partition
of shaggy red faces and pint pots floating in a fog
of tobacco smoke. A stout landlord leaned behind the
bar watching his customers with the tolerant smile of
a man who was making a living out of their merriment.
He straightened himself as he caught sight of Barrant,
and opened the sliding window. The detective inquired
about the wagonette, and learnt that it had not yet
arrived.
“The roouds is rough, and old Garge Crows takes
his time,” said the landlord, eyeing Barrant with a
heavy stare. “ 'Tain't as thow 'e had a passel of passer-
gers to be teeren rownd after.”
“Can you give me some supper while I'm waiting?"
“Sooper?” The innkeeper scratched his chin doubt-
fully. “'Tis late in the ebenin' to be getting sooper.
There's nawthing greut in the howse. You could 'ave
some tay—p'raps an egg."
“That will do."
The innkeeper roared forth a summons, which was
answered by a rugged Cornish lass from the kitchen.
She cast a doubtful glance on the young man when she
learnt what was required, and took him into a small
sitting-room, where she left him to gaze at his leisure
upon a framed portrait of Cecil Rhodes, a stuffed gan-
net in a large glass case, and a stuffed badger in a
companion case on the other side of the wall. In about
109


110
THE MOON ROCK
vaid for the nad a glezed loud
twenty minutes she returned with a tray, and placed
before the detective a couple of eggs, some bread and
butter, saffron cake, and a pot of tea. The eggs were
of peculiar mottled exterior, and when tasted had such
a strong fish-like flavour as to suggest that they might
have been laid by the gannet in its lifetime, and stowed
away by a careful Cornish housewife until some
stranger chanced to visit that remote spot. Barrant
was hungry enough to gulp them down, though with a
wry face. He had just finished a second cup of very
strong tea when he heard the clatter of a vehicle out-
side, and the girl thrust a tousled dark head through
the door to announce the arrival of Mr. Crows and his
wagonette.
Barrant paid for his food and went out. An ancient
hooded vehicle filled the narrow way, drawn by a large
shaggy horse which turned a gleaming eye on the de-
tective as he emerged, and snorted loudly, as though
resenting the prospect of having to drag his additional
weight back to the town. The driver sat motionless on
the box, watching the caperings of the tipsy tin-miners
through the half-open door: a melancholy death’shead
of a man, with a preternaturally long white face, and
a figure shrouded in a dark cloak, looking as though
he might be Death itself, waiting for the carousers to
drop dead of apoplexy before carrying them off in his
funereal equipage. In reply to Barrant's question he
informed him that the vehicle was destined for Pen-
zance, and immediately the detective entered the dark
interior he drove off with disconcerting suddenness, as
though he had been waiting for him only, and was de-
termined to make sure of him before he had time to
escape.
The shaggy horse lumbered forward at an unwilling
trot, like an animal disillusioned with life. Soon they
cleared the churchtown and entered the darkness of
the moors. A long and tiring day disposed Barrant


THE MOON ROCK
111
e darkness nenGarge.giquş amity."g to the silehe
to slumber. He had begun to nod sleepily when the
wagonette stopped with a jerk which shook him into
wakefulness. He was able to make out that they had
reached the highest elevation of the moors—the cross-
roads from where Inspector Dawfield had shown him
Flint House in the distance that afternoon. He could
just discern the outlines of the wayside cross and the
old Druidical monolith, both pointing to the silent
heavens in unwonted religious amity.
“Good ebenen', Garge.” A lusty voice hailed out of
the darkness, and then Barrant was aware of somebody
entering the wagonette, a large male body which
plumped heavily on his knees as it started again.
“Bed pardin, I'm sure. Aw dedn't knaw Crows had
another passenger to-night.” A husky voice spoke
unseen. “ 'Taint often it ’appens.” There was the
splutter of a match, and as it fared up Barrant saw
a pair of twinkling grey eyes regarding him from a
brown and rugged face. “Old Garge never reckons on
haavin' passengers back by th’ laast wagonette, so 'e
never lights up inside. I'll make a light now, then we'll
be more comfortable.” He struck another match and
lit the candle in the wagonettę lamp, and was revealed
to Barrant's eyes as a stout and pleasant-faced man
of fifty or so, with something seamanlike, or at least
boatmanlike, in his appearance. He gave the detective
a smile and a nod, and added, “Old Crows is fullish
mean about candles.”
“It's a wonder he drives the wagonette at all, if there
is no demand for it,” remarked Barrant.
“Aw, there's a'plenty demand for it-always lots of
passergers except by this one," rejoined the man in the
blue suit. “You'd be surprised how people gets about
in these paarts.” He was studying the detective's
face with interest. “You be a Londoner," he said
quickly. “What braught you down here?”


112
THE MOON ROCK
“How do you know that I'm a Londoner?” said Bar-
rant, parrying the latter part of the question.
“I can tell a Londoner at once," returned the other.
66 'Twould be straange if I couldn't. I'm Peter Port-
gartha. P'raps you haven't heard of me, but I'm well
known hereabouts, and if you want to see any of the
sights, you'd best coome to me, and I'll show you
round.”
“A guide, eh?”
“There be guides and guides. I'll say nathin' about
th' others, but there's nobody knaws this part of Corn-
wall like me. I was born and bred and knaw every
inch of it. Before the waar I've had London ladies say
to me: “'Ave you ever seen the Bay of Naples, or the
Canaries? Oh, you should see them, Mr. Portgartha,
they're ever so much more grand than Cornwall.' Well,
while the war was on I did see the Canaries and Bay
of Naples at Government's expense on a minesweeper,
and they're not a patch on the Cornwall coast. There's
nathin' to beat it in the world.”
"It's good, is it?” said Barrant, with his accustomed
affability to strangers. "If I want to see any of it I'll
get you to show me round.”
“Just came along to th' Mousehole and ask for
Peter Portgartha. There's a great cave at the Mouse's
Hole—that's what we call it hereabouts, that ain't to
be beaten in the whole world. If your good lady's
here, bring her with you to see it. There ain't nobody
else can show it to her like I can. The London ladies
don't like goin' down the Mousehole cave as a rule, be-
cause it's a stiffish bit of a climb, and in the holiday
season there's always a lot of raffish young fellows
hangin' round to see the ladies go down-to see what
they can see, you knaw. But I never ’ave no accidents
like that. No bold-eyed young chap ever saw the leg
of any lady in my charge-not so much as the top of


THE MOON ROCK
113
a boot, because I knaw how to taake them down. I'm
well known to some of the 'ighest ladies in the land
because I 'ev been aable to take care of their legs when
they were goin' down. I've had letters from them
thaankin' me. You've no idea how grateful they be."
This startling instance of the stern morality of aris-
tocratic womanhood was unfortunately wasted on Bar-
rant, whose thoughts had reverted to the principal pre-
occupation of his mind. Mr. Portgartha rambled on.
“Aw, but it's strange to be meetin' you like this, in
old Garge's wagonette. For twelve months I've been
goin' acrass the moors to see a sister of mine, who's
lonely, poor saul, havin' lost her man in the war-
drawned in a drifter 'e was—and catchin' this wagon-
ette back every night, with never a saul to speak to,
until last night. Last night there was a passerger,
and tv-night there's you. Tes strange, come to think
of it.” He looked hard at Barrant as if for some con-
firmatory expression of surprise at this remarkable ac-
cession to the wagonette's fares. He waited so long
that Barrant felt called upon to say something.
“Who was your fellow passenger last night?”
“Now you're asking me a question which takes a bit
of answerin',” replied Mr. Portgartha. “ 'Twas like
this. I was waitin' at the crass-roads for old Garge
to come along, when a young womon came up out of
th' darkness and stood not far from me just by the
ol' crass. I tried to maake out who she was, but it was
too daark. So I just says to her, 'Good ebenin', miss,
are you waitin' for the wagonette too?' She never
answered a word, and before I could think of anything
else to say old Garge came along, and we both got in.
She sat in a corner, silent as a ghooste. Well, then, I
went to light th’ lamp, same as I have to-night, but
as luck would ’ave it, I hadn't a match. I knaw it was
no use askin' old Garge, 'cos he'd pretend not to hear,


114
THE MOON ROCK
so I turned to the young womon sittin' opposite, and
asked her if she had a match in her pocket. And do
you knaw, I declare to gudeness she never said nawthen,
not so much as a word !”
"Perhaps she was dumb?” Barrant suggested.
“Aw, iss, doomb enough then,” retorted Mr. Port-
gartha. “I tried her two or three times more, but
couldn't get a word out of her. Well, at last I began
to get narvous, thinkin' she might be a sperit. So I
leant across to her an' says, 'Caan't you say a word,
miss? It's only Peter Portgartha speaking, he's well
known for his respect for your sect. No young womon
need be frightened of speakin' to Peter Portgartha.'
And with that she spaaks at last, with a quick little
gasp like a sob—I'm thinking I can hear it at this
minute-Aw,' she says, 'why caan't you leave me
alone?' 'Never be afraaid," I says, for I have my pride
like other folk, 'I'll say no more. Peter Portgartha has
no need to foorce his conversation where it ain't wel-
come.'"
"A strange girl!” said Barrant, beginning to feel
an interest in the story. "Have you no idea who she
was?”
“Wait a bit,” continued Mr. Portgartha, evidently
objecting to any intrusion on his right, as narrator,
to a delayed climax. “Well, there we sat, like two
ghoostes, till we got to Penzance, but all the time I
was thinkin' to mysel' that I'd find out who she was. I
sed to myself I'd ride on to the station, instid of gettin'
out a piece this side of it so as to make a short cut
across to the Mouse's Hole, as I usually do. But that
stupid old fule Garge pulled up as usual and bawls
through the window, 'Are you going to keep me here
all night, Peter?' Before I could say a word the young
womon says: 'I'll get out here.' With that she puts
the fare into his hand through the open window, and


116
THE MOON ROCK
strange young womon in ol Crows' wagonette. She
must ’ave come from Flint House, now I coome to think
of it.' 'What young woman was that?' asked 'Enery
Waitts. So I told them what had happened to me,
just like I've told it to you. Mrs. Keegan, the land-
lady, who was list’ning, says, 'I shouldn't be surprised
if it was Mr. Turold's daughter that you saw. I heard
yesterday that his sister was staying at Penzance, so
p'raps she was going to her, after it happened. So if
it was her it's not surprisin' she didn't want to speak to
you in her grief.'”
“Did you ever see Miss Turold?”
“I've never see any one of the Flint House folk,
though I've heerd of them, often enough.”
“Did you notice in which direction this girl went?”
“No. She passed the lamp-post as if she were maakin'
up Market Jew Street, but I suppose she ced ’ave turned
off anywhere to the right or left.”
“What time was it when the wagonette reached the
cross-roads on the moor, where she got in?”
“About the same time as to-night, getting on for
ten, mebbe."
“She was quite alone ?”
“As lonely as any she ghooste, standin' theer by the
old crass. 'Twaas because I thought she'd feel feer-
some that I spoke to her.”
Barrant relapsed into a thoughtful silence which
lasted until the wagonette pulled up and his fellow-
traveller prepared to alight. Then he turned to him
and said
“Good-night. I may see you again.”
He fumbled at the interior window as he spoke,
opened it, and touched the driver on the shoulder,
“Drive me to the Central Hotel,” he said. “Go as fast
as you can, and I'll give you ten shillings!"
Mr. Crows nodded a cold acquiescence, and they


THE MOON ROCK
117
rattled off down the silent street, leaving on Barrant's
mind a receding impression of a startled red face star-
ing after them from the footpath. The wagonette
jolted round a corner, and ten minutes later stopped
at the entrance of the hotel where Mrs. Pendleton was
staying


CHAPTER XV
W H EN Barrant learnt from the trembling lips
of Mrs. Pendleton that she had not seen her
niece since that morning, his first step was
to get Sisily's full description, and call up Dawfield
on the hotel telephone with instructions to have all the
railway stations between Penzance and London warned
to look out for her. That was a necessary precaution,
but it did not need Dawfield's hesitating information
about time tables to convince him that it was almost
futile. The later of the two trains by which Sisily
might have fled from Cornwall had reached London
and discharged its passengers somewhere about the
time that Mr. Peter Portgartha, in the depth of the
rumbling wagonette, was paying his tribute to shrink-
ing female modesty as exhibited on Mousehole rocks.
After doing this Barrant returned to the empty
lounge, where Mrs. Pendleton sat in partial darkness
with tearful face. All the other guests had retired,
and a lurking porter yawned longingly in the passage,
waiting for an opportunity to put out the last of the
lights and get to bed.
In the first shock of Barrant's violent apparition
and angry questions, Mrs. Pendleton had tried, in a
bewildered way, to insist that her niece had not left
her room on the previous night. But now, in her
troubled consideration of the new strange turn of
events surrounding her brother's death, she saw that
she might have been deceived on this point. Barrant,
for his part, had not the slightest doubt of it when he
heard that her belief rested on no stronger foundation
than Sisily's early withdrawal from the dining-room on
118


THE MOON ROCK
119
the plea of fatigue, and the fact that her bedroom door
was locked when Mrs. Pendleton returned from her own
visit to Flint House. Sisily's subsequent flight elimi-
nated any uncertainty about that, and established be-
yond reasonable doubt her identity with the silent girl
who had entered the returning wagonette at the cross-
roads. The coincidence of those two facts had a ter-
rible significance. Barrant had no doubt that Sisily
had gone to her own room early in order to find an
opportunity to pay a secret visit to her home, for a
purpose which now seemed to stand sinisterly revealed
by her disappearance. He also thought he saw the
motive that vital factor in murder-looming behind
her nocturnal expedition. But that was a question he
was not inclined to analyze too closely at that moment.
He wanted to know how she had been able to disap-
pear that day without the knowledge of her aunt.
Mrs. Pendleton had a ready explanation of that. She
said that after returning from her visit to the police
station that morning she had been engaged with her
brother Austin until nearly lunch-time, and when she
went up to Sisily's room she found it empty. She con-
cluded that her niece had gone out somewhere to be
alone with her grief—she was the type of girl that liked
to be alone. After lunch Mrs. Pendleton had letters
to write, and then she had gone to her bedroom and
fallen sound asleep till dinner-time, worn out by the
shock of her brother's death, and the sleepless night
which had followed it. When Sisily did not appear at
dinner she began to grow uneasy, but sought to con-
vince herself that Sisily might have gone on a char-à-
banc trip to Falmouth which had been advertised for
that day. The incongruity of a sad solitary girl like
Sisily nursing her grief in a public vehicle packed with
curious chattering trippers did not seem to have oc-
curred to her. But as time passed she grew seriously
alarmed, and sent her husband out to make enquiries.


120
THE MOON ROCK
She had sat in the lounge listening with strained ears
for the girl's footsteps until Barrant arrived.
“Has your niece any friends in Cornwall or London,
or anywhere, for that matter, who would receive her?”
Barrant abruptly demanded.
“I really do not know,” said Mrs. Pendleton.
She wiped the tears from her eyes with a large white
handkerchief. She was overwhelmed by the shock of
her niece's disappearance, and the terrible interpreta-
tion Barrant evidently placed upon it. But Barrant
was in no mood to allow for her confused state of
mind.
"You had better try and remember," he said irri-
tably. “It seems to me that I've been kept in the dark
You went to the police to demand an investigation into
your brother's death, but you did not say anything
of the disclosure he made to you yesterday of his daugh-
ter's illegitimacy. Instead of doing so, you only di-
rected suspicion to his man-servant. Meanwhile your
niece, who was placed in your care, disappears to
heaven knows where, and you took no steps to inform
the police. You have acted very indiscreetly, Mrs.
Pendleton, to say the least.”
"I did not know-I did not think,” gasped Mrs. Pen-
dleton. She endeavoured to commence a flurried ex-
planation of the mixed motives and impulses which had
swayed her since her brother's death, but Barrant cut
it short with an impatient wave of the hand.
“Never mind that now," he said. “I have lost too
much time already. Have you no idea where your niece
is likely to have sought refuge?”
Mrs. Pendleton shook her head. “Robert had no
friends," she said, “and Sisily led a very lonely life.
Robert told me that yesterday. That was the reason
he wanted me to take charge of her—so as to give her
the opportunity of making some girl friends of her own
age."


THE MOON ROCK
121
thing so Post words tha widened eyes.
She paused, embarrassed by the recollection that her
brother's real intention in placing Sisily in her charge
was altogether different. Barrant noted her hesitation,
and interpreted it aright.
"No," he said. “The real reason of your brother
parting with his daughter provides the motive for her
return to his house last night. What happened be-
tween them is a matter for conjecture, at present. Ap-
parently she was the last person who saw him alive be-
fore he was shot, and now she is not to be found.”
There was something so portentously solemn in his
manner of speaking these last words that his listener
quaked in terror, and gazed at him with widened eyes.
Barrant turned abruptly to another phase.
“Are you quite sure that it was the man-servant you
saw looking through the door yesterday afternoon?”
It was proof of the fallibility of human testimony
that Mrs. Pendleton had sincerely convinced herself
that she was quite sure. “Yes,” she said.
Barrant looked doubtful. By reason of his calling
he was well aware of the human tendency to uninten-
tional mistake in identity. With women especially,
the jump from an impression to a conclusion was some-
times as rapid as the thought itself.
“Did you see his face?” he asked.
“Only the eyes. But I am sure that they were
Thalassa's eyes."
Barrant did not press the point. He did not doubt
the honesty of her belief, but the words in which it was
conveyed suggested hasty impression rather than con-
viction. Such proofs of identity were not to be relied
upon.
“Had your brother's servant any reason, so far as
you know, to be listening at the door?” he asked.
“All servants are curious," murmured Mrs. Pendle-
ton. She shook her head wisely, as one intimating a
wide knowledge of their class.


122
THE MOON ROCK
has he be of pen think
Rob Por a time, human has are not
“All curious servants are not murderers," returned
Barrant. “This man has been in your brother's service
for a long time, has he not?”
"For a great number of years. Almost ever since
Robert returned to England, I think.”
“So Mr. Austin Turold informed me. Had he any
grudge against his master?”
“Thalassa? I really couldn't tell you, because I do
not know. But he has a most truculent and overbear-
ing manner—not at all the kind of manner you expect
in a servant, and he seemed to do just what he liked.
I disliked him as soon as I saw him. I'm sure he looks
more like some dreadful old sea pirate than a gentle-
man's servant. I would not have him in my house-
hold.” Mrs. Pendleton set her lips firmly. “No, not
for a single moment. But I suppose poor Robert was
attached to him from long association.”
Barrant nodded in an understanding way. “Then
this man Thalassa must have known your niece from
childhood,” he said in a casual tone. “Was he attached
to her, do you think?”
“I know nothing of that.”
“That's rather a pity,” he said with a gentle shake
of the head. He looked at her knowingly.
“I do not understand you,” she faltered.
“You had grounds for your suspicions of Thalassa
-reasonable grounds. He must have admitted your
niece into the house last night, you know. I must get
it out of him.”
She gave a start, for she saw now where his drift
of questions was taking them. With a sickening sense
of horror she realized that her slight suspicions were
being used by him to help fashion a case against her
own flesh and blood.
“What are you suggesting?" she breathed, with a
nervous look.
“Nothing at present,” he said, with a quick realiza-


THE MOON ROCK
123
tion of the fact that he was in danger of talking too
much. “Can you tell me if your niece is provided with
money?”
“My brother gave her twenty-five pounds in bank
notes yesterday—he told me.”
“That is enough to keep her for some weeks. You
are quite sure you cannot form any idea where she has
gone?”
“No," said Mrs. Pendleton coldly, with a belated in-
ward resolve not to be so ready in volunteering infor-
mation to the police in future,
“I should like to see the room your niece occupied
last night,” he said.
That was a search which brought nothing to light.
Barrant left the hotel just as little Mr. Pendleton re-
turned to it with an alarmed face and a feeling of per-
sonal guilt at his failure to find Sisily.
Barrant passed him with a side glance, his mind full
of the problem of the girl's disappearance. He left the
hotel in a state of thoughtfulness, fully realizing the
difficulties of the task which lay before him in tracing
Sisily's movements on the previous night, and discov-
ering where she had flown. The deeper questions of
motive and the inconsequence of some of her actions
he preferred to leave till later. Action, and not mental
analysis, was the need of the moment. Barrant prided
himself on being a man of action, and he was also a
detective. The thrill of pursuit stirred in his blood.
His later activities that night and the following day
brought to light many things, but not all that he wanted
to know. He convinced himself, in the first place, that
it was possible for the girl to have left her room and
returned to it on the night of her father's death with-
out any of the inmates of the hotel being aware of her
absence. That lessened the complexity of the case by
absolving Mrs. Pendleton from the suspicion of pre-
tended ignorance. Barrant was also convinced the aunt


124
THE MOON ROCK
believed her niece to be in bed and asleep during the
time of her own visit to her brother's house. Sisily had
to pass the office of the hotel in going out and return-
ing, but she could easily have done so unobserved. There
were few guests at that season of the year, and the pro-
prietor's daughter, who looked after the office, was in
the dining-room having her dinner at half-past seven.
She went to bed shortly after ten, leaving the front
entrance in charge of the porter, who had duties to
perform in various parts of the house. And it was pos-
sible to descend the stairs and leave the hotel without
being seen from the lounge or smoking-room.
There was a wagonette to St. Fair from the railway
station at half-past-seven. The hotel dinner was at a
quarter to seven for the convenience of some permanent
guests, and Sisily, who left the table before the meal was
concluded—about a quarter-past seven, according to
Mrs. Pendleton—had time to catch the wagonette. On
the assumption that even a Cornish wagonette would
cover the journey of five miles across the moors in less
than an hour, Sisily had probably reached her father's
house at half-past eight or a little earlier. The stopped
clock in the study indicated that he met his death at
half-past nine. If so, Sisily must have left Flint House
shortly before her aunt's arrival to catch the returning
wagonette at the cross-roads where the young woman
was seen waiting by Peter Portgartha.
But that plausibly conceived itinerary of events
needed the support of proof, and there Barrant found
himself in difficulty.
The morning's enquiries made it manifest that Sisily
had left Penzance by the mid-day train on the previous
day. After leaving Mrs. Pendleton, Barrant had gone
to the station. The sour and elderly ticket-clerk on
duty could give him no information, but let it be under-
stood that there was another clerk selling tickets for
the mid-day train, which was unusually crowded by


THE MOON ROCK
125
farmers going to Redruth. The other clerk, seen in the
morning, had no difficulty in recalling the young lady
of Barrant's description. She was pretty and slight
and dark, with a pale clear complexion, and she car-
ried a small handbag. She asked for a ticket to London.
The clerk understood her to ask for a return ticket, but
as she picked it up with the change for the five pound
note with which she paid for it, she said that she
thought she had asked for a single ticket. He assured
her that she had not, but offered to change it. At that
moment the departure of the train was signalled, and
she ran through the barrier without waiting to change
the ticket. The incident caused him to observe her, and
his description tallied so completely with Mrs. Pendle-
ton's description that Barrant had not the least doubt
that it was Sisily.
On the strength of this information Barrant applied
to a local magistrate for a warrant for the girl's arrest.
He was well aware that he had not yet gathered suffi-
cient evidence to satisfy the law that she had murdered
her father, but his action was justified by her flight and
the presumption of her secret visit to her father's house
when she was supposed to be in bed and asleep at the
hotel.
These things fulfilled, Barrant then applied his mind
to the question of Thalassa's complicity. If Sisily's ac-
tions on the night of her father's death, and her subse-
quent flight, simplified matters to the extent of deepen-
ing the assumption of murder into a practical certainty,
they added to the complexity of the case by giving it.
the appearance of a carefully planned crime in which
Thalassa seemed to be deeply involved.
The insistent necessity of motive which should ex-
plain the events of that night with apt presumptions,
threw Barrant back on the suggestion, made by Austin
Turold, that it was really Sisily whom Mrs. Pendleton
had detected looking through the door of the downstairs
thren the events necessity by in


126
THE MOON ROCK
and her love for Fren-
tingly.
Poor Mrs. Pendleton
room when the other members of the family were as-
sembled within listening to Robert Turold. Barrant
told himself that Mrs. Pendleton's suspicion of Tha-
lassa rested on nothing more substantial than feminine
prejudice, an unreasoning impulse of dislike which
would leave few men alive if it always carried capital
punishment in its train.
The substitution of Sisily for Thalassa provided a
convincing motive for murder. The overheard revela-
tion of her mother's shame and her own precarious con-
dition in the world when she might reasonably have
been counting on becoming an heiress of note, were suffi-
cient to account for the nocturnal return and an effort
to entreat justice or compel silence—the alternatives
depended on the type of girl. From what Mrs. Pen-
dleton had told him of Sisily and her love for her
mother-poor Mrs. Pendleton had insisted, all unwit-
tingly, very strongly on that-Barrant had pictured
her as a brooding yet passionate type of girl who
might have committed the murder in a sudden frenzy
of determination to prevent her father making public
the unhappy secret of her mother's life. That was an
act by no means inconsistent with the temperament of
a strongwilled and lonely girl, whose stormy passions
had been wrought to the breaking-point by disclosures
made on the very day that her loved mother had been
buried in a nameless grave. There was, additionally,
the motive of self-interest, awakened to the lamentable
fact that she had no claim on her father beyond what
generosity might dictate. In short, Barrant believed
the motive for the murder to be a mixed one, as human
motives generally are. At that stage of his reasoning
he did not ask himself whether worldly greed was likely
to enter into the composition of a girl like Sisily.
This reconstruction of the crime pointed to an ac-
complice, and that accomplice must have been the man-
servant. Nobody but Thalassa could have let the girl


THE MOON ROCK
127
into the house; and he could have dropped the key in
the room after the door was broken open. That theory
not only presupposed strong devotion on Thalassa's
part for a girl he had known from childhood, which
was a theory reasonable of belief, but it also suggested
that he bore a deep grudge against his master on his
own account, sufficient to cause him to refrain from
doing anything to prevent the accomplishment of the
murder, and to risk his own skin afterwards to shield
the girl from the consequences. This aspect of the case
struck Barrant as very strange and deep, because it
failed to account for Sisily's subsequent fight. If Tha-
lassa had jeopardized himself by keeping silence about
her visit, and had returned the key to her father's room
in order to create the idea of suicide, why had she dis-
pelled the illusion by running away, bringing both her
accomplice and herself into danger? Had she been
seized with terror, perhaps due to Mrs. Pendleton's in-
sistence on her belief of murder, or had Thalassa con-
veyed some warning to her that inquiries were likely
to be put afoot ?
These were questions to which Barrant felt he could
find no answer until he had seen Thalassa and at-
tempted to wrest the truth from him.
He postponed his visit to Flint House until the
evening. He wanted to make the journey as Sisily had
made it on the previous night, in order to find out, as
nearly as possible, the exact moment she had arrived
at her father's house. He was not even in a position
to prove that she had gone by the wagonette until he
had questioned the driver.
He took his way to the station that evening with the
feeling that it would be difficult to get anything out of
Thalassa, whatever the reasons for his silence. He in-
stinctively recognized that the authority of the law,
which strikes such terror into craven hearts, would not
help him with this old man whose glance had the law-


128
THE MOON ROCK
less fearlessness of an eagle. But he had confidence in
his ability to extract the truth, and Thalassa, more-
over, was at the disadvantage of having something to
hide. It would be strange if he did not succeed in get-
ting the facts out of him.
The St. Fair wagonette was pulled up outside the
station. Mr. Crows, master of his destiny and time-
tables, reclined in front, regarding with a glazed eye
his drooping horse. Inside, some stout women with
bundles waited patiently until it suited the autocrat
on the box seat to start on his homeward way. Mr.
Crows showed no indication of being in a hurry. His
head nodded drowsily, and a little saliva trickled down
his nether lip. He straightened himself with a sudden
jerk as Barrant climbed up beside him.
“What be yewer doin' yare?” he demanded.
“I'm going to St. Fair," said Barrant.
“I doan't allow no passergers to sit alongside o'
me.”
“You'll have to put up with it for once," returned
Barrant curtly, in no way softened by the odour of Mr.
Crows' breath.
As this was a reply which no resident of St. Fair
would have dared to make, Mr. Crows bent a muddled
glance on his fare, and by a concentrated effort re-
called the face of the man who had given him ten shill-
ings on the previous night. He decided to pocket the
present indignity in the hope of another tip.
“Aw right,” he said, with unwonted amiability,
“yewer can stay where yew are—for wance."
He applied himself to driving the wagonette. So-
briety was not an essential of the feat. The horse knew
the way, drew clear of the town without accident, and
jogged into the long winding road which stretched
across the moors. The shadows deepened into night,
and Mr. Crows lighted a solitary lamp in the front of
his vehicle.


THE MOON ROCK
129
the cando ung Hoe went en begins.
“Aren't you going to light up inside?” asked Bar-
ránt, when the lamp was flickering faintly.
"No," replied Mr. Crows shortly. “It don't pay.
Let 'em set in the dark.”
“Not enough passengers, eh?”
“Moren enough fat old wommen on the out journey,"
declared Mr. Crows passionately. “That's because it's
all up-hill. But they walk in downhill to save a shellen.
I know them.” He brooded darkly. “It's all part of
the plan," he went on. Then, as though feeling that
this latter statement, in itself, erred on the side of
vagueness, he added—“to worrit a man.”
“How many passengers did you have on your last
journey in, last night?”
“Two on 'em.” Mr. Crows, with forefinger and
thumb, snuffed his nose as he had previously snuffed
the candle in the lamp. “There was Peter Portgartha
and a young woman. I happen to know it was a young
'un because she went away at such a rate when she
got out. When wommen begins to get up in years they
go in the legs, same as harses."
“Would you know her again if you saw her?” asked
Barrant eagerly.
“Not if you was to sware me on the Howly Trinity."
“Did this young woman travel up with you by this
wagonette last night?”
Mr. Crows couldn't say for that. There were six
insides, that was all he knew. He disremembered any-
thing about them.
"Surely you notice the passengers you carry?”
Mr. Crows, with the air of one propounding an in-
soluble riddle, asked his fare why should he take notice
of his passergers? He weren't paid for that—no, not
he. What's more, the night was a dark one. He knew
there was six insides because six fares was put through
the winder, but whether they was put through by men
or ma'adens or widder wommen was moren he cud say.


130
THE MOON ROCK
He again called on the Trinity to attest his ignorance.
“Their shellens is nuthin' to me”—the reference was
to the passengers. “They wouldn't pay for the harse's
feed. I work for the Duchy, I do, which is almost the
same as being in Guvverment, ain't it? I remember yew,
thow-because yew gave me ten shellens for driving yew
to the Central hotel last night.” Mr. Crows cast a
quick glance at his fare to see how he took this artful
reminder of his munificence. “But as for their
bobs- " He spat into the night in order to express
his contempt for the insignificance of such small sums.
There was a tap at the window behind him. He un-
fastened the pane, and a spectral hand came through
with a coin. Mr. Crows took it, the hand disappeared,
to be replaced by another, more dirty than spectral,
with a coin in the outstretched palm, like its prede-
cessor.
“You see,” said Mr. Crows, when he had collected
six shillings in this manner. “What's the need for to
look at them? I've learnt them to hand in their fares
this way. Saves time and talk for nothing. Why
should I look at a lot of fat old wommen? I ain't
paid for that. It's quite enough to let them set in
my cab, wearing out my cushions with their great fat
bodies, without looking at them.” He eyed Barrant
with some sternness.
“But this was not a fat old woman,” said Barrant.
“She was a pretty young girl.”
“Ma’ad or widder, it's all the same to me,” returned
the misogynist. “Some holds with the sex and finds
them soothing, but I was never took up with them
myself. I prefers beer. Every man to his taste.”
“Did any of the passengers alight at the cross-
roads?”
They were nearing the cross-roads as he spoke, and
the rude outline of the wayside cross loomed out of
the shadows directly ahead.


THE MOON ROCK
131
"I couldn't tell you that, neither. I always stop
at the cross-roads, in and out. It's one of my regular
stopping-places. Come to think of it, though, some-
body did get out at the cross-roads last night.”
“A man or woman?” asked Barrant with eagerness.
“A woman. She went off acrass the moors that
way.” Mr. Crows pointed an indifferent whip into
the blackness which rested like a pall between the white
road and the distant roaring sea. “She was a wunner
to go, too-out of sight in a moment, she was.”
“Thank you. I'll get down here, too."
As the wagonette stopped at the cross-roads Bar-
rant jumped down from his seat and disappeared in
the indicated direction before Mr. Crows could summon
his slow wits to determine the value of the coin which
the detective had pressed into his passively expectant
palm.


CHAPTER XVI
THE twilight had deepened into darkness when
Barrant reached Flint House. A faint ray of
light flickered from the kitchen window on the
giant cliffs, like a taper from a doll's house. He ap-
proached the window by a line of rocks which guarded
it like sentinels, and looked in.
Within, Mrs. Thalassa sat alone by the table in a
drooping attitude of dejection or stupor. Her head
was bent over her crossed hands, which rested on the
table, and her grey hair, escaping from the back comb
which fastened it, fell on both sides of her face. An oil
lamp smoked on the table beside her, sending forth a
cloud of black vapour like an unbottled genie, but she
did not heed it. There was something uncanny in her
complete detachment from the restless activity of life.
The dead man lying upstairs was not more still.
Had Barrant known her better he would have had
matter for surprise and conjecture in the fact that her
patience cards stood untouched in their shabby leather
case, but knowing nothing of that he fell to wondering
what her husband had seen in such a queer little crea-
ture to marry her. The consideration of that question
led him to the conclusion that perhaps Thalassa had
been impelled to his choice by the realization that she
was as good-looking a wife as he could afford. Bar-
rant reflected that women resembled horses in value.
The mettlesome showy ones were bred to display their
paces for rich men only. Serviceable hacks, warranted
to work a lifetime, could not be expected to be orna-
mental as well as useful. So long as they pulled their
othing shed in the the fact the
132


THE MOON ROCK
133
burdens without jibbing overmuch, one had to be
content.
He began to wonder where Thalassa was, and moved
closer to the shadow of one of the rocks in case he hap-
pened to be prowling around the house. In the silence of
the night he listened for the sound of footsteps on
the rocks, but could hear nothing except the moan of
the sea and the whimper of a rising wind. His eye,
glancing upwards, fell upon a chink of shuttered light
in the back of the house which looked down on the sea.
The light came from the dead man's study, and had
not been there a few moments before.
Barrant walked to the kitchen door and tapped
lightly. There was no answer, but somewhere within
the house a dog howled dismally. The door handle
yielded to his touch when he tried it, and he walked in.
The little old woman at the table made a sudden
movement at his appearance, but he gave her a reas-
suring smile and nod. She sat quite still, with a look
of fear in her eyes. Above his head he heard someone
moving in the study.
"Your husband is upstairs?” he asked in a voice
which was little more than a whisper. “I want to see
him, I am going up to him.”
He did not wait for her to reply, and she watched him
out of the room with staring eyes. Stealthily he di-
rected his steps to the staircase, and with infinite pre-
cautions for silence commenced to ascend. But mid-
way he stumbled in the dark, and the stair creaked
loudly. Above his head a door opened sharply, and
when he reached the landing he saw the figure of Tha-
lassa framed in the lighted doorway at the far end of
the long passage, listening.
“Who's there?” he cried; then his eye fell on Bar-
rant, advancing swiftly from the darkness towards the
light. "What do you want?” he said. "How did you
get in ?"
and with lithily me hain
when he above condition that menced
lassa fie reached his head alark, and the end. But
“Wong, passan the lighting he sappened shair creaked


134
THE MOON ROCK
Barrant looked past him into the room. There was
a litter of papers on the table and shelves, as he had
last seen it, but it did not seem to him that anything
had been disturbed. The door of the death chamber
opposite was closed.
“What are you doing up here?” he said sternly.
Thalassa did not deign to parley. “What do you
want?" he repeated, looking steadily at the detective.
“Did you hear what I said to you?” angrily de-
manded Barrant. “Were you not told not to interfere
with these rooms in any way? You have no right up
here.”
“More right than you have to come into a house like
a thief," retorted Thalassa coldly. “I have my work to
do. The place must be looked after, whether I'm spied
on or not.”
“I advise you not to take that tone with me," replied
the detective. "As you are here, you had better come
into this room again, and shut the door behind you. I
have some questions I want to put to you."
Thalassa followed Barrant into the room and stood
by the table, the rays of the swinging-lamp throwing
his brown face into sharp outline. "What do you
want to know?” he asked.
"I want you to tell me everything that happened in
this house on the night your master was found dead.”
“There's not much to tell,” began Thalassa slowly.
“When it happened I was down in the cellar, breaking
some coal. I heered my wife call out to me from the
kitchen. I went up from the cellar, and she was stand-
ing at the kitchen door, shaking like a leaf with fright.
She said there'd been a terrible crash right over her
head in Mr. Turold's study. I took a lamp and went
upstairs, and knocked at the door, but I got no reply.
I knocked three times as loud as I could, but there
wasn't a sound. At that I gets afeered myself, so I
put on my hat and coat to go across to the churchtown
by Thalassa Yestions ind shut the you had |


136
THE MOON ROCK
“Think again, Thalassa," urged Barrant, in a voice
of the softest insistence. “It may be that you have for-
gotten something-overlooked an incident which may
be important."
“I've overlooked nothing," was the sullen response.
“There's just an odd chance that you have,” said
Barrant, searching the other's face from raised con-
templative eyebrows. “The best of memories plays
tricks at times. It's always better not to be too sure.
Think again, Thalassa, if you haven't something more
to tell me.”
"I've told you everything," Thalassa commenced,
then straightened his long bony frame in a sudden
access of anger, and brought his hand sharply down
on the table. “What are you trying to badger me for,
like this? You'll get nothing more out of me if you
question me till Doomsday.”
“But why should you keep anything back?" asked
Barrant softly.
Thalassa looked at him with a startled air, then re-
covered himself quickly. “I'm not keeping anything
back,” he said. “Why should you say that?”
“I did not say it. You said I'd get no more out of
you."
“Because there is nothing more to be got. Is that
plain enough?”
“Quite. Well then, let us go over the events of this
night once more. Perhaps that will help you to recall
something which you have forgotten.”
“That's not likely.”
“Nevertheless, we will try. You were busy in the
coal cellar at the time, I think you said?”
“At what time?” said Thalassa with a quick glance.
“At the time the crash happened upstairs.!!
“Yes.”
“What time was that?”
“How should I know? Do you suppose there's a


138
THE MOON ROCK
“Because you let her in!”
Thalassa surveyed him with the shadow of a smile
on his motionless face. “Do you take me for a fool?”
he said. “I let nobody in.”
“Thalassa," said the detective earnestly, “let me ad-
vise you, for your own sake, to tell the truth now. You
may be keeping silence through some mistaken idea
of loyalty to your master's daughter, but that will
do her no good, nor you either. I know more than you
think. If you persist in keeping silent you will put
yourself in an awkward position, and it may be the
worse for you. You were seen listening at the door of
the room downstairs on the day of your master's
death."
“So that's it, is it? You think you'll fit a rope
round my neck? I'm to say what you want to save it?
To hell with you and your policeman's tricks! I don't
care that for them.” He snapped his long brown fin-
gers in Barrant's face.
“You've a bold tongue, you scoundrel,” said Bar-
rant, flushing angrily. “Take care where it leads you.
Once more, will you tell me the truth?”
“I've told you all I know."
“Do you mean to tell me that you did not see your
master's daughter, or let her into the house?”
“I did not."
“Could anybody have got into the house without your
knowledge?”
“Maybe.”
“Did you hear anybody?”
“How could I hear anybody when I was down in the
coal cellar?”
The open sneer on Thalassa's face suggested that he
was not to be caught by verbal traps. Barrant per-
ceived, with a smouldering anger, that the man was too
clever to be tricked, and too stout of heart to be fright-
ened. By accident or design he had a ready story which


THE MOON ROCK
139
was difficult to demolish without further knowledge of
the events of that night. Barrant decided that it would
be useless, at that moment, to apply himself to the
effort of worming anything out of Thalassa. He had
shown his own hand too freely, and placed him on his
guard. There was also the bare possibility that he had
told the truth, so far as he knew it. One last shot he
essayed.
“You are acting very foolishly, but I shall not arrest
you—yet,” he said impressively. “I shall tell the local
police to keep an eye on you."
"Is it the Cornish savage from the churchtown—him
with the straw helmit?” said Thalassa, with a harsh
laugh.
The last shot had missed fire badly. The lawless
spirit of the man was not to be intimidated by a threat
of arrest-a threat which the detective had reason for
not putting into effect just then. Barrant moved
towards the door with the best dignity he could com-
mand.
“Light me downstairs to the kitchen,” he said. “I
want to see your wife.”
Thalassa seemed about to say something at that, then
thought the better of it, and walked out of the room.
Outside in the passage he picked up a small lamp glim-
mering in a niche of the wall, and led the way down-
stairs. They reached the kitchen in silence, and went in.
The little grey woman at the table was seated in the
same posture as Barrant had last seen her, her hands
crossed in front of her, her head bent. She glanced up
listlessly as they entered. Barrant crossed the room,
and touched her arm. She shook in a pitiful little
flurry of fear, then became motionless again.
“Mrs. Thalassa, I want to speak to you,” said Bar-
rant, raising his voice, as though to a deaf person. “Is
this where you were sitting the night before last, when
you heard the crash in your master's room upstairs ?”


THE MOON ROCK
141
rant's suspicions if he had seen it. But Thalassa's face
was again closely guarded when he did look up.
“You'll get neither rhyme nor reason out of her,"
said Thalassa, as their glances met.
“I'll try once more," murmured Barrant, almost to
himself. He turned to her again, but this time he did
not lay his hand on her arm. “Mrs. Thalassa”-he
spoke more gently—“will you try and understand me?”
“Red on black . . . black on red.” Her hands
moved restlessly.
In a sudden recognition of the futility of trying to
gather anything from that clouded brain, Barrant
turned abruptly away without another word. And the
black gaze of Thalassa followed him through the door
and out into the darkness of the night.


CHAPTER XVII
NHE bell in the darkened chambers rang with the
insistent clamour of mechanism responding with
blind obedience to a human hand, but Mr. An-
thony Brimsdown suffered it to pass unnoticed. As
an elderly bachelor, living alone, he was sufficiently
master of his own affairs to disregard the arrival of
the last post, leaving the letters as they were tumbled
through the slit in the door downstairs until he felt
inclined to go and get them.
He was standing in the centre of the room examining
an unusual trinket-a gold hoop like a bracelet, with
numbers and the zodiac signs engraved on the inner
surface. Mr. Brimsdown had discovered it in a Kings-
way curiosity shop a week before. It was a portable
sun-dial of the sixteenth century. A slide, pushed back
a certain distance in accordance with the zodiac signs,
permitted the sun to fall through a slit on the figures
of the hours within—a dainty timekeeper for mediaeval
lovers. Mr. Brimsdown was no gallant, nor had he
sufficient imagination to prompt him to wonder what
dead girl's dainty fingers had once held up the bright
fragile circle to the sun to see if Love's tryst was to be
kept. His joy in the sun-dial was the pride of the col-
lector in the possession of a rare thing.
But that night it failed to interest him. He put it
down with a sigh, and resumed his restless pacing of
the room.
It was his office, but he preferred it to his chambers
at the end of the passage. He said the air was better,
but it is doubtful whether that was the reason. Per-
haps Mr. Brimsdown felt less lonely among his legal
documents, meditating over battles he had won for dead
142


THE MOON ROCK
143
- men
ell havehere the in deaths affaires
which many of those lot been
legatees. As a solicitor he was "strong on the Chancery
side” and had gained some famous judgments for no-
torious litigants--men who had loved the law so well
that their souls might well have been found-knowing
no higher heaven-in the office where the records of their
forgotten lawsuits were buried. And in death, as in
life, they would have been glad to confide their affairs
to the man whose lot it had been to add “Deceased”
to so many of the names on the black steel deed-boxes
which lined the shelves.
Mr. Brimsdown lived for the law. As a family lawyer
he was the soul of discretion, an excellent fighter, wary
and reticent, deep as the grave, but far safer. The
grave sometimes opens and divulges a ghastly secret
from its narrow depths. There was no chance of get-
ting anything out of Mr. Brimsdown, dead or alive.
He had no wife to extract bedroom confidences from
him, no relations to visit in expansive moments, he
trusted nothing to paper or diary, and he did not play
golf. He was a solitary man, of an habitual secretive-
ness deepened by years of living alone.
His lips moved now, and he spoke aloud. His voice
sounded sharply in the heavy silence.
"A calamity-nothing less. How did it happen?
Was it grief for his wife?”
His face showed unusual agitation-distress even.
It was well his clients could not see him at that mo-
ment. To them he was a remote enigmatic figure of
conveyances and legal deeds; one deeply versed in hu-
man follies and foibles, but impervious to human feel-
ing, independent of human companionship. The re-
served glance of his cold grey eye betokened that he
guarded his own secrets as closely as he guarded
the secrets entrusted to him professionally. But
there was human nature in him-deep down. It was
not much-a lock of hair in a sealed packet in his
pocket-book. The giver was dead and gone to dust,


144
THE MOON ROCK
sleeping in an old churchyard near the Strand, for-
gotten by all who had ever known her-except one.
Sometimes in the twilight a tall figure would stand
musing beside that forgotten grave for awhile, then
turn away and walk swiftly up the narrow river street,
across the Strand, and through the archway to Grey's
Inn.
“Thirty years !” he murmured. Then his mind
seemed to hark back to his previous thought, after the
fashion of a man who thinks aloud—“No, no; not his
wife. He did not care enough for her for that. Thirty
years—wasted. My heart bleeds when I think of it.
Ought I to go down? Did he wish for me? I
wonder- "
His distress as he paced the room was more apparent
than ever. Again, his clients would have been aston-
ished if they had witnessed it. In their opinion he was
hard as nails and a stranger to the softer feelings of
the heart. They would as soon thought of attributing
sentiment to one of the japanned deed-boxes. But
they would have accepted the surprising revelation with
well-bred English tolerance for eccentricity, not al-
lowing it to affect their judgment that Mr. Brims-
down was one of the soundest and safest lawyers in
England.
His agitation arose from the death of Robert Turold
-his client. He had gathered that piece of news from
an evening newspaper in the restaurant where he had
dined. Mr. Brimsdown had reached an age when the
most poignant events of human life seem little more
than trifles. It was in the nature of things for men
to die. As a lawyer he had prepared many last wills
and testaments-had helped men into their graves, as it
were-unmoved. But that unexpected announcement
of Robert Turold's death had come to him as an over-
whelming shock. He had left his meal unfinished, and
Lowing it toplish toleranthe surprising


146
THE MOON ROCK
for this succeed
Brith a
What stronger proof of it could be found than the
dogged strength with which the dead man had per-
sisted for thirty years in his effort to claim as his
rightful due a baronial title which had been in abey-
ance for four hundred years?
And he would have succeeded—was on the verge of
success—but for this unlucky stroke of Death's.
With a sigh for the frailty of human hopes, Mr.
Brimsdown put an end to his reflections and went
downstairs for the post.
By the dim light of the lowered hall gas he saw an
envelope lying on the floor-a thick grey envelope ad-
dressed to himself in a thin irregular hand. The sight
of that superscription startled him like a glimpse of the
unseen. For it was the handwriting of the subject of
his thoughts—Robert Turold.
With the stiff movement of an ageing man he picked
up the letter and went upstairs again. In some subtle
way the room seemed changed. He had a sudden in-
explicable sensation of nervousness and depression.
Shaking it off with an effort, he opened the envelope
in his hand with an odd reluctance--the feeling that he
was prying into something which was no concern of
his. He drew out the single grey sheet and unfolded it.
The letter was dated from Flint House on the previous
day. There was but a few lines, but the lawyer was
pulled up at the beginning by the unusual familiarity
of the address. “My dear Brimsdown” was unusual in
one so formal as Robert Turold. But the handwriting
was his—undoubtedly. Mr. Brimsdown had seen it too
often to be mistaken. With the growing idea that the
whole thing was confounding to sober sense and reason,
he read on
The let There the beging
“Can you postpone all your other engage-
ments and come to Cornwall on receipt of
this? If you will telegraph the train you


THE MOON ROCK
147
travel by I will have a conveyance to meet
you at Penzance and bring you to Flint
House. This is a matter of importance.”
A postscript followed in the strangest contrast to
the formal note-a postscript hasty and blotted, which
had evidently been added in extreme agitation of
mind-
“For God's sake lose no time. Come at once.”
The tremulous urgent words stared out from the
surface of the grey paper in all the piteous futility of
an appeal made too late. Glancing up, Mr. Brims-
down's eye rested on the shelf where the deed box of
Robert Turold reposed, and he mechanically reflected
that it would be necessary to have the word “Deceased”
added to the white-lettered inscription on the black sur-
face. Mr. Brimsdown sighed. Then, shaking off the
quiescence of mind which his brooding had engendered,
he applied his faculties to the consideration of a sit-
uation which at first sight seemed fantastic as a night-
mare.
The letter was not more remarkable than its despatch
after the writer's death, but the summons to Cornwall
was not in itself surprising. He recalled a similar visit
to Norfolk some years before, and the recent corre-
spondence between them made it clear that the claim
had reached a stage which required careful legal hand-
ling. Robert Turold had forwarded copies of the final
proofs of the family descent discovered in Cornwall,
and Mr. Brimsdown had prepared the claim for the
termination of abeyance which was to be heard by the
House of Lords. Mr. Brimsdown was also aware of
the summoning of the other members of the family to
Cornwall to impart the news to them. A very natural
and proper proceeding on Robert Turold's part, he had
deemed it.


THE MOON ROCK
149
between them. He must have had other interests at one
time or other beside the eternal question of the title.
Mr. Brimsdown had vaguely understood that the money
he had invested for Robert Turold had been gained
abroad-in the wilds of the earth-in his client's early
life, but his client had never confided to him the manner
of the gathering. That was a page in the dead man's
life of which his trusted legal adviser knew nothing
whatever. It was unsafe to assume that the page, if
revealed, would throw any light on his tragic death, but
there was a possibility that it might.
The evening newspaper he had brought home lay on
the carpet at his feet exposing the headline"A Cor-
nish Mystery”—which had caught his eye at the res-
taurant. Mr. Brimsdown picked up the sheet and read
the report again. There was nothing in it to help him.
It was only a brief notification of the facts—of a death
which, in the words of the newspaper's local corre-
spondent, “pointed to suicide.”
Suicide! The letter on which the ink was still bluish
and fresh, seemed to convey Robert Turolds denial of
the suggestion that he had taken his life. It was the
cry of a man who had looked into the dark place of
fear and seen Death lurking within. Only mortal terror
could have called forth that passionate frantic appeal.
And that appeal accomplished its purpose, although it
came too late. Robert Turold was dead, but the call
for elucidation rang loudly from his coffin. The dead
man's hand beckoned him, and he dared not disobey. He
determined to go to Cornwall.
Outside in the darkness a clock chimed, and one of
his own treasures repeated the hour with a soft melli-
fluous note. Eleven! He had an idea that there was-
or used to be-a midnight train to Cornwall. He
crossed to his bureau and consulted a time-table. Yes,
to Penzance from Paddington. He decided to catch it.


150
THE MOON ROCK
His preparations for departure were quickly made.
The writing of a note to his clerk and the packing of
a bag were matters soon accomplished. In a quarter
of an hour he had picked up a taxicab at the Holborn
stand near his chambers and was on his way to the
station.
There was plenty of light and stir at Paddington,
which appeared like a great and glowing cavern in the
cold darkness of the night. There were engines shunt-
ing, cabs arriving, porters and passengers rushing
about with luggage, throngs of people. It happened
that the midnight train from Cornwall was overdue, and
fluttered women waiting for friends were importuning
bored officials about the delay. Sleepy children stared
with wondering eyes at pictorial efforts to beguile the
tedium of waiting for trains. There were geographical
posters comparing Cornwall favourably to Italy; pos-
ters of girls in bathing costume beckoning to "the Cor-
nish Riviera ;" posters of frolicsome puppies in baskets
ticketed “Lucky Dogs, They're Off to Penzance."
The passengers waiting for the midnight train to
that resort did not do equal justice to this flattering
assumption of its delights. They seemed, on the whole,
rather to regard themselves as unlucky dogs (if the
term could be applied to parties of women), and were
huddled together on the station seats in attitudes sug-
gestive of despair. Men flirting with barmaids in the
bars may have considered themselves lucky dogs, but
whisky played an important part in their exhilaration.
The belated train came rushing in with an effusion
of steam, like a late arrival puffing out apologies, bring-
ing a large number of passengers back to London from
Penzance. They scrambled on to the platform with the
dishevelled appearance of people who had been cooped
up for hours. First-class passengers eased their pent-
up energy by shouting for luggage porters and bundling


THE MOON ROCK
151
their women into taxicabs. The third-class passengers,
whose minor importance in the scheme of things did not
warrant such displays of self-importance, made meekly
and wearily for the exits.
They were dammed back at the barriers by two ticket
collectors, whose adroit manipulation of the gates pre-
vented more than one person trickling through at a
time, and turned the choked stream of humanity within
into a whirlpool of floating faces and struggling forms.
As Mr. Brimsdown stood regarding this distracting
spectacle from the outside, he saw one of the ticket col-
lectors grasp the arm of a girl who was just emerging,
at the same time shutting the gate on a stout woman
following, thus effectually blocking the egress of those
behind.
The girl turned quickly at the touch of the detaining
hand, and there was fear in her face.
“What do you want?” she said, framing the words
with an obvious effort.
The ticket collector was a man whose natural choleric
temperament was accentuated by the harassing nature
of his employment. He tore in two portions the ticket
which the girl had just given him, and thrust half into
her hand.
“Here's your return half. Why don't you look what
yer doin' when givin' up yer ticket? You women are
the limit. Now, mother, for God's sake don't be all
night getting through that there barrier. There's
others want to get ’ome, if you don't.”
Having by this adroit remonstrance spiked the wrath,
as it were, of the stout and angry woman he had
jammed in the gate, he permitted the resumption of
the trickle of impatient passengers.
Mr. Brimsdown followed with his eye the pretty girl
who had been forgetful enough to give up a return
ticket instead of a half one. She had stopped outside
of Havinges of thete, he persengers.


152
THE MOON ROCK
the barrier, gazing round with a troubled face at the
immensity of the station and the throngs of hurrying
people.
The lawyer looked at her hard, from a little dis-
tance. “Where have I seen that face before?” he mur-
mured to himself.
Her beauty was of a sufficiently rare type to attract
attention anywhere, except, perhaps, at a London rail-
way station at midnight. She was unused to her sur-
roundings and she was not a city product. So much
was obvious, though her clear pale face and slim young
figure did not suggest rusticity. Her dark eyes glanced
quickly and nervously around her, and then she started
to walk slowly towards one of the main entrances.
A luggage porter hurried towards her, intent on
tips. The broad back of a policeman was outlined in
the entrance. The girl looked wistfully from the po-
liceman to the porter, then appeared to make up her
mind. She extracted a silver coin from her purse, and
proffered it timidly to the porter. The porter showed
no timidity in accepting it.
"Luggage, miss, in the van?” he asked. “Just you
wait 'ere."
“I have no luggage,” Mr. Brimsdown heard her say.
Her eyes wandered downward to the little handbag she
carried. “I wanted to ask you—I am a stranger to
London. Can you tell me a place where I could stay
for the night—somewhere quiet and respectable?”
Mr. Brimsdown found himself listening anxiously for
the porter's reply. By all the laws of Romance he
should have had an old mother in a clean and humble
home who would have been delighted to give the girl
shelter for the sight of her pretty face. But pretty
girls are plentiful in London, and kind-hearted old
women are rare. The porter seemed surprised at the
inquiry. He pushed his blue cap back from a shock
of red hair, and pondered the question deeply. Then


THE MOON ROCK
153
he made a valiant feint of earning his shilling by throw-
ing out suggestions of temperance hotels in Russell
Square and the Euston Road. He warmed to the sub-
ject and depicted the attractions of these places. Quiet
and cheap, and nothing respectabler in the 'ole city of
London. They was open at all hours. His own sister
stayed in one when she come to town.
“Would you give me the address ?” the girl wist-
fully asked.
The porter shook his head cautiously. He had evi-
dently no intention of pawning his sister's reputation
for a shilling given him by a strange girl who might
have designs on the spoons of temperance hotels.
“How do I get to Euston Road?” asked the girl
with a quick realization of the fact that she had ob-
tained London value for her shilling.
“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 disap-
peared 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. Brims-
down 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
M HE clock in Dr. Ravenshaw's study ticked loudly
I 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 Bar-
rant 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 in-
vestigating the case.”
“Yes?" said the doctor inquiringly. “Please be
seated.”
"It is a strange case, you know," began the detec-
tive. “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 tenden-
cies?”
“Many men have tendencies towards suicide at odd
154


THE MOON ROCK
155
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 doc-
tor's objection to the expression of a view which might
be proved erroneous later. So he turned to another
phase of the case.
"You saw Robert Turold's body soon after you ar-
rived at Flint House?”
“Within a few minutes.”
“How long had he been dead?”
“About ten minutes, I should say.”
“What was the cause of death?"
“He was shot through the main blood vessel of the
left lung. It was possible to arrive at that conclusion
from the very severe hæmorrhage. The blood was
still flowing freely when we broke into the room. That
would cause death from heart failure, following the
hæmorrhage, within two or three minutes, in all prob-
ability.”
“He was quite dead when you entered the study?”
“Quite."
“How long after was the body carried into the bed-
room?"
“An hour or more. It was some time before Pengo-
wan arrived, and Thalassa and he removed the body a
little later."
Barrant looked disappointed at his reply. “Would
it be possible to make marks on a corpse after that
length of time?” he asked.
“What sort of marks?” asked the doctor,


156
THE MOON ROCK
“There was a mark of five fingers on the left arm,
made by a left hand.”
“Then you have finger-prints to help you?”
“Unfortunately no. It's a grip-a clutch—which
will not reveal print marks in the impressions. I
thought they might have been caused during the re-
moval of the body.”
“It is not possible to make such marks on a corpse.
Reaction sets in at the moment of death. Sometimes
blue spots appear on a dead body, and such appear-
ances have been occasionally mistaken for bruises."
“Did you observe any marks when you examined the
body?” asked Barrant as he rose to his feet.
"No, but my examination was confined to ascertain-
ing if life was extinct.”
Barrant thanked him and said good night. The doc-
tor rose also, and escorted him to the door.
Outside, a wild west wind sprang at him. Barrant
pulled his hat over his eyes and hurried away.
The following morning he sought out Inspector Daw-
field at his office in Penzance and disclosed to him his
conclusions about the case.
“I intend to go to London by this morning's train,
Dawfield,” he announced. “We must find Robert Tur-
old's daughter.”
“You think she has gone to London?”
“I feel sure of it, and I do not think it will be difficult
to trace her. I shall try first at Paddington. I will
get the warrant for her arrest backed at Bow Street,
and put a couple of good men on the search before re-
turning here. You had better have the inquest ad-
journed until I come back. This is no suicide, Daw-
field, but a deep and skilfully planned murder.”
“I should think the flight of the girl makes that pret-
ty clear,” said Dawfield, as he made a note on his
office pad.
Barrant shook his head. “It's too strange a case


THE MOON ROCK
157
for us to have any feeling of certainty about it yet,"
he said. “There is some very deep mystery behind the
facts. Every step of my investigation convinces me
of that. The disappearance of Miss Turold does not
explain everything."
“She was up at Flint House on that night, and now
she is not to be found. Surely that is enough?”
“This is not a straightforward case. It's going to
prove a very complicated one. But I have come to the
conclusion that the quickest way to get at the truth is
to find Sisily Turold. Her flight suggests that she is
implicated in the crime in some way, and it may even
mean that she is guilty.”
“Do not the circumstances point to her guilt?”
“Circumstances can lie with the facility of humanity,
at times. Moreover, we do not know all the circum-
stances yet. But let us examine the facts we have dis-
covered. We believe that the girl visited her father's
house on the night of his death, and has since disap-
peared. We must assume that it was she who was seen
listening at the door during the afternoon by Mrs.
Pendleton, because that assumption provides strong
motive for the murder by giving the key of interpreta-
tion to Miss Turold's subsequent actions. We must
picture the effect of that overheard conversation on
the girl's mind. She had been kept in ignorance about
the secret of her birth, and she suddenly discovers that
instead of being a prospective peeress and heiress, she
is only an illegitimate daughter, a nameless thing, a
reproach in a world governed by moral conventions.
Her prospects, her future, and her life are shattered
by her father's act. The effect might well be over-
whelming. She broods over the wrong done to her, and
decides to go to Flint House that night and see her
father, though not, I think, with the premeditated idea
of murder. Her idea was to plead and remonstrate
with him.”
Pendlee for the Turolds that ove kept in Ly discoeiress, she
motiv to Miss effect he had beeshe sudd


158
THE MOON ROCK
“Why do you think that?” asked Dawfield.
“She could not have foreseen that her absence from
the hotel would pass unnoticed. That was pure luck,
due to Mrs. Pendleton's chance visit to Flint House.
It was just chance that the girl did not encounter her
aunt there. She must have got away from Flint House
shortly before Mrs. Pendleton arrived. But the strong-
est proof that there was no premeditation is to be
found in the fact that Miss Turold made the journey
openly, in a public conveyance."
“And returned the same way," put in Dawfield.
"I confess that her action in taking that risk after
the murder strikes me as remarkable," observed Bar-
rant thoughtfully. “But she would be anxious to re-
turn as speedily as possible, and perhaps she was aware
that the last wagonette from St. Fair to Penzance is
generally empty. But we can only speculate about
that. She must have reached Flint House not later
than half-past eight or perhaps a few minutes earlier,
if she walked quickly across the moors. I ascertained
that by taking the same wagonette last night, and
walking across the moors from the cross-roads, as she
did. The murder was not committed until half-past
nine, according to the stopped clock, which is another
point suggesting lack of premeditation. Let us as-
sume that up to the time she arrived at Flint House
she had no intention of murdering her father. She
knocked, and was perhaps admitted by Thalassa, and
went up to her father's room. What happened during
that interview? We do not know, but we are told that
Robert Turold was a man of harsh, unyielding disposi-
tion, the slave of his single idea, which was the ac-
quisition of a lost title. Such a man was not likely to
be moved by pleading or threats. We must imagine
a long and angry scene, culminating in the daughter
snatching up her father's revolver and shooting him.”
“Thalassa told Pengowan that Robert Turold kept


THE MOON ROCK
159
the revolver in the drawer of his writing table,” Daw-
field remarked.
“I have read Pengowan's report,” returned Barrant
impatiently, "and I am assuming that Robert Turold's
daughter knew where it was kept. This is a purely
constructive theory of her guilt, and we have to assume
many things. We must further assume that when she
left the room she locked the door behind her and
brought away the key in order to suggest suicide.
When she got downstairs she told Thalassa the truth,
and begged him to shield her. He promised to do so,
and when the door of the study was broken open he
took an opportunity to drop the key on the floor, in
order to suggest the idea that Robert Turold had
locked himself in his room before shooting himself, and
that the key was jolted out of the lock when the door
was burst in. It was an infernally clever thing to do.
That's the case against the girl, Dawfield. What do
you think of it?”
“It sounds convincing enough."
“It would sound more convincing to me if it was
entirely consistent with the other facts of the case.
Have you those sheets of unfinished writing which were
found in Robert Turold's study?”
Dawfield produced two sheets of foolscap from his
desk. Barrant laid them on the table, and examined
them with a magnifying glass.
"It is certain that Robert Turold did not put down
his pen voluntarily," he said. “He stopped involun-
tarily, in the midst of a word. That suggests great
surprise or sudden shock. The letter 'e' in the word
'clear' terminates in a sprawling dash and a jab from
the nib which has almost pierced the paper. Could
the unexpected appearance of his daughter have
startled him in that fashion? It rather suggests that
somebody sprang on him unawares, surprising him so
much that he almost stuck the pen through the paper.”
thly," he saiord. That she in the worm


160
THE MOON ROCK
“Might not that have been his daughter?”
“Women scratch like cats when they use violence,
but they do not spring like tigers. I have been exam-
ining those marks on Robert Turold's arm again, and
I have come to the conclusion that they were made by
somebody in a violent passion.”
“I have the photographs here,” said Dawfield, rum-
maging in a drawer. “They do not help us at all.
There are no finger-prints-nothing but blurs."
Barrant glanced at the photographs and pushed
them aside.
“I have been thinking a lot about those marks,” he
said. “They strike me as a very important clue. I
have been examining them very closely, and discovered
the faint impression of finger-nails in the marks left by
the first and second fingers. That suggests that the
owner of the hand was in a state of ferocity and tight-
ened nerves."
“I do not see that.”
“Allow me to experiment on your arm. When I grip
you firmly, as I do now, you can feel my fingers press-
ing their whole length on your flesh, can you not?”
"I can indeed," said Dawfield, wincing. “You've a
pretty powerful grip. I shall be black and blue.”
“The grip on Robert Turold's arm is quite a differ-
ent thing,” pursued Barrant earnestly. “Do not be
afraid, I am not going to demonstrate again. It was
more in the nature of a pounce a sort of tiger-spring
hold, made by somebody in a state of great mental ex-
citement, with tightened muscles which caused a tense
clutch with the finger-tips, the nails digging into the
skin, the fingers bent and wide apart. My opinion is
that it is a man's grip."
“Thalassa?"
“That I cannot say. He's a cunning and wary
devil, and I could get nothing out of him last night.
He says he was in the coal cellar when his master met
"That I could get nothingil ar when his m


THE MOON ROCK
161
Didat took pla Some seconds ? Rob see no
in
a
com
ook Rover out
his death. That's where he showed his cleverness in
protecting himself as well as shielding the girl, because
if he was actually down in the coal cellar she might
have gained entrance to the house and left it again
without Thalassa knowing anything about it. He says
that he admitted nobody, and heard nobody."
“Perhaps he helped in the murder, and sprang on
his master."
“That is possible. But why should Thalassa spring
on his master in maniacal excitement? To secure the
revolver to shoot him? I can see no other reason.
What happened afterwards? Robert Turold wasn't shot
immediately. Some seconds, perhaps minutes, elapsed.
What took place in that brief yet vital space of time?
Did Thalassa hold his master in a grim clutch while
the girl took the revolver out of the drawer and shot
him? What took Robert Turold to the clock in his
dying moments? These are questions we cannot answer
at present. But it is certain that whoever committed
the murder left the room immediately after firing the
shot, and the door was locked on the outside and the
key removed. If the daughter committed the murder
it was probably Thalassa who replaced the key in the
room afterwards.”
"Have you any doubt on that point?”
“The probabilities point to Thalassa, but it was
Austin Turold who actually picked up the key. It
is as well not to lose sight of that fact.”
Inspector Dawfield looked up quickly, but his col-
league's face revealed nothing of his thoughts.
"Hadn't you some idea that the marks on the arm
might have been caused by the removal of the body into
the next room?" he hazarded.
“Not now," Barrant replied. “That theory was
only tenable on the supposition that life was not com-
pletely extinct when the body was removed. But I in-
int 799


162
THE MOON ROCK
terviewed Dr. Ravenshaw on that point last night, and
what he told me disposes of that theory.”
“I heard something from one of my men this morn-
ing which may have some bearing on the case," re-
marked Dawfield. “There has been a lot of local gossip
about it. Robert Turold was generally regarded as
very eccentric. When he crossed the moors from the
churchtown to Flint House it was his custom to go
almost at a run, glancing over his shoulder as he went,
as if afraid.”
“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
I 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 red-
dened with weeping, and an air of tremulous bewilder-
ment about her which sat ill on her massive person-
ality.
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. Pendle-
ton had revealed no latent capacity to play the part
163


164
THE MOON ROCK
of the strong man at the helm in the crisis. He had
shown himself a craven and kept out of the way, leav-
ing 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.
“A deplorable loss to his family—and England,” as-
sented the lawyer. “I am glad to see you. They ascer-
tained your address for me at the hotel where I am
staying. I have been resting after travelling all night,
and I shall go and see the police in the morning. So
far I have only read the reports in the London evening
papers, and there may be intimate particulars which
were not disclosed to the press. If such exist, perhaps
you will impart them to me. You need not hesitate to
disclose to me all you know. Your late brother hon-
oured me with his confidence for nearly thirty years."
Mr. Brimsdown coughed discreetly.
His tone invited confidences which Mrs. Pendleton,
in her perplexity of spirit, was only too anxious to
impart to a sympathetic ear. Mr. Brimsdown, sitting
stiffly upright, his eyes fixed on a portrait of Royalty
glimmering inanely down at them through a dirty glass
frame on the opposite wall, listened with unmoved
front. Yet the story had its surprises, even for him.
Not the least of them was the fact that Mrs. Pendle-
ton's description of her niece tallied with the appear-
ance of the girl whose identity he had tried to recall
at Paddington. He was chagrined to think he had
failed to recognize his late client's daughter, but he re-
called that it was ten years since he had seen Sisily,
who was then a dark-eyed little girl. At Norfolk. Oh,
yes! he remembered her readily enough now, playing
innocently about some forgotten tombstones in a de
serted graveyard on a wild grey coast, while her father


THE MOON ROCK
165
wrested savagely with the dead for his heritage. Strange
that he should have met her again at the moment of
her flight, when he was setting out for Cornwall in
response to her dead father's letter! Life had such
ironical mischances.
He said nothing of this chance encounter, or of Rob-
ert Turold's letter, to the dead man's sister who was
now pouring out her fears and suspicions to him. He
was a receptacle into which confidences might be emp-
tied, but he gave nothing in return. Mrs. Pendleton
did not need that. Her state of mind compelled her
to speak, and her impulsiveness hurried her along on
the high tide of a flood of words. The story she had
to tell oppressed her listener with the sense of some
great unknown horror. It was like trying to see a dark
place by lightning. The flashes of her revelations re-
vealed a distorted surface, but not the hidden depths.
Mrs. Pendleton's agitated mind, doubling in and out
a maze of conjectures like a distracted hare, turned
again and again to the question of Sisily's complicity
again, Father's deathieve it even now? And yet. Thed it
“I can hardly believe it even now,” she said with a
shudder. "Such a sweet pretty girl! And yet—there
was something strange in her manner. I remarked it
to Joseph-my husband-before this happened.” She
pressed her handkerchief to her eyes.
The lawyer, with a sideways glance at the Royal por-
trait opposite, which seemed in the act of smiling
blandly at his companion's grief, reflected, soberly
enough, that sweet and pretty girls were as human as
the rest of creation, if it came to that.
“Charlie Turold—my nephew, you know—will have
it that she is innocent."
“In spite of her disappearance?"
“Yes. He came this morning, before I was up, to
see if I knew where Sisily had gone. After tea he came
again in a terrible state, raving against the detective


THE MOON ROCK
167
had . . . destroyed himself.” Her voice dropped to a
shocked whisper.
“On what grounds did he base that belief?” Mr.
Brimsdown cautiously asked.
“He thought the circumstances pointed to it," she
rejoined. “But I knew better-I knew Robert would
never do anything so dreadful. Besides, had I not seen
that horrible old man-servant glaring through the
door? That is why I went to the police.”
As Mrs. Pendleton showed a tendency to repeat her-
self, Mr. Brimsdown rose to terminate the interview.
Mrs. Pendleton rose, too, but she had not yet reached
the end of her surprises for him.
“And then there's Robert's will — so strange!
Really-
“The will! What will?” interrupted the lawyer
testily. “Did your brother make his will down here?”
“Yes. A will drawn up by a local lawyer—a man
with the extraordinary name of Bunkom-a most ter-
rible little creature. Bunkom, indeed!" continued Mrs.
Pendleton, shaking her head with a feeble assumption of
sprightliness. “Everything is left to my brother Aus-
tin. I do not mind in the least about myself. After
all, Robert and I met almost as strangers after many
years, and I want nothing from him. But his treat-
ment of this unfortunate girl, his daughter, is really
too dreadful. I do not wish to speak ill of the dead,
but I must say that much, whether Sisily had anything
to do with Robert's death or not, for, of course, Robert
couldn't have known about that at the time—when he
made his will, I mean,” concluded Mrs. Pendleton, in
some confusion of mind.
“It is strange that your brother did not consult me
before drawing up this will,” said Mr. Brimsdown.
“Perhaps he imagined you might persuade him
against it," sighed Mrs. Pendleton. “It is all very
strange. I do not understand it a bit.”


168
THE MOON ROCK
Mr. Brimsdown thought it strange, then and after-
wards. Next day, after going to the police station
and handing Robert Turold's letter to Inspector Daw-
field, he sought out the Penzance lawyer who had drawn
up the will. Mr. Bunkom was a spidery little man who
spun his legal webs in a small dark office at the top of
Market Jew Street, a solicitor with a servile manner
but an eye like a fox, which dwelt on his eminent con-
frère from London, as he perused the will, with an ex-
pression which it was just as well that Mr. Brimsdown
didn't see, so sly and savage was it. The Penzance
spider knew his business. The will was watertight and
properly attested. The bulk of the property was be-
queathed to Austin Turold unconditionally. There
were only two other bequests. Robert Turold had
placed Thalassa and Sisily (“my illegitimate daugh-
ter”) on an equality by bequeathing to them annuities
of £50 a year each. Austin Turold and Mr. Brims-
down were named as joint executors, and that was all.
Mr. Brimsdown would not have occupied such a dis-
tinguished place in the legal profession if he had not
been a firm believer in the sacred English tradition
that a man has the right to dispose of his own property
as he thinks fit. Moreover, his legal mind realized the
folly of speculating over the reasons which had
prompted this hurried will when the man who had made
it was beyond the reach of argument, reproof, or cross-
examination.
But the lack of all mention of the title was a differ-
ent matter, calling for investigation. It was remark-
able that a man like Robert Turold should have gone
to the grave without binding his heir to prosecute the
claim for the Turrald title. To that end Robert Turold
had devoted his life, and to the upkeep of the title he
had proposed to devote his fortune. The absence of
this precaution puzzled Mr. Brimsdown considerably at
first, but as he pondered over the matter he began to


THE MOON ROCK
169
see the reason. Robert Turold was so close to the
summit of his ambition that he had not thought it
necessary to take precautions. He was a strong man,
and strong men rarely think of death. Once the title
was his, it descended as a matter of course to his
brother, and then to his brother's son-provided, of
course, that the proofs of his daughter's illegitimacy
were in existence.
That conclusion carried another in its wake. If Rob-
ert Turold had not safeguarded his dearest ambition
because he hoped to carry it out himself, it followed
as a matter of course that he did not take his own life.
Mr. Brimsdown had never accepted that theory, but it
was strange to have it so conclusively proved, as it were,
by the inference of an omission. That brought the
lawyer back to the position that some foreboding or
warning of his murder had caused Robert Turold to
summon him to Cornwall by letter. The next step of
his investigations led Mr. Brimsdown to the dead man's
study, where that frantic appeal had been penned.
He engaged a vehicle at the hotel and drove over to
Flint House in the afternoon. The impression of that
visit remained. Flint House, rising from the basalt
summit of the headland like a granite vault, its windows
coldly glistening down on the frothy green gloom of the
Atlantic far beneath, the country trap and lean black
horse at the flapping gate, the undertaker's man (dis-
solute parasite of austere Death) slinking out of the
house, and Thalassa waiting at the open door for him
to approach-all these things were engraved on Mr.
Brimsdown's mind, never to be forgotten. Who was
it that had staged such a crime in such a proscenium,
in that vast amphitheatre of black rocks which stretched
dizzily down beneath those gleaming windows?
Then came other impressions: the dead man upstairs,
the disordered dusty study, the stopped clock, the litter
of papers. It was in the room where Robert Turold
study, where tons led Mr. By letter. The
suse in the int House, risite vault, its win of the


170
THE MOON ROCK
had been murdered that Mr. Brimsdown questioned
Thalassa about the letter, and heard with a feeling of
dismay his declaration that he had not posted it. Where
was the nearest pillar box? Nearly a mile away, at the
cross-roads. Could his late master have gone there to
post it that night? If he had, Thalassa hadn't heard
him go out. Could anybody else have posted it? No;
there was nobody else to post it.
It was like questioning a head on an old Roman coin,
so expressionless was Thalassa's face as he delivered
himself of these replies. But the lawyer had the feeling
that Thalassa was deriving a certain grim satisfaction
from his questioner's perplexity, and he dismissed him
somewhat angrily. Then, when he had gone, he turned
to an examination of some of the papers and documents
which littered the room, but that was a search which
told him nothing.
When the shades of evening warned him to relinquish
that task, he told himself that he really ought to go
and see Austin Turold before returning to Penzance.
But he shrank, with unaccountable reluctance, from
the performance of that obvious duty. He felt very
old and tired, and his temples were throbbing with a
bad nervous headache. He therefore decided to post-
pone his visit to Austin Turold until later.


CHAPTER XX
T HEN the interview with Austin Turold did take
place, Mr. Brimsdown learnt with a feeling
which was little less than astonishment that
Robert Turold had died without confiding to his
brother the proofs, on which so much depended, of the
statement he had made on the day of his death.
“I cannot understand it,” he murmured, putting down
his tea-cup as he spoke.
Austin had received him in the blue sitting-room,
hung with the specimens of Mr. Brierly's ineffectual art,
and had given him tea, as he had given Barrant tea
some days before. But there was a subtle difference in
the manner of Mr. Brimsdown's reception; the tone was
pitched higher, with fine shades and inflections attuned
for a more gentlemanly ear.
"It disposes of the suicide theory finally and utter-
ly,” added the lawyer thoughtfully.
“The suicide theory disappeared with Robert's daugh-
ter,” said Austin, glancing at his son, who had taken
no part in the conversation.
“You think her disappearance suggests guilt?” asked
Mr. Brimsdown.
“It hardly suggests innocence, does it?”
“I would not like to hazard an opinion,” responded
Mr. Brimsdown, with a thoughtful shake of the head.
“My experience of women is that they are capable of
the strangest acts without weighing the consequences."
"That was before the war, when women were delight-
fully irrational creatures, but now they're no longer so.
They've become practical and coarse, like men. They
smoke, drink, and tell improper stories with demure ex-
171


172
THE MOON ROCK
pression and heads a little on one side like overwise
sparrows."
“Was Robert Turold's daughter a girl of this sort?”
asked the lawyer in surprise.
"She wa Charles Turother. Austin, he head. Slight
It was Charles Turold who made answer, with an
angry glance at his father. Austin, looking at him,
gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head. Slight
as the warning was, it was intercepted by Mr. Brims-
down's watchful eye, and he wondered what it meant.
"I do not think any useful purpose can be gained by
discussing my brother's death,” Austin interposed, turn-
ing to him. “It is a very painful subject, and does no
good. The police are endeavouring to unravel the
mystery—let us leave it to them.”
“I was merely going to say that your brother would
have given you the proofs of this statement about his
marriage if he had meditated self-destruction,” Mr.
Brimsdown observed. “The proofs must be in existence,
of course, but I do not think that they are at Flint
House. Did your brother confide the information to
you beforehand-before his public announcement, I
mean?"
“Shortly before his death he hinted to me of some
very important disclosure which he intended to make
at the proper time—some family matter—but he did not
say what it was, nor did I ask him."
His son looked at him quickly, and the lawyer doubt-
fully, as he made this statement, but his own glance
sustained both looks serenely and equably.
“My brother did inform me, a week ago, that I would
succeed to his fortune,” he added.
“That proves that your brother was aware of the
illegality of his marriage at that time,” said Mr. Brims-
down, with an air of conviction.
“Why so ?”


THE MOON ROCK
173
“Because you could not succeed to the Turrald title
if your brother's daughter was legitimate.”
“That would not prevent my brother disposing of his
property as he thought fit,” remarked Austin coldly.
"I am aware of that,” replied Mr. Brimsdown guard-
edly. He refrained from stating what was obvious to
him, that Robert Turold had intended his fortune for
the upkeep of the title when gained, and for no other
purpose. “After all, it does not matter very much
how long your brother was aware of the fact. The
great point is—where are the proofs? I cannot under-
stand why your brother did not send them on to me. I
intend to make another and longer search among his
papers at Flint House. They must be found. The
House of Lords will require the most convincing proof
on this head before terminating the abeyance in your
favour."
“If I proceed with the claim, you mean," said Austin.
The lawyer turned on him a startled glance which had
something of consternation in it. His own interest in
the title, was, by force of long association with Robert
Turold, so deep and intimate that it had never occurred
to him to suppose that the younger brother might not
share in the obsession of the elder.
“Titles are at a discount nowadays—like virtuous
women," proceeded Austin. “The most extraordinary
people have them. Are you aware that there were
nearly four thousand names in the last Royal bestowal
of Orders of the British Empire? There's kingly
munificence for you! It's the same with the Masonic
order. The gentleman you address as 'Right Worship-
ful Sir overnight delivers poultry and rabbits at your
back door next morning. Democracy has come into
its own, Brimsdown. Sooner or later we shall have a
king wearing a cloth cap.”
“Your remarks do not apply to the old nobility,” re-


174
THE MOON ROCK
turned Mr. Brimsdown austerely. “They will never
become common. It would be a pity not to prosecute
your brother's claim to the Turrald title. He gave
thirty years of his life to establishing the line of de
scent.”
“My brother had the temperament of a visionary,"
replied Austin. “I am more practical. But I shall
respect his wishes, if possible, though from what you
say it would seem to be quite useless to go on with the
claim if the missing proofs about his wife's previous
marriage are not recovered."
“That is quite true,” Mr. Brimsdown admitted. “But
I feel sure that they are in existence, somewhere. Your
brother Robert was not the man to make a statement
of that kind without the proofs. He knew the value
of documentary evidence too well for that."
“But so far the proof of his daughter's illegitimacy
rests on his unsupported statement, which would be
quite valueless in a court of law?"
“That is so.”
“If these proofs are found, do you think that my
chance of regaining the title is as good as Robert's?”
Austin asked. “Are the circumstances of his death
likely to tell against my succeeding? I ask you be-
cause I know nothing about peerage law.”
“The House of Lords has inherent rights of its own
in regard to the granting of any claim,” replied the
lawyer carefully, “rights as the guardian of its own
privileges. I do not think, however, that your claim
would be rejected. The line of descent is clear, if the
proofs of your brother's statement are found. The
Turrald barony is a parliamentary peerage which
descends to a sole daughter. You can only succeed
your brother in the line of descent if she is illegiti-
mate."
"In any case the present claim could not be gone
on with, could it?”


THE MOON ROCK
175
“No. That must be withdrawn. I will write to the
Home Secretary acquainting him with your brother's
death. Later on, if we find the proofs, another claim
can be prepared on your behalf.”
“If I decide to go on with it.”
“I trust that you will,” said the lawyer. “It was
your brother's dream to restore the title with a male line
of descent."
“His dream will be fruitless so far as I am concerned,”
said Charles Turold, who had been listening intently
to this conversation. “I shall have nothing to do with
this title.” He got up, and strode abruptly from the
room without another word.
Mr. Brimsdown was a little surprised at the lack
of manners evinced by this precipitate departure, but
arose without speaking to take his own leave. Austin
did not offer to escort him downstairs. He rang the
bell, which was answered by the gaunt maid who had
been engaged to sit as Britannia or the Madonna, and
to her he consigned his departing visitor after a soft
pressure of his white hand.
The maid preceded the lawyer down the staircase
with a martial step which outstripped his, and waited
at the foot for him to complete the descent. As Mr.
Brimsdown reached the last stair, a door immediately
opposite opened, and a lady came out. Mr. Brimsdown
glanced at her casually in passing, and encountered
her glance in return. In that brief look he observed
the dawn of swift surprise in her eyes. Her careworn
face flushed, and she made an eager step forward, as
though about to speak. Somewhat surprised at this
action on her part, Mr. Brimsdown hesitated, then, re-
flecting that he had probably misinterpreted a chance
movement on the part of a perfect stranger, went
towards the door, which the maid was holding open for
him. As he passed through he glanced back, and to his
astonishment saw the woman in the passage still stand-
her glance of swift she made an exhat surated, then


176
THE MOON ROCK
ing in the same spot, staring fixedly after him, ap
parently in a state of consternation or amazement,
he could not say which.
He went out of the door with a vision of her ques-
tioning gaze following him as far as she could see him.
He did not think any more of it just then. A lowering
sky suggested rain, and he set off at a round pace for
the inn where he had left the vehicle which had brought
him to the churchtown.
But quickly as he walked, a footstep behind him was
quicker still, and he turned involuntarily to see who
was following. Another surprise was in store for him.
The tall figure hurrying after him, with the evident
intention of overtaking him, was Charles Turold. The
lawyer stood still and waited for him.
"I have come after you to tell you something,"
Charles said abruptly, “something that you ought to
know. You were questioning my father about the facts
of this case-about my uncle's death. You did not
learn anything from him, but I can tell you my cousin
Sisily is innocent.”
He brought out these words with a breathlessness
which may have been the result of his haste. The calm-
ness of the lawyer's reply was in marked contrast.
“Is this merely an assertion, Mr. Turold?”
"It is more than an assertion. I can prove it to
you.”
Mr. Brimsdown was startled. “What do you mean
by that?” he asked.
“If you will come to Flint House I will show you."
Mr. Brimsdown stroked the cautious chin of an old
man plunged into a situation which he could not fathom.
“Would it not be better to consult the police first?” he
temporized.
“The police are now searching the country for Sisily,
and there is no time to be lost."
There was something so profoundly unhappy in his


THE MOON ROCK
177
get of the sting of slowly withobert Tur
appearance that pity stirred in the lawyer's heart.
“Very well,” he said, with another look at the lowering
sky, “let us go."
That afternoon remained with the lawyer as another
unforgettable memory. It was all of a piece, sombre,
yet of a sharp-edged vividness: the desolation of the
moors, the sting of the rain, the clamour of the sea,
the seabirds soaring slowly with harsh cries. Then they
stood, the pair of them, in Robert Turold's bedroom,
looking down on the dead man, swathed in his grave-
clothes, with a wreath of flowers from Mrs. Pendleton
on his breast. Removing this symbol of human pre-
tense against the reality of things, Charles Turold
bared the arm of the corpse, and pointing to it ex-
claimed
“Could those marks have been made by Sisily?”
In his examination of the marks thus revealed to him,
Mr. Brimsdown had the strange feeling that their ex-
istence was, in some way, the justification of the dead
man's summons to him.
“Do you know how these marks were made?” he
said, turning to Charles.
“I do not. But I do know that they prove that
Sisily is innocent."
Charles Turold spoke defiantly, but there was a slight
note of interrogation in his voice which the lawyer chose
to ignore.
“They were made by a man's hand,” the young man
persisted, looking earnestly at him.
“Do the police know of them?”
“That I cannot tell you.”
Another question was in Mr. Brimsdown's mind, but
the young man's haggard face, the mingled misery and
expectation of his glance, checked the utterance of it.
He had the idea that Charles's manner suggested some-
thing more some revelation yet to come. But the
young man did not speak.


178
THE MOON ROCK
“Is this all you wanted to show me?” Mr. Brims-
down hinted.
“Is it not enough?”
“I do not see that it throws any light on Miss Tur-
old's disappearance. Can you explain that?”
“How can I explain what I do not know?” Charles
was silent for a moment, then added bitterly. “It may
be because of her father's inhuman conduct.”
“Robert Turold is dead-do not use that tone in
speaking of him," the lawyer counselled.
Charles turned on him a peculiar look. “Do you
think the world is the loser by his death?” he said.
Mr. Brimsdown was moved out of himself to declare
that the death of Robert Turold was a distinct loss
to the world. "He was a wonderful man-a notable
personality,” he said emphatically.
Charles gave him a moody glance, and there fell
upon them a silence so complete that the dead man in
the bed seemed to share in it. The lawyer had an acute
perception of the fact that he had handled the situation
badly. He intuitively realized that he had put him-
self into the opposite camp to Charles's sympathies by
the uncompromising partisanship of his last remarks.
He was convinced that until that moment, Charles had
been meditating the question of some further dis-
closure. Mr. Brimsdown regretted afterwards that
he made no effort to gain his confidence. He felt that
if he had done so events might have taken a different
course. But it is difficult to bring youth and age
together. Youth sometimes yields to impulse, but not
age. The lurking devil of self-consciousness whispers
caution as the safer quality. Mr. Brimsdown heark-
ened to the whisper, and stood there in silence, while
the minutes slipped by which might have bridged the
gap.
There was a quick step in the passage outside, and
the door opened to admit Detective Barrant. He looked


THE MOON ROCK
179
inquiringly from one to the other, and addressed himself
to the lawyer.
“Are you Mr. Brimsdown?” he asked.
“That is my name,” the lawyer replied.
“I am Detective Barrant of Scotland Yard. I wish
to speak to you privately.”
His emphasis on the last word was not lost on
Charles Turold. With a slight indifferent nod to Mr.
Brimsdown he went out of the room, closing the door
quietly behind him.
“I have come to see you about this letter which you
left with Inspector Dawfield.” Barrant produced the
letter and took the single sheet from the grey en-
velope.
“That is the reason of my presence in Cornwall,"
said Mr. Brimsdown.
“So I imagined. What can you tell me about it?”
“Very little, except that I received it by the last
post at my chambers in Lincoln's Inn Fields the night
after Robert Turold's death."
“But why did he send for you?”
“That I cannot even guess.”
“You surely must have some idea."
“If I had I should be only too happy to assist the
course of justice by imparting it to you."
There was a dryness in the tone of this reply which
warned Barrant that he had made a blunder in allowing
his irritation to get the better of him. But his private
opinion was that the letter was the outcome of some
secret of the dead man's which he had imparted to his
lawyer. He changed his mood with supple swiftness,
in order to extract the information.
“This letter suggests certain things,” he said, “some
secret, perhaps, in Robert Turold's life, of which you
may have some inkling. If you will give me some hint
as to what it was, it might be very helpful.”
“Unfortunately, I am as much in the dark as your-


180
THE MOON ROCK
self,” returned Mr. Brimsdown, rubbing his brow
thoughtfully. “I cannot make the faintest guess at
the reason which called forth this letter. I know next
to nothing of my late client's private life. He was a
man of the utmost reticence in personal matters. My
relations with him were not of that nature.”
This reply was delivered with a sincerity which it
was impossible to doubt. In palpable disappointment
Barrant turned to a renewed scrutiny of the letter,
which he held open in his hand.
“It is very strange," he muttered.
“Not the least strange part of it is that I cannot
ascertain who posted it,” said Mr. Brimsdown, glancing
earnestly at the letter. “I asked Thalassa, but he says
he knows nothing about it.”
“Thalassa is probably lying to you as he has lied
to me. One lie more or less would not weigh on his
conscience.”
“Why should he tell a lie over such a small thing as
the posting of a letter?”
Barrant did not reply. He was apparently absorbed
in examining the postmarks on the envelope. “Indis-
tinguishable, of course,” he muttered, returning the
letter to the envelope. “Had Robert Turold any ene-
mies?” he asked.
“I never heard him speak of any."
“How did he come by his money?" asked Barrant,
struck by a sudden thought. "His sister tells me that
he made his money abroad.”
“That I cannot tell you."
“But you invested his fortune for him, did you not?”
“I did,” the lawyer agreed.
“In what circumstances ?”
“It is rather a strange story,” replied Mr. Brims-
down slowly.
“I should like to hear it then. It may throw some
light on this letter.”


THE MOON ROCK
181
“Let us go into the other room.”
Mr. Brimsdown made this suggestion with a quick
glance at his departed client on the bed, as though he
feared some sardonic reproof from those grey immobile
lips.


CHAPTER XXI
ARRANT had returned with a feeling of irrita-
tion against the mischances of events which had
brought an important piece of evidence to light
after his departure for London. He had chosen to
commence inquiries into Sisily's disappearance as soon
as he had reached London instead of going to Scotland
Yard, where a guarded telegram from Inspector Daw-
field awaited him, and although he had hastened to
obey the summons back to Cornwall as soon as he re-
ceived it, two valuable days had been lost. It was true
that in that time he had found traces of the girl which
he believed would lead to her early arrest, but the let-
ter, with its implication that the dead man was aware
of his impending doom, was a highly significant clue,
and strengthened Barrant's original belief that the real
mystery of Robert Turold's death lay much deeper
than the plausible surface of events indicated.
He sat now, with a kind of sombre thoughtfulness, lis-
tening to Mr. Brimsdown's account of his first meeting
with his dead client. That story carried with it a sugges-
tion of adventure and mystery, but it was difficult to
say whether those elements had anything to do with
Robert Turold's death, thirty years later. It brought
up the image of a man, rugged and dominant even in
youth, winning his way into the heart of a middle-aged
lawyer by the story of his determination to possess an
old English title. Most men have the spirit of Romance
hidden in them somewhere, and chance or good luck
had sent Robert Turold, on his return to England, to
the one solicitor in London to whom his story was likely
to make the strongest kind of appeal. The spirit of
182


THE MOON ROCK
183
Romance in Mr. Brimsdown's bosom was no shimmer-
ing thing of thistledown and fancy, but took the con-
crete shape of the peerage law of England, out of
which he had fashioned an image of worship to the old
nobility and the days of chivalry.
Barrant gathered so much from the lawyer's de-
scription of that first meeting. And if Robert Turold
had found in the solicitor the man he most needed in
his search for the missing title, it was equally clear that
his own great quality of rugged strength had exer-
cised the most extraordinary sway on the lawyer-a
species of personal magnetism which had never lost its
original effect. It was not until the second or third
meeting—Mr. Brimsdown was not quite sure which-
that the question of money was introduced. The law-
yer had pointed out to his client that the search for
the title was likely to be prolonged and expensive, and
Robert Turold had indifferently assured him that he
had money at his command for that purpose lying on
deposit at a London bank. The amount, when he did
mention it, was much greater than Mr. Brimsdown
imagined-nearly £50,000 in fact. It was at Robert
Turold's suggestion that Mr. Brimsdown undertook to
invest the sum at better rates of interest, and thus,
before a year had passed, the whole of Robert Turold's
business affairs were in the hands of the solicitor.
On one point Mr. Brimsdown was clear. He had
never heard from Robert Turold how he first came into
possession of this large sum of money, and his client
had never encouraged inquiry on the subject. Mr.
Brimsdown had once ventured to ask him how he had
made his fortune, and Robert Turold, with a freezing
look, had replied that he had made it abroad. Mr.
Brimsdown had never again referred to the subject,
deeming it no business of his.
Barrant, listening to this with the air of a man who
was not to be deceived, could not see that the narratior


184
THE MOON ROCK
threw any illumination on the letter or the other cir-
cumstances of Robert Turold's death. It seemed too
far-fetched to suppose there was any connection be-
tween the fortune which Robert Turold had brought
from abroad thirty years before and the letter he had
sent to his solicitor on the night of his death. The
idea did indeed cross his mind that some iniquity in
that money-getting may have been responsible for a
belated revenge, but he dismissed that thought as too
wide for the scope of his inquiry. Abroad! That was
a vague word, and thirty years was a long while back.
As he contemplated the manifold perplexities of the
case, Barrant tried to shut out the more sinister in-
ference of the letter by asking himself, if after all, the
postscript was not capable of some entirely innocent
interpretation. But his conscientious mind refused to
permit him to evade responsibility in that way. The
letter could not be dismissed with a wave of one's wish-
ing wand. It remained stubbornly in Barrant's per-
spective, an unexplained factor which could be neither
overlooked nor ignored.
These thoughts ran through his mind as Mr. Brims-
down talked of his dead client. At the same time, the
detective's attitude towards the lawyer underwent a
considerable change. His professional caution,
amounting almost to suspicion, became modified by the
more perceptive point of view that as the dead man
had turned to Mr. Brimsdown for assistance, it would
be better for him to trust the lawyer also—to look
upon him as an ally, and make common cause with
him in the search for Robert Turold's murderer.
This changed attitude, carrying with it a seeming
friendliness, the establishment, as it were, of an under-
standing between them, was not lost upon Mr. Brims-
down. But it had its awkward side for him, by giving
added weight to the responsibility of deciding whether


THE MOON ROCK
185
he should reveal or withhold his chance encounter with
Sisily at Paddington. Till then, Mr. Brimsdown had
been unable to make up his mind about that. There
were some nice points involved in the decision. In an
effort to reach a solution he broached the subject.
"Is it still your opinion that Miss Turold is guilty-
after this letter?” he asked.
“Her disappearance lays upon her the obligation of
explaining her secret visit to her father on the night of
the murder," was the guarded reply.
“Then you intend to arrest her?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know where she is?”
A quick consideration of this question led Barrant
to the conclusion that it would do no harm to let the
lawyer know the scanty truth.
“She is in London. I have traced her to Paddington.”
Mr. Brimsdown decided that, as the detective knew
that much, it absolved him from any obligation to be-
tray the daughter of his dead client. His feeling of
relief unsealed his lips, and led him into an indiscretion.
"It seems incredible that she can be guilty.” As he
spoke the memory of Sisily's tender and wistful face,
as he had seen it that night, came back to him.
“She had some justification, you know, if she was
listening at the door that afternoon,” replied Barrant
thoughtfully.
"It is hardly possible that she could have inflicted
those marks on the arm,” Mr. Brimsdown said.
“How did you learn of them?” asked the detective
quickly, in a changed tone.
Too late Mr. Brimsdown realized that in contrast
to his silence with Charles Turold, he had now gone
to the other extreme and said too much. He hesitated,
but his hesitation was useless before the swiftness of
Barrant's deduction.
rimsdown deed him from irent. His feecretion.


186
TH
THE MOON ROCK
“Was Charles Turold showing you the marks when I
found you in the other room?" he asked with a keen
glance.
Mr. Brimsdown's admission of that fact was coupled
with an assurance that the young man had shown him
the marks because he was convinced of Sisily's inno-
cence.
Barrant dismissed young Turold's opinions about
the case with an impatient shake of the head. “Who
told him about the marks?” he said.
It was the thought which had occurred to Mr. Brims-
down at the time, but he did not say so then. “How
did you discover them?” he asked.
“When I was examining the body. But Charles
Turold had no reason to examine the body. Perhaps
Dr. Ravenshaw told him. I must ask him.”
"It is a terrible and ghastly crime," said Mr. Brims-
down, in an effort to turn the mind of his companion in
another direction. “There is something about it that
I do not understand-some deep mystery which has
not yet been fathomed. Was it really his daughter?
If so, how did she escape from the room and leave the
door locked inside? Escape from these windows is
plainly impossible.”
He crossed to the window, and stood for a moment
looking down at a grey sea tossing in futile restless-
ness. After an interval he said
“Do you suspect Thalassa as well?”
The detective looked at him with a cautious air:
“Why do you ask that?” he said, with some restraint
in his tone.
"It might account . . . for certain things."
Barrant shook his head in a way which was more non-
committal than negative. He wanted to ascertain what
the lawyer thought, but he was not prepared to reveal
all his own thoughts in return.


188
THE MOON ROCK
“But the theory does not explain the letter," per-
sisted the lawyer, with an earnest look. “Robert Tur-
old could not possibly have had any premonition that
his daughter intended to murder him, and even if he
had, it would not have led him to write that letter with
its strange postscript, which suggests that he had a
sudden realization of some deep and terrible danger in
the very act of writing it. And if Thalassa was impli-
cated, was he likely to go to such trouble to establish a
theory of suicide, and then post a letter to me which
destroyed that theory?"
“We do not know that Thalassa posted the letter-
it may have been Robert Turold himself. As for pre-
monitions- ” Barrant checked himself as if struck
by a sudden thought, stood up, and walked across the
room to where the broken hood clock had been replaced
on its bracket. He stood there regarding it, and the
round eyes in the moon's face seemed to return his
glance with a heavy stare.
"If that fat face in the clock could only speak as
well as goggle its eyes!” he said, with a mirthless smile.
“We should learn something then. What's the idea
of it all—the rolling eyes, the moon, the stars, and a
verse as lugubrious as a Presbyterian sermon on infant
damnation. The whole thing is uncanny."
“It's a common enough device in old clocks,” said the
lawyer, joining him. “It is commoner, however, in long-
cased clocks—the so-called grandfather clock. I have
seen all sorts of moving figures and mechanisms in long-
cased clocks in old English country houses. A heaving
ship was a very familiar device, the movement being
caused, as in this clock, by a wire from the pendulum.
I have never seen a specimen with the rotating moon-
dial before, though they were common enough in some
parts of England at one time. This is a Dutch clock,
and the earlier Dutch makers were always fond of rep-
resenting their moons as human faces. It was made


THE MOON ROCK
189
by a great master of his craft, as famous in his native
land as old Dan Quare is in England, and its mechan-
ism has outlived its creator by more than three hundred
years."
“Would it be an accurate timekeeper, do you think?"
asked Barrant, looking mistrustfully at the motionless
face of the moon, as though he suspected it of covertly
sneering at him.
“I should think so. These old clock-makers made
their clocks to keep perfect time, and outlast Time him-
self! And this clock is a perfect specimen of the hood
clock, which marked a period in clock-making between
the old weight clocks and the long cases. Hood clocks
were popular in their day in Holland, but they have
always been rare in this country. It would be interest-
ing to trace how this one came into this house. No
doubt it was taken from a wreck, like so much of the
furniture in old Cornish houses."
“You seem to know a lot about old clocks.”
Mr. Brimsdown, astride his favourite hobby, rode it
irresistibly. He discoursed of clocks and their makers,
and Barrant listened in silence. The subject was not
without its fascination for him, because it suggested a
strange train of thought about the hood clock which
was the text, as it were, of the lawyer's discourse. He
looked up. Mr. Brimsdown, in front of the clock, was
discoursing about dials and pendulums. Barrant broke
in abruptly with the question on his mind-
"Can you, with your knowledge of old clocks, sug-
gest any reason which would cause Robert Turold to
go to it? Are the works intricate? Would such a
clock require much adjustment?”
"Robert Turold was not likely to think of adjusting
a clock in his dying moments,” returned Mr. Brims-
down, with a glance which betokened that he perfectly
understood his companion had some other reason for
his question.


190
THE MOON ROCK
“There's a smear of blood on the dial," said Barrant,
staring at it.
“Was that made by the right or left hand ?”
“The right hand was resting on the clock-face. Why
do you ask?”
Mr. Brimsdown hesitated, then said: “The thought
has occurred to me that Robert Turold may have gone
to the clock for a different purpose—not for papers.
Perhaps his last thought was to indicate the name of
the murderer on the white face of the clock.”
“In his blood? Rather a melodramatic idea, that!
He had writing materials before him if he wanted to
do that, if he thought of it. He was shot down in the
act of writing, remember.”
A silence fell between them on this declaration-a
silence terminated by Barrant remarking that it was
really late, and he must be getting back to Penzance.
Mr. Brimsdown made no suggestion to accompany him.
Instead he rustled papers in Robert Turold's cabinet as
though to convey the impression that the sorting and
searching of them would take him some time. Bar-
rant, from whose eyes speculation and suspicion looked
out from a depth, like the remote glance of a spider
which had scurried to a hole, gave a slight sign of
farewell, and wheeled out of the apartment without
another word.
Downstairs he went, plunged in the deepest thought.
Looking downward, he saw Thalassa escorting Dr.
Ravenshaw to the front door. The doctor's voice
reached him.
“... She must not be left alone on any account,
understand that. You ought to get somebody to look
after her.”
“I can't afford nobody,” Thalassa made reply.
Dr. Ravenshaw was about to say something more,
but the figure of the descending detective caught his
eye. Barrant made a detaining gesture, and the doctor


THE MOON ROCK
191
waited in the passage for him. Barrant, with a slight
glance at the motionless figure of Thalassa, led the way
into the front room. He closed the door before he
spoke.
“Doctor,” he said, “have you told anybody about
those marks on Robert Turold's arm?”
“I have not,” said the doctor promptly, looking up.
“Why do you ask?"
His glance carried conviction, and interrogation also.
But it was Barrant's province to ask questions, not to
answer them. He ignored Dr. Ravenshaw's.
“There's another matter, doctor,” he continued.
“One of the coast fishermen has a story that when
Robert Turold was out on the moors he used to hasten
home with great strides, like a man who feared pursuit.
Did you ever observe this peculiarity in him?”
“I have observed that he used to walk at a quick
pace."
“This was more than a quick pace it was almost a
run, according to the fisherman-looking backward
over his shoulder as he went.”
“I did not notice that, but I should not be surprised
if it were true, with a man of Robert Turold's temper-
ament."
“He feared pursuit—some unknown danger, then?”
“I cannot say. He may have suffered from agora-
phobia.”
“What is that?" asked Barrant.
“The dread of open spaces."
“I have heard of claustrophobia—the dread of closed
spaces—but not of this.”
“It is common enough-an absurd but insurmount-
able aversion to open spaces. The victims are op-
pressed by a terrible anxiety when crossing a field. I
have known a man who would be terrified at the idea
of crossing Trafalgar Square."
“What is the cause of agoraphobia ?" asked Barrant.


192
THE MOON ROCK
"It is a nervous disorder—one of the symptoms of
advanced neurasthenia.”
“Did Robert Turold suffer from neurasthenia ?”
“His nervous system was in a state of irritable weak-
ness through the monomania of a fixed idea,” was the
reply—“too much seclusion and concentration on one
object, to the exclusion of all other human interests."
“How's your patient?" said Barrant, giving the con-
versation an abrupt turn.
“What patient do you mean-Mrs. Thalassa ?”
asked Dr. Ravenshaw in some surprise.
“Yes. I gathered from what I overheard you say to
Thalassa that you have been attending her.”
"I have been attending her since Mr. Turold's
death."
“She is in a strange condition,” observed Barrant
reflectively. “I was questioning her the other night,
but I could get nothing out of her. She seems almost
imbecile."
“She is not a woman of strong mind, and she is now
suffering from a severe shock. She should be looked
after or taken away from here altogether, but her hus-
band seems quite indifferent."
“Do you think she will recover?”
“It is impossible to say.”
“How do you think the shock was caused ?"
“I should not like to hazard an opinion on that point,
either,” replied Dr. Ravenshaw gravely. He glanced
at his watch as he spoke. “I must be going,” he said.
They left the house together, but branched off at the
gateDr. Ravenshaw to visit a fisherman's dying wife,
and Barrant to seek the Three Jolly Wreckers for sup-
per before returning to Penzance.
From the kitchen window Thalassa watched them
go: the doctor walking across the cliffs with resolute
stride, the detective making for the path over the moors
with bent head and slower step, as though his feet were


CHAPTER XXII
TPSTAIRS Mr. Brimsdown made unavailing search
among Robert Turold's papers for proofs of
his statement about his marriage. The lawyer
believed that they existed, and his failure to find them
brought with it à belated realization of the fact that
he, too, had been cherishing hopes of Sisily's innocence.
It was the memory of her face which had inspired
that secret hope. That was not sentiment (so Mr.
Brimsdown thought), but the worldly wisdom of a man
whose profession had trained him to read the human
face. Sisily's face, as he recalled it now, had looked sad
and a little fearful that night at Paddington, but there
was nothing furtive or tainted in her clear glance. He
felt that a judge would look with marked attention at
such a face in the dock. Judges, like lawyers, and all
whose business it is to trip their kind into the gins of
the law, scan faces as closely as evidence in the effort
to read the stories written there.
But the disappearance of certain papers which had
probably been abstracted from that room weighed more
in the scale of suspicion against Sisily than her look of
innocence. She stood to gain most by the suppression
or destruction of the proofs of her mother's earlier
marriage. But Mr. Brimsdown could not see that this
rather negative inference against the girl brought the
actual solution of the mystery any nearer. It did
nothing to explain, for instance, the marks on the dead
man's arm and his posthumous letter. The letter!
What was the explanation of the letter? Was it not
an argument of equal weight for Sisily's innocence,
suggesting the existence of some hidden avenging fig-
194


THE MOON ROCK
195
cence ñ ven in
di pression
ure, glimpsed by Robert Turold in time to give him
warning of his death, but not in time to enable him to
avert it?
There were other things too. What was the meaning
of that sly and stealthy shake of the head which Austin
Turold had given his son that afternoon. A warning
obviously—but a warning for what purpose? Mr.
Brimsdown could not guess, but his contemplation of
the incident brought before him the image of the rest-
less and unhappy young man, as he stood by the bed-
side in the next room, pointing to the marks on the
dead man's arm. Even in his vehement assertions of
Sisily's innocence Mr. Brimsdown had conceived the
impression that he was keeping something back. What
did Charles Turold know? Did his father share his
secret knowledge? Mr. Brimsdown could not answer
these questions, and he was greatly perturbed at the
way in which they brought a host of other thoughts and
doubts in their train. He reflected that the Turolds,
father and son, were after all the greatest gainers by
their relative's death. The father came into immediate
possession of a large and unexpected fortune which he
would bequeath to his son. And Austin Turold was
not anxious apparently to proceed with his brother's
claim for the title.
These were facts which could not be gainsaid, but
where did they lead? The trouble was that no con-
ceivable theory covered the facts of the case, so far as
they were known. So far as they were known! That
was the difficulty. Any line of thought stopped short
of the real solution, because the facts themselves were
inconclusive. There was much that was still concealed
-Mr. Brimsdown felt sure of that.
As he applied his mind to the problem, the definite
impression came back to him, and this time with re-
newed force, that the mystery surrounding Robert Tur-
old's death was something which might not bear the


THE MOON ROCK
197
His your hands can I stop?
He jerked his thumb in the direction of the next room.
“He took this house for twelve months, and so it'll have
to be paid for. Can I stop here for a bit? I suppose
it's in your hands to say yes or no.”
His face was hard and expressionless as ever, but
there was a new note in his voice which struck the
lawyer's keen ear-an accent of supplication. He
looked at Thalassa thoughtfully.
“You wish to stay on here until you have made
other arrangements for your future is that so?” he
asked.
“That's it,” was the brief reply.
Mr. Brimsdown felt there was more than that,
some deeper, secret reason. Before granting the re-
quest it occurred to him to try and get what he could
in exchange. Self-interest is the strongest of human
motives, and men wanting favours are in a mood to
yield something in return.
“Well, Thalassa,” he said, amiably enough, but
watching him with the eye of a hawk, "I do not think
your request is altogether unreasonable—in the cir-
cumstances. I dare say it could be arranged. I'll try
to do so, but I should like you to answer me one or
two questions first.”
“What do you want to know ?”
“Was your master's daughter here in the house, I
mean on the night of his death?”
Thalassa's face hardened. “You, too?” he said
simply. “I say again, as I said before, that she was
not.”
“You said so," rejoined Mr. Brimsdown softly. “The
question is—are you telling the truth? If you know
anything of the events of that night you may be in-
juring Miss Turold by your silence."
For a moment Mr. Brimsdown thought his appeal
was going to succeed. He could have sworn that a
Aicker of hesitation—of irresolution-crossed the old


198
THE MOON ROCK
man's stern countenance. But the mood passed imme-
diately, and it was in an indifferent voice that Thalassa,
turning to go, replied-
"If that's what you're reckoning on, I'd better go
and pack my traps.”
“Oh, I don't make that a condition," replied the
lawyer, acknowledging his defeat in a sporting spirit.
“You can remain here and look after the house until
you decide what to do. As Robert Turold's old ser-
vant you are entitled to consideration. I will help
you afterwards, if you will let me know your plans. I
am sure that would have been your late master's wish.”
“I want nothing from him," Thalassa rejoined, “a
damned black scoundrel.”
Mr. Brimsdown was shocked at this savage outburst,
but there was something so implacable in the old man's
air that the rebuke he wished to utter died unspoken.
Thalassa regarded him for a moment in silence, and
then went on
“Thank'ee for letting me stop on here a bit. Now
I'll tell you something—about him.” Again his thumb
indicated the next room. “It was the night after."
“Do you mean the night after he met his death?”
“Yes. Some one was upstairs in his room-in this
room.”
Mr. Brimsdown gave a startled glance around him,
as though seeking a lurking form in the shadows.
“Here?” he breathed.
“Here, sure enough. I woke up in my bed down-
stairs, staring wide awake, as though somebody had
touched me on the shoulder. I was just turning over
to go to sleep again, when I heered a noise up here."
“What sort of a noise?”
“Like the rustling of paper. I listened for a bit,
then it stopped. I heard a board creak in the next
room, where we'd carried him. Then the rustling started
in the other room again, right over my head. The dog


THE MOON ROCK
199
downstairs started to bark. I got up, and went up-
stairs as quickly as I could, but there was nobody-
except him. The dog frightened whoever it was, I sup-
pose. Next morning I found the front room window
wide open.”
“Were there any footprints outside the window?"
“A man doesn't leave footprints on rocks."
“What time was it?”
“It would be about midnight, I reckon."
“Did your wife hear the noise ?”
“No. She was in bed and asleep.”
“Are you sure you didn't dream this?” Mr. Brims-
down asked, with a shrewd penetrating glance.
“The open window wasn't a dream,” was the dogged
reply.
“You might have left it open yourself.”
“No, I didn't. I close the windows every night before
dark.”
“And lock them ?”
“Not always.”
The incident did not sound convincing to Mr. Brims-
down, but his face did not reveal his scepticism as he
thanked Thalassa for the information. Thalassa lin-
gered, as if he had something still on his mind. He
brought it out abruptly-
“Has anything been seen of Miss Sisily?”
“Nothing whatever, Thalassa.”
On that he turned away, and went out of the room,
leaving the lawyer pondering over his story of a mid-
night intruder. Mr. Brimsdown came to the conclusion
that it was probably imagination, and so dismissed it
from his mind.
He resumed his work of working over the papers, but
after a few minutes discontinued his search, and walked
restlessly about the room. The air seemed to have the
taint of death in it, and he crossed over to one of the
windows and flung it up.


200
THE MOON ROCK
. The window looked out on the sea, though far above
it, but the slope of the house embraced in the view a
portion of the cliffs at the side. As Mr. Brimsdown
stood so, breathing the sea air and looking around him,
he espied a woman, closely veiled, walking rapidly
across the cliffs in the direction of the house.
She vanished from the range of his vision almost im-
mediately, but a few minutes later he heard footsteps
and an opening door. He was again confronted by the
presence of Thalassa on the threshold. But this time
Thalassa did not linger. “Somebody to see you,” he
announced with gruff brevity, and turned away.
The open door now revealed the figure of the woman
he had seen outside. She advanced into the room.
“Mr. Brimsdown?” she said.
“That is my name," said the lawyer, eyeing her in
some surprise. He recognized her as the woman who
had stared after him when he left Austin Turold's lodg-
ings, but he could not conjecture the object of her visit.
“I see you do not remember me,” she sadly remarked.
“You are Mrs. Brierly, I think.”
“Yes. But I was Mary Pleasington before I was
married. I remember you very well, but I suppose that
I have changed.”
Mr. Brimsdown recalled the name with a start of sur-
prise. He found it difficult to recognize, in the faded
woman before him, the pretty daughter of his old client,
Sir Roger Pleasington, whose debts and lawsuits had
been compounded by death ten years before. He re-
membered his daughter as a budding beauty, with the
airs and graces of a pretty girl who imagines her ex-
istence to be of some importance in the world. He
recollected that her marriage to an impecunious young
artist had caused some sensation in Society at the
time. Marriage had dealt hardly with her, and no trace
of her beauty or vivacity remained.


THE MOON ROCK
201
“You are the late Mr. Turold's legal adviser?" she
continued, after a pause.
Mr. Brimsdown, always chary of unnecessary words,
replied with a slight bow.
“I suppose you have come to Cornwall to investigate
the cause of his death?”
Mr. Brimsdown remained silent, waiting to hear
more.
“I—I wish to speak to you about that.” Her lips
quivered with some inward agitation.
“Will you not be seated?” he said, placing a chair
for her.
“Will you regard what I have to say to you in strict
confidence?" she queried, sinking her voice to a
whisper.
“Is it about Mr. Turold's murder?”
“It-it may be."
With the recollection of previous eavesdropping in
that house, the lawyer rose and closed the door. “I
cannot make a promise of that kind,” he said firmly,
as he returned to his seat.
"No, no-of course not,” she hurriedly acquiesced.
“I was wrong to ask it. I have come here to tell you.
When I saw you this afternoon I realized that Provi-
dence had answered my prayers, and sent somebody in
whom I could safely confide. I will tell you everything.
I have come here for that purpose.”
She seemed to have a difficulty in commencing. Her
pale grey eyes wandered irresolutely from his, and then
returned. It was with a perceptible effort that she
spoke at last.
“What I am about to tell you I have known for some
days, but I could not bring myself to the extreme step
of going to the police. Sometimes I am inclined to
think that it may be only a trifling thing, easily ex-
plained, and of no importance. But sometimes—at
hat purpo in comm his, anat she


202
THE MOON ROCK
ford hospitarlable, and he money beter
night-it assumes a terrible significance. I need coun-
sel-wise counsel-about it.”
She paused and looked at him wistfully. As though
interpreting his nod as encouragement, she went on-
“Mr. Austin Turold and his son have been inmates
of my household for the last six weeks. Mr. Robert
Turold arranged it with me beforehand. I had never
done anything of the kind before, but our means—my
husband's and mine-are insufficient for the stress of
these times. After all, people must live."
Mr. Brimsdown's slight shake of the head seemed
to imply that this last statement was by no means an
incontrovertible proposition, but Mrs. Brierly was not
looking at him.
“Therefore, to oblige Mr. Turold we decided to af-
ford hospitality to his brother and son. The terms
were favourable, and they were gentlefolk. These
things counted, and the money helped. But if I had
only known-if I could have foreseen ..."
"Mr. Turold's death?” said Mr. Brimsdown, filling
in the pause.
“I mean—everything," she retorted a little wildly.
“My name is well known. I was in Society once. There
is my husband's reputation as an artist to be consid-
ered. I would not be talked about for worlds. I acted
against my husband's advice in this matter-in taking
Mr. Turold and his son. My husband said it was a
degradation to take in lodgers. I pointed out that they
were gentlefolk. There is a difference. I wish now
that I had listened to my husband's advice.”
Mr. Brimsdown listened with patient immobility. His
long experience of female witnesses withheld him from
any effort to hasten the flow of his companion's story.
“They were very nice and quiet-particularly Mr.
Austin Turold," she went on. “The son was more silent
and reserved, but we saw very little of him—he was out
so much. But Mr. Turold did my husband good-his
Own, filling


THE MOON ROCK
203
you understann good clothes. Cornish rocks!
breeding and conversation were just what he needed
to lift him out of himself. A man goes to seed in the
country, Mr. Brimsdown, no matter how intellectual
he may be. Nature is delightful, but a man needs to
be near Piccadilly to keep smart. Cornwall is so very
far away-so remote--and Cornish rocks are dread-
fully severe on good clothes. I am not complaining,
you understand. We had to come to Cornwall. It was
inevitable—for us. No English artist is considered any-
thing until he has painted a picture of the Land's End
or Newquay. The Channel Islands—or Devon-is not
quite the same thing. Not such a distinctive hallmark.
So we came to Cornwall, and my husband went to seed.
That was why I welcomed Mr. Turold's conversation
for him. It did him good. My husband said so himself.
He derived inspiration-artistic inspiration—from Mr.
Turold's talk. He conceived a picture_'Land of Hope
and Glory' it was to be called of a massive figure of
Britannia, standing on Land's End, defying the twin
demons of Bolshevism and Labour Unrest with a tri-
dent. He was working at it with extraordinary rapid-
ity-when this happened.
"On the day of his brother's death we did not see
much of Mr. Austin Turold. There was Mrs. Turold's
funeral in the afternoon, and when he came home I
thought he would prefer to be left to himself.
“He went to his sitting-room, and stayed there. My
husband and I retired early that night, but later we
were awakened by a very loud knock at the front door.
We heard Mr. Austin Turold, who was still up, go
down and open it. Then we heard a very loud voice,
outside Mr. Robert Turold's man-servant, it appears.
We heard him tell Mr. Austin that his brother had
been found shot. Mr. Turold returned upstairs, and
some time afterwards we heard him go down again and
out.
“I was so upset that I arose and dressed myself to


204
THE MOON ROCK
await Mr. Turold's return. I thought he might like
a cup of coffee when he returned, so I decided to go
downstairs myself and prepare it. As I passed the
passage which led to Mr. Charles Turold's room, I
noticed a light underneath his door. I rather wondered,
as he was still up, why he had not gone with his father,
but I was passing on without thinking any more about
it when I happened to notice that the light beneath the
door was fluctuating in the strangest way. First it
was very bright, then it became quite dim, but the
next moment it would be bright again.
“That alarmed me so much that I walked along the
passage to see what it meant. I thought perhaps the
young man had fallen asleep with the window open and
left the gas flaring in the wind. I stood for a moment
outside the door wondering what I ought to do. Then
I heard a crackling sound, and smelt something burn-
ing. That alarmed me still more, because I knew no fire
had been lit in the room that day. I wondered if the
bedroom was on fire, and I knelt down and tried to see
through the keyhole.
“At first I could see nothing except a bright light
and the shadow of a form on the wall. Then I made
out the form of Charles Turold, standing in his dress-
ing-gown in front of the fireplace, in which a fire of
kindling wood was leaping and blazing. I could not
make out at first what he was doing. He seemed to be
stooping over the fire, moving something about. Then
I saw. He was drying his clothes—the suit he had
worn that day. They must have been very wet, for the
steam was rising from them.
“I must have made a noise which startled him, for
I saw him turn quickly and stare at the closed door,
then walk towards it. I went away as quickly and
noiselessly as I could, and as I turned the corner of the
passage, out of sight, his door opened, and then closed


THE MOON ROCK
205
again. He had looked out and, seeing nobody, gone
back into his room.
"I went downstairs to make the coffee and wait for
Mr. Turold. I had to wait some time. When I did
hear the sound of his key in the door, I went up the
hall with a cup of coffee in my hand. Mr. Turold
seemed surprised to see me. He looked at me in a
questioning sort of way as he took the coffee, and stood
there sipping it. As he handed me back the cup he
told me in a low voice that his brother was dead. I
said that was why I had waited up-because I had
heard the knock and the dreadful news. Mr. Turold,
in the same low voice, then said he was very much
afraid his brother had taken his own life.
"He then went upstairs. I again retired shortly
afterwards, but I could not sleep. I was too upset
too nervous. I could not get Mr. Robert Turold's
suicide out of my head. It seemed such a dreadful
thing for a wealthy man to do—so common and vulgar!
Suicide sticks to a family so—it is never really forgot-
ten. It is much easier to live down an embezzlement
or misappropriation of trust funds. The thought of
it put the other thing—the fire and young Mr. Turold
and his wet clothes-out of my head completely, for
the time.
“As I was lying there tossing and thinking I heard a
light footstep pass my door. I slipped out of bed, and
opening the door a little, looked out. I saw Mr. Turold,
fully dressed, a light in his hand, turning down the
passage which led to his son's room. Then I heard
the sound of a creaking door, the murmur of a low
conversation, cut short by the shutting of the door,
I stood there for a few minutes, and then went back
to my bed and fell asleep.
“The next day it all came back to me. I had gone
into Charles Turold's room for some reason when he


206
THE MOON ROCK
was out, and there, on the hearth, I could see the re-
mains of the fire he had lit overnight to dry his clothes.
He had made some clumsy man-like attempt to clean up
the grate, but he left some ends of the charred kindling
wood lying about."
This final revelation brought a silence between Mrs.
Brierly and the lawyer; a silence broken only by the
distant deep call of the sea beneath the open window.
The silence lengthened into minutes before Mr. Brims-
down found his voice.
“You have said nothing to anybody else about this ?”
He spoke almost abstractedly, but she chose to re-
gard this question in the light of a reproach. She hur-
riedly rejoined-
“I did not see the necessity—then. If young Mr.
Turold got caught in the storm, and chose to dry his
clothes in his room, instead of putting them out for the
maid, why should I tell anybody? I did not connect
it with his uncle's death. I was under the impression
that Mr. Robert Turold had taken his own life. It was
not until the detective called to see Mr. Austin Turold
that I learnt there was a suspicion of-murder. My
maid overheard the detective say something while she
was in and out of the room serving tea, and she told me
what she had heard. I saw things in a new light then,
and I was terribly upset. But I could not see my way
clear until you came to the house to-day. Then I de-
cided to tell you."
“Can you tell me what time Charles Turold came in
that night?”
“I have no idea. He and his father have separate
keys of the front door.”
It was evident that she had told all she knew. She
rose to her feet in agitation.
“I must go. My husband will be wondering where I
am. But tell me, Mr. Brimsdown, do you imagine ...


CHAPTER XXIII
ND suppose the police call during your ab-
sence?” said Austin Turold, glancing sharply
at his son.
“Then you had better tell the truth. I am tired of
it all.”
“I might ask, with Pilate, What is truth?-in your
case."
“You know it already, father, whether you believe
me or not."
Austin Turold looked strangely at him-a look in
which anger was mingled with something deeper and
more searching, as though he sought to reach some
secret in the depth of his soul. Impatiently he crossed
the room to the fireplace, and stood with his back to the
fire, facing his son.
"I do not see that there's any more risk than there
was before,” said Charles gloomily.
“I say there is,” returned his father sharply. “What!
Do you suppose you can go off to London like this,
leaving me here alone, at such a moment? Do you not
see that your unexplained absence, in itself, is likely to
bring suspicion upon you, indeed, upon both of us?”
“I cannot help that,” returned the young man des-
perately. “I must go and find Sisily.”
“You are not likely to find her. You do not even
know that she has gone to London.”
“Yes. I have found out that much. She took a
ticket by the midday train on the day after—it hap-
pened.”
“And why do you wish to find her?”
“Because she is deeply wronged—she is innocent.”
208


THE MOON ROCK
209
“You should be able to speak with authority on that
point,” said Austin, with a cold glance, which the other
did not meet. “You are acting very foolishly, rushing
off to London on this quixotic mission. You won't find
her. Besides, no woman is worth what you are risking
in this wild-goose chase. You are jeopardizing your
future by an act of the maddest folly.”
“There is nothing in life for me but the shadow of
things-now,” returned the young man in low tones. “I
want nothing except to find Sisily and prove her inno-
cence. I'm going to look for her, whatever you say.”
Austin Turold made an impatient gesture.
“Very well,” he said. “If Providence has made you
a fool you must fulfil Providence's decree. Only, I
warn you, I think you are going the right way to bring
trouble on yourself. That lawyer who was here to-day
-what's his name, Brimstone, Brimsdown?-has his
suspicions, unless I'm very much mistaken.”
Charles turned pale. “What makes you think that?”
he asked.
“By the way he watched both of us."
“That accounts for his attitude when I saw him
afterwards,” said Charles in a startled voice.
“Afterwards—where?”
“I went after him to tell him that Sisily was inno-
cent."
“And what else did you tell him?”
“Nothing but that-nothing that counted, at least.”
“Really, Charles, your lack of intelligence is a dis-
tinct reflection on me as a parent. Fancy a son of mine
trying to make a lawyer's bowels yearn with compassion!
I'm positively ashamed of you. Why are you so ele-
mentary? The situation must have contained some
elements of humour, though. I should like to have wit-
nessed it. Did you call down Heaven's vengeance on
the murderer in approved fashion? How did the man
of parchments take it?”


210
THE MOON ROCK
“You have no heart," said his son, flushing darkly
under this sarcasm. He walked towards the door as
he spoke. “I am going," he said. “There is an excur-
sion train through to Paddington to-night, and I shall
catch it.”
“You are determined on it, then?”.
“I should be in an unendurable position if I didn't,"
replied the young man, and without another word he
left the room.
Austin looked after him a little wistfully, as though
remembering that the other was, after all, his son. He
remained motionless for a moment, then crossed over to
the window and looked out. As he stood so his eye was
caught by two figures beneath. One was his son, walk-
ing down the garden path. The other was Mrs. Brierly,
returning to the house. She walked past Charles with
downcast eyes, but Austin from the window saw her
turn and cast a frightened fluttering glance at the
young man's retreating figure. She had seen him, then,
but did not want to recognize him. As she hurried up
the garden path Austin caught a glimpse of her face,
and observed that it was white and drawn.
“What's the matter with my estimable landlady?” he
murmured as he withdrew from the window.
His quick intelligence, playing round this incident
and seeking to pierce its meaning, grew alarmed. There
seemed to be a menace in it. Did she know or guess
something of the hidden events of that night, or had
she played the spy since? He turned pale as he con-
sidered these possibilities. Women had an unerring
instinct for a secret once their curiosity was aroused.
But he had been careful, very careful. What did she
suspect?
He thought over this problem until night fell, and
retired to bed with it still unanswered.
But the solution flashed into his mind at breakfast
next morning, suddenly, like light in a dark place. He


THE MOON ROCK
211
was amazed that he had not seen it before. “If it is
that ...” he whispered. But he knew it was that;
knew also, that it meant the worst. He got up from
the table, then forced himself to sit down again and
eat. An untouched breakfast tray might quicken the
suspicions in the mind of that most treacherous woman
downstairs, might hasten her hand. But why had she
delayed so long?
He passed the morning between his chair and the
window, watching, and listening for footsteps. He saw
Mrs. Brierly leave the house early, and wondered if she
would return with the police. Another reflection came
to his mind. Charles had some inkling, and had fled in
time. Perhaps that was just as well, if he got out of
England. For himself there was no such retreat, nor
did he wish it. He would have to face things out, if
they had to be faced, and he did not yet despair of sav-
ing the situation, so far as it affected himself. What did
that diabolical female know, really? He had a momen-
tary vision of her stealing about the house, prying,
watching, listening. He sank into a motionless brood-
ing reverie.
The day passed its meridian, but he still sat there
in solitude with his anxious thoughts. As the afternoon
declined his hopes rose. Could it be that he was mis-
taken, that his fears were imaginary? Perhaps, after
all-
At that sharp ring of the doorbell downstairs he
walked noiselessly to the window, and shrank back with
the startled look of a man who has had his first glimpse
of the bared teeth of the law. He stood still, listening
intently. He heard the door opened, a sharp question,
then the sound of ascending footsteps. When the knock
came at his own door he was in complete command of
himself as he went to open it. He was well aware of
the ordeal before him, but he did not show it. There
was nothing but ironical self-possession in the glance


212
THE MOON ROCK
which took in the figures of Detective Barrant and
Inspector Dawfield, revealed on the threshold of the
opening door.
Barrant lost no time in coming to the point. “I want
to see your son,” he said, entering and glancing quickly
round the apartment.
“I am afraid that is impossible.”
“Why?"
“He is not here."
“Where is he?"
“I think he has gone to London.”
Barrant was plainly taken aback at this unexpected
piece of news. “When did he go?” he demanded.
“Yesterday evening.”
Barrant cast a look at Dawfield, which said plainly:
“He's had word of this and bolted.” His glance re-
turned to Austin. “Can you tell me where he is staying
in London?”
“I have not the least idea," returned Austin negli-
gently.
“Does he not live with you?”
“As a rule-yes.”
“What is your London address?”
Austin took a card from his case and laid it on the
table. Barrant picked it up, glanced at it, and said:
“Is your son likely to be there?”
“He may be, but he said nothing to me about going
there. He has his own liberty of action, like every other
young man of his age. May I ask the reason of these
questions, Detective Barrant?”
Barrant did not choose to reply. He drew Inspector
Dawfield to the doorway and conferred with him in an
undertone. Austin saw Barrant slip the card into his
colleague's hand, and Dawfield then hastened away. The
inference was plain. Dawfield had been sent off to in-
tercept the flight or start the pursuit. Austin found


THE MOON ROCK
213
himself profoundly hoping that his son was by that
time out of England.
He had not much leisure to think of that, for Bar-
rant turned towards him again with an annoyance that
he did not attempt to dissemble. “Why has your son
gone to London-perhaps you can tell me that much?”
he exclaimed.
“I gathered from him that it is his intention to look
for his cousin Sisily.”
“For what purpose?”
“Because he strongly believes in her innocence.”
“It is strange that he should have rushed off like
this."
“Without waiting for your visit, do you mean?
Really, Detective Barrant, may I constrain you to give
me some explanation of all this? I want to help you
all I can, but your actions savour too much of a per-
emptory jack-in-the-box, even in these bureaucratic
days. What is the object of this visit? Why did you
want to see my son?”
“I wished to interview him.”
“About what, may I ask?”
Barrant did not immediately reply, but Austin, scan-
ning him furtively, sought to reach his thoughts by the
varying shades of expression on his face. It was the
state of mind of a man who was at once chagrined,
amazed, suspicious, and wondering. The older man
could picture Barrant thinking to himself: “This man
before me—how far is he involved in this?” And,
watching him mutely, Austin steeled himself for a
sudden outburst: “You picked up the key. You de-
clared it was suicide. What does that mean—now?”
But he under-estimated Barrant's intelligence. Bar-
rant had no intention of doing anything so crude. The
situation was sufficiently awkward as it stood without
putting the father on his guard. Austin might guess
mind of
and wonderinhimself: “This mad,


214
THE MOON ROCK
that he was under suspicion as well as his son, but that
did not matter so much. Barrant instinctively realized
that flight was impossible for Austin Turold, though he
might seek to warn his son not to go near their London
home because the police were after him. But that was a
warning which would be useless, for the police were
ahead of him there. Barrant reflected that he gained
nothing by not divulging the object of his visit when
the inference of it was so transparently palpable. The
disclosure might even serve a useful purpose by lessen-
ing Austin's apprehensions in his own case. With this
consideration in view he brought it out frankly-
“I wished to question your son about his movements
on the night of the murder.”
“Is my son suspected—now?"
Barrant winced under the delicate inflection of irony
which conveyed in that brief reply the inference of an-
other blunder in his own changing suspicions. That
sneer roused the official in him, and it was in a curt tone
of command that he said,
“What time did your son get home on the day of
the murder?”
“I am unable to say."
“He did not return with you after the funeral?”
“No, he did not.”
“Where did he go?"
“These are strange questions, Detective Barrant. I
really cannot tell you that either, because I do not
know.”
He put up his glasses to look at Barrant with an as-
sumption of resentment, but the detective's return
glance was hard and searching. “Was your son in to
dinner that night?” he asked.
“We have midday dinner, in this house."
“Well, supper. Was he in to supper?”
Austin reflected rapidly. He dared not refuse to
answer the question, and any attempt to mislead the


216
THE MOON ROCK
resources of the law at his back, able to issue com-
mands which other people must obey. The rights of
liberty and freedom were in his hands. It needed not
that to show Austin Turold how near he stood to the
edge of the precipice. The strain of the interview had
told on him. This was the first actual buffet of the
beast's paw. He led the way to his son's room and
watched Barrant go through his intimate belongings
with the feeling that intelligence was a flimsy shield
against the brutal force of authority. The law in
search of prey cared nothing for such civilized refine-
ments as intellect or self-respect. As well try to stop
a tiger with a sonnet.
The search revealed nothing, and Barrant went away
without another word. A moment later Austin heard
him questioning the frightened women on the floor be-
neath. Listening intently, he made out a fragment of
the conversation, sufficient to remove all doubts of the
origin of the detective's present visit. Austin's mind
flew to the episode he had seen from his window on the
previous afternoon. Why in the name of heaven had
this Brierly woman been such a fool? Why had she
not come to him with her story, and asked for money
to shut her mouth? Why was she sobbing and snivel-
ling downstairs now, when it was too late?


CHAPTER XXIV
USTIN TUROLD was wrong in supposing that
his son had left Cornwall to fly from England.
Charles had stated his intention truly enough
when he said he was going to London to look for Sisily,
but he did not disclose to his father the real reason
that led him there.
His visit to London was the pursuit of a definite plan.
He was animated by the hope that he knew where Sisily
was likely to have sought shelter. Ever since her dis-
appearance this idea had lurked in his imagination and
occupied his secret thoughts.
It was the fruit of one of their last talks together-
a memory they shared in common. How well he re-
membered the occasion! They had been on the cliffs
looking down at the Gurnard's Head wallowing like a
monster with a broken back in the foam of a raging
sea. It was the day after the death of Sisily's mother,
and Sisily had clung to him as if he were the only friend
she had in the world. She had spoken to him from the
depth of an overburdened soul impelled to confide in
another, telling him of her mother's sad life, uninten-
tionally revealing something of the unhappiness of her
own. And she told him a strange thing about her
mother's last hours.
On her death-bed the unhappy woman must have
had her fears concerning the future of her daughter-
belated uneasy premonitions arising after her dying
confession to the man supposed to be her husband, per-
haps causing her to doubt the wisdom of that revela-
tion. That seemed plain enough to Charles afterwards,
though not apparent at the time Sisily had confided
217


THE MOON ROCK
219
reached there. The dying woman seemed quite certain
her old friend was still in Charleswood, although
it was twenty years since she had heard from her. She
had told Sisily that Mrs. Pursill's house was her own,
and it had belonged to her parents before her. She
had assumed that she was not likely to move. The
possibility that Death might have moved her without
consulting her convenience did not seem to have oc-
curred to her.
It did to Charles Turold though, on his journey up
from Cornwall. But he thrust the chilling thought
resolutely from him, clinging to his slight clue because
he had nothing else to sustain him, building such hopes
upon it that by the time he reached London scarcely
à doubt remained. He spent the last hour of his
journey picturing his meeting with the runaway girl,
holding her, kissing her, sheltering her in his arms from
the world. And afterwards? He refused to contem-
plate what was to happen afterwards, and how he was
to shield her from the unsentimental clutch of the law
which was also seeking her. He declined also to allow
his thoughts to dwell upon his own position, which was
invidious and threatening enough in all conscience for
a man setting out to be the buckler and shield of a girl
in Sisily's plight. He put these obtrusive contingencies
out of his mind. Time enough for those bitter reflec-
tions afterwards. The great thing was to find Sisily
first, before shaping further action. So he reasoned,
with the single purpose of a man mastered by love, and
the desperate instinct of a reckless temperament which
gambled with life, never looking beyond the next throw.
He retained sufficient caution to refrain from going
to his father's house in Richmond when he reached
London. His father's parting words lingered unpleas-
antly in his mind to serve as a warning against the folly
of that course. The same unusual prudence compelled
him to leap out of a taxi-cab as soon as he had leapt


220
THE MOON ROCK
the station,
the train start on the way of him again
into it. For himself he did not care, but he had to be
careful for Sisily's sake. So he clambered on top of
a bus with his suit case. The same sobering feeling
of responsibility directed his choice of an hotel when
he descended from the vehicle into the seething streets.
He chose a quiet small place off Charing Cross, and
booked a room. After a bath and some lunch he went
out to a neighbouring bookstall and bought a railway
time-table. The next train to Charleswood left Charing
Cross in less than half an hour. He walked across to
the station, purchased a ticket, and took his seat. In
a few minutes the train started.
Now that he was actually on the way of putting his
idea to the test his former doubts assailed him again
with renewed force, but he refused to listen to them. He
told himself that a dying woman's idea was not likely
to be wrong, and that he would find Sisily at Charles-
wood. She was sure to be there, because she had no-
where else to go. So he reasoned, or sought to reason,
until the train slowed down at the station which held
the solution of his hopes and fears.
It was a small wayside station at which he alighted-
a mere hamlet set in the slumberous calm of English
rural scenery, passed by express trains with a roar of
derision by day and contemptuously winking tail-lights
at night. On the dark green background of the dis-
tant heights an eruption of new red bungalows threat-
ened to spread and destroy the beauty of Charleswood
at no remote date. But at present the sylvan charm
of the spot was unspoiled. Its meadows and fields
seemed to lie happily unconscious of the contagion flam-
ing on the billowy hills.
The porter who emerged from a kind of wooden
kennel and clattered up to Charles to collect his ticket,
stared hard when the young man asked if Mrs. Pursill
lived at Charleswood. He appeared to give the matter


THE MOON ROCK
221
olace was "The greemblance to a las he looken its
deep thought before nodding affirmatively, and accom-
panied him to the station entrance to point out an old
house lying behind a strip of white fence and a clump
of dark-green trees half-way up a distant hill (not where
the bungalows were cropping up, but in the opposite
direction), with the intimation that it was the residence
of the lady he was looking for. He then watched
Charles down the rambling village street until he was
out of sight.
It was a long walk—more than a mile—before Charles
reached the white fence and the group of trees which
shielded the house behind dark-green foliage. He caught
a glimpse of partly shuttered windows peeping through
this leafy screen, but it was not until he had passed
through the trees that he had a clear view of the house.
The place was dreary and dilapidated, with a partly
shuttered front. The green-stained walls and a mask
of ivy gave the place a resemblance to a large ivy-grown
tomb. Charles's spirits were depressed as he looked at
it. There was something so wan and melancholy in its
appearance that his high anticipations rapidly faded.
In the face of that reality he could no longer picture
a silver-haired gracious old lady welcoming Sisily with
tears in her eyes for the sake of her dead mother. The
human qualities of warmth and tenderness did not ac-
cord with that chilling neglected exterior.
He approached the door, his sensations painful
enough in the mingled tumult of suspense, hope, and
fear. There was no bell, only an old-fashioned brass
knocker, which, with a kind of surly stiffness, resisted
his attempt to use it. He managed to wrench one
knock out of it, and left it suspended in the air.
There was a considerable pause before the knock was
answered. Then the door was opened by a pretty slim
servant girl. There was nothing funereal in her ap-
pearance except her black dress, and that was set off
that reas old lade her deaness did
enough approachchilling mth and ther deading Sisilieture


222
THE MOON ROCK
my bio name. Mrs hat name, please he eage
by a coquettish white apron. She looked at the young
man with questioning bright eyes, as though surprised
at his appearance there.
“Does Mrs. Pursill live here?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” she replied with a trace of hesitation.
The barometer of hope went up several degrees in
Charles's breast. “Could I see her?” he eagerly said.
“I'll ask, sir. What name, please?”
“No name. Mrs. Pursill would not know it. But
my business is very important."
The maid looked at him doubtfully, and left him
standing there while she disappeared within. From the
depth of the house an agitated feminine murmur reached
him through the half-open door. “What's he like,
Ruby?” “Quite the gentleman, miss—young and very
good-looking." A pause, and the first voice rejoined:
“Show him into the drawing-room, and ask him to sit
down.”
The maid came back with this message, and took
Charles into a large sombre room. She gave him a
fluttered glance of coquetry as she offered him a chair,
as though she would have liked to linger with such an
unusual visitor, then went out softly, closing the door
behind her.
The room into which he had been ushered was fur-
nished after some faded standard of departed elegance
with tapestried chairs, and couches, painted screens,
landscapes worked in black lutestring on white silk, and
collections of stuffed humming-birds which gazed wanly
at the intruder from glassy eyes. A massive dead Christ
in Gobelin tapestry covered the whole side of one wall,
and from the opposite one the threaded features of
Joseph and his brethren stared gloomily down. These
subjects accorded ill with several pieces of marble stat-
uary scattered about the room-a reeling Bacchus, a
nude Psyche, and an unchaste presentment of Leda
drooping her head over an amorous swan. A broken


THE MOON ROCK
225
“If there is anything I can tell you- ” she sim-
pered, as she met his glance.
His face betrayed his anxiety.
“I had some reason to think that a young lady of
my acquaintance, the daughter of an old friend of your
mother's, might be staying with her.”
“There is no young lady here,” said Miss Pursill
with a hard look. “I know nothing about it. What
is her name?”
“I have made a mistake, I am afraid." Charles was
instantly on his guard. “I am really very sorry "
She was not altogether proof against the winning
smile with which he tendered an apology, but she
looked at him strangely as she accompanied him down-
stairs to the front door.
Charles went back to London with a dark and angry
face. His anger was directed against Fate, which had
arranged such a fantastic anticlimax for his cherished
hopes. The blow was almost too much for him. He had
deceived himself into thinking that he would find Sisily
at Charleswood, and he felt that he had really lost her.
He was now reduced to searching for her in the great
wilderness of London, which seemed a hopeless task.
By the time the train reached Charing Cross he ral-
lied from his fit of despondency. He refused to despair.
Sisily was somewhere in London, at that moment walk-
ing alone among its countless hordes, perhaps thinking
of him. He would find her—he must! Where to com-
mence? She had reached Paddington only a few night's
ago, so that was obviously the logical starting-point
of any inquiries. To Paddington he went, this time in
a taxi-cab.
He had an extraordinary initial piece of luck. For-
tune, either regretting her previous treatment or tan-
talizing him in feminine fashion with the expectation
of greater favours to come, threw him at the very out-
set of his inquiries against the red-headed luggage por-


THE MOON ROCK
227
and thin, with sharpish features and quick smiling
eyes."
Barrant! Charles recognized the description with a
sinking heart. He turned away with a sickening sense
of the impotence of his own efforts. Scotland Yard was
searching for Sisily, and no doubt had warned all the
London police to look out for her. She might be ar-
rested any minute. Outside the station he bought an
evening paper from a yelling newsboy, and hastily
scanned the headlines under the flare of a street lamp.
There was nothing about the Cornwall murder. So far
they were safe. His own departure from Cornwall had
apparently caused no suspicion, and Sisily was still free
-somewhere in London.
Where? To find her—that was his task. He rallied
sharply from his despondency. He would pit himself
against the police. A desperate man, guided by love,
could do much-might even outwit the tremendous
forces of Scotland Yard. He would not be worthy of
Sisily if he lost heart because the odds were against
him. Fortune's wheel might have a lucky turn in store
for him.
He beckoned a passing taxi-cab. “Euston Square,”
he said as he entered. That was obviously the next
point of his search.
But Fortune vouchsafed him no more favours that
day. His dive into the crowded depths of Euston
Square brought forth no result-no clue which would
help in his search. He interviewed many keepers
of the “temperance hotels” and boarding-houses which
abounded in that quarter, all sorts of women, but all
alike in their quick suspicious resentment of his guarded
inquiries and in their pretended ignorance of past visi-
tors to their dingy portals. He had little experience
of the embittered sordid outlook of a class which
earned its own bread by supplying indifferent food and
did out the had .ce of guarded


228
THE MOON ROCK
shelter to London's floating population, but after his
fiftieth repulse he had no difficulty in reaching the con-
clusion that the police were again ahead of him with
their inquiries.
Nevertheless he persevered fruitlessly until a late
hour before returning to his hotel to pass a sleepless
night in a fever of baffled excitement. Not till then
did he realize how much he had been upheld by the
hope of finding Sisily at Charleswood. He was lost
in a maze of conjectures, fears, and impossible plans,
though his intelligence told him that no plan of search
he could form was likely to be of the slightest use. Only
luck could help him there, and it was part of the hope-
lessness of the situation that he dared not invoke the
aid of any of those agencies or organizations which
make it their business to find persons who have dis-
appeared in London. His search must be a solitary
one.
The morning saw him enter upon it with a feverish
energy borrowed from the future and the desperate
optimism of a temperament willing to gamble with For-
tune against such incalculable odds. At first he at-
tempted to divine the motives likely to actuate a girl
ignorant of London in seeking a hiding-place there, and
shaped his search accordingly; but he gave that up
after a while, and decided to search the streets of the
inner suburbs, in the hope of encountering her sooner
or later. His method was to purchase a map of each
district, and explore it thoroughly from one end to the
other. He got his meals anywhere, and slept in the
nearest hotel where he happened to find himself late at
night. But his meals were often missed and his broken
sleep haunted with nightmare visions of the pitfalls and
snares spread for inexperienced girls in London.
So Charles passed nearly a week of interminable
tramping of London streets, scanning the endless med-
ley of faces in the hope of a chance glimpse of Sisily's


THE MOON ROCK
229
Unders
his diar thorcharted ahe end of
wistful eyes and pale features. But it is one thing to
gamble with Fortune, and another to win from her.
Sometimes she flattered Charles with a chance resem-
blance which sent him flying across the traffic at the
risk of his life, and once he sprang off a 'bus after a
girl he saw vanishing into an Underground lift, but
it was not Sisily. The end of the week saw him return-
ing from uncharted areas of outer London to the more
familiar thoroughfares of the city's life, for in that time
his dauntless spirit had realized the colossal folly of
any attempt to search London by system. He had no
intention of abandoning his quest, but he now felt that
it did not matter where his footsteps led him, because
it was only by a piece of wonderful luck that he could
ever hope to meet Sisily. He did not even know if she
was in London. But he believed she was, and some
indomitable inward whisper kept assuring him that he
would find her sooner or later. So he kept on-and
on, seeking the vision of his desires with the insatiable
eagerness of a man pursuing the unreachable horizon of
a hashish dream.
It was towards the end of this time that it occurred
to Charles to wonder if Sisily had made her way to
Charleswood since his first visit there. He was resting
in a Lambeth public-house after an exhausting day's
wanderings over South London when this thought came
to him. He sat up, slapping his thigh with excitement,
asking himself why he had not thought of that before.
It was a chance-certainly a chance. He decided to
run down to Charleswood again on the following after-
noon.
He did, and found himself disappointed once more.
The elegant Miss Pursill had gone to Brighton for
change of air, but the pretty maid, who had been left
behind to look after the house and the decayed old lady,
assured him that there had been nobody to see Mrs.
Pursill since his last visit. Miss Pursill went away the


230
THE MOON ROCK
very next day after he was down, and there had been
no callers or visitors.
She imparted this information at first with a sparkle
of coquetry in her eye, then with a glance of compassion
as she noticed how much the debonair visitor had
changed for the worse since she saw him last. She
looked at him solicitously, as though she would have
liked to remove with womanly hands the marks of neg-
lect from his apparel. From the door she watched him
making his way back to the station. She stood there
in the shade of the evening, following him with her eyes
until the bend of the road hid him from view.


CHAPTER XXV
M HE train was moving out after che briefest stop
at a place so unimportant, and he swung him-
self into one of the carriages gliding past him.
At first he thought the compartment was empty, but
as the train emerged from a tunnel immediately be-
yond the station gates he observed a man with glasses
reading a newspaper in the opposite corner seat. That
reminded him to buy an evening paper at the next
stopping place, a town of some importance, where a
number of intending passengers were waiting on the
platform. Several pushed past him into the compart-
ment. He did not heed them. He sat in a deep reverie,
his paper unfolded in his hand, past scenes flowing
through his brain as the train sped on towards London.
The carriage and its occupants receded from his vision,
and he was back again on the Cornwall cliffs with
Sisily. Her face appeared before his eyes just as he
had seen it in their last parting.
He came back with an effort to the world of events,
and unfolded his newspaper. That was a daily ordeal
from which he shrank, yet dared not evade. During
the past week he had faced it in all sorts of places:
street corners, public squares, obscure restaurants,
the burrowed windings of Underground stations, and
once in the dark interior of a cinema where he had
followed a girl with a vague resemblance to Sisily. As
the days went on and he read nothing to alarm him,
his tension grew less. It really looked as if Scotland
Yard and the newspapers had forgotten all about the
Cornwall murder, or had relegated it to the list of un-
discoverable mysteries.
231


232
THE MOON ROCK
He now glanced at the headlines listlessly enough.
The editor could offer nothing better on his front page
that night than Ireland and the industrial situation.
Charles opened the sheet and looked inside. His listless-
ness vanished as his eye fell upon his own name. In the
guise of fat black capitals it headed a half-column arti-
cle about his uncle's death. Charles read it through,
slowly and deliberately, to the end. He learnt that
there had been what the writer called fresh develop-
ments in the case. The police were now looking for
another suspect_himself. The detective engaged upon
the case had suspicions of the murdered man's nephew
for some time past, but had his reasons for reticence-
reasons which had now so completely disappeared that
Scotland Yard had made public a full description of
the young man and the additional information that he
was supposed to be in London. Charles found himself
reading the description of himself with the detached,
slightly wondering air with which a man might be sup
posed to read his own death notice. He weighed the
personal details quite critically. Young and tall. Yes.
Good-looking. Was he? Dark blue eyes. Were
they? He had never thought about them. Of gentle-
manly appearance. That read like the advertisement
of a Cheapside tailor—what was a gentlemanly ap-
pearance, if he had it? He had always associated it
with a cheap lounge suit and a bowler hat. Very well
dressed—then followed the description of his clothes.
But he couldn't be well dressed and of gentlemanly
appearance at the same time!
These preoccupations floated lightly, almost play-
fully, on the surface of his mind, but the great fact had
sunk to the depths like lead. His father's fears had
been right, and his departure from Cornwall had drawn
attention to his actions on that night. He was—what
was the phrase ?—wanted by the police. So was Sisily.


THE MOON ROCK
233
He was searching for Sisily, and the police were search-
ing for both of them.
What had the police discovered about him? His lips
framed the reply. Everything. That was to say, all
there was to find out. Obviously they had discovered
his visit to Flint House on that night, or at least, that
he was out in the storm during the time the murder was
committed. His commonsense told him the reason for
Barrant's reticence. He had kept quiet in the hope
that he would go to his father's house at Richmond,
which no doubt had been closely watched. Now that
Barrant had come to the conclusion that the man he
was after was too clever to walk into that trap, he
had confided his suspicions to the newspapers in order
to guard all avenues of escape by putting the public
on the watch for him.
A feeling of helplessness crept over Charles as he con-
templated the incredible ingenuity of the mesh of events
in which he and Sisily were entangled. Any moment
might terminate his liberty and see him placed under
lock and key. Would it help Sisily if he gave himself
up and told all he knew? That was a question he had
asked himself before, and dismissed it because he realized
that his own story might involve her more deeply still.
And the loss of time since then, coupled with his own
disappearance, intensified the risk which such a course
would entail. There was no hope for her in that di-
rection. Where, then, were they to look for hope?
He was recalled to his surroundings by a hand laid
on his arm. He started and looked round. The man
next to him, with a glance at the paper in his hand,
asked him if he could tell him the winner of the second
race at Lingfield. “It ought to be in the stop-press,"
he murmured. Charles turned the sheet to the indicated
column, and the inquirer glanced at it with a satisfied
smile, and the remark that it was only what he had
up an himself be torty might ce then, which su
And this own stefore, and disa


THE MOON ROCK
235
never seen a policeman wearing glasses. If he was not
a detective, why was he watching him? There was no
reward offered for his arrest. Perhaps he belonged to
the wretched type of beings who pride themselves on
their public spirit-men who wrote letters to the news-
papers and interfered in other people's business. The
beast might have guessed his identity and wanted to
show his public spirit by handing him over to the police.
The newspaper in his hand! Of course. He had read
his description there, and identified him.
Charles found himself conjecturing how the man
would set about carrying out his task of public watch-
dog, if that was in his mind. He pictured the possibil-
ity of him appealing to the others in the compartment.
He might get up and say: “There is a murderer in this
compartment. I recognize him from the description in
this paper, and I call upon you all as public-spirited
citizens to see that he does not escape justice." The
torpid passengers would start up, staring and looking
foolish after the fashion of English people when asked
to do something unusual. Would they help? There
was a stout man opposite with the symptoms of a public
spirit lurking in the creases of his fat self-satisfied face.
Charles promised himself that he would give them a fight
for it. He counted his chances. He was aware from
his previous journey to Charleswood that the train he
was in now ran through to Charing Cross without an-
other stop. Perhaps the man in the corner seat would
wait until they arrived there, and then give him in
charge. That was a disconcerting possibility, but he
could see no way of guarding against it unless he chose
to drop from the train, now travelling at nearly forty
miles an hour, taking the risk of being maimed or killed.
He considered the advisability of that. It was a chance
he might have taken casually enough on his own ac-
count, but he had also to think of Sisily. She would
be quite friendless if he were killed. Besides, there was
aik
pirit lurking in opposite with there they help?


238
THE MOON ROCK
giving the rowing a smed every momess, and she there
giving the enemy a chance by recklessness. He was
like a man rowing a small boat in the immensity of a
dark sea which threatened every moment to engulf him.
Sisily was somewhere in that darkness, and she must
be rescued. If his own cockleshell went down there
could be no succour for her. That was a thought to
make him keep afloat-to keep on rowing.
And suppose that he did find her, as he believed he
would, sooner or later-given time. What was to hap-
pen then?
That thought pursued him in his walk that night, and
was his constant companion in the lonely days and
nights of his wanderings which followed. He had ban-
ished it before, but that course was no longer possible.
The impalpable yet terribly real menace of authority
overshadowing them both now made it imperative that
all the facts should be faced. All the facts—but what
were they? It was the question he asked himself again
and again as he strove to twist out of the black fantasy
of that horrible night some tangible shred of truth
which might help them both. His own incredible share
in it was forever being re-enacted in his mind, and
haunted his dreams. In the night, at early dawn, at
odd moments of his eternal quest, the curtain of his
mind would rise on that unforgettable scene the cliffs,
the rocks, the darkling outline of Flint House, with a
feeble beam of light slanting down from the upstairs
window at the back which looked out on the sea. Then
the gush of light from the open door, and her shape
stealing forth into the darkness, followed by another-
Thalassa's. And then, the final phase—the desolate
house, the wind rushing noisily along dark passages,
the dead form of Robert Turold in the room upstairs.
What did these things mean, and what was to be the
end?
His hope was that Sisily could reveal something which
would furnish the key to the enigma of that night's


THE MOON ROCK
239
events. From her lips he might learn enough to guide
him to the hidden truth, and save them both. Sus-
tained by the feeling that she existed somewhere near
him, he continued his search day after day until in the
abstracted intensity of his fancy London assumed the
appearance of a wilderness of unending streets filled
with pallid faces which flitted past his vision like ghosts.
But the face he was seeking was never among them.
He searched with the wariness of one whose own lib-
erty depended upon his watchfulness. A second glance,
in indignant look, a turn of the head, a policeman's
casual eye—any of these things would place him im-
mediately on his guard and turn his footsteps in a dif-
ferent direction. He chose his sleeping places with
care at the last minute, and left them at early morning
when only a yawning night porter or a sleepy maid
servant was astir. He never returned to the same place,
nor did he go to the same restaurant twice. Most
carefully did he read the newspapers, but nothing ap-
peared in their columns to alarm him; merely an occa-
sional perfunctory paragraph about the Cornwall mur-
der. The favourite adjective in the journalistic ety-
mological garden was culled for the heading, and it was
described as an amazing case. Charles felt that the
definition was correct enough. Early developments
were faithfully promised-by the newspaper. Charles
understood very well what was meant by that. It was
hoped he would provide the development by falling
into the hands of the police. He smiled a little at that,
but the unintended warning increased his vigilance.
On the whole he felt tolerably safe in the crowded
London streets. It was not as though there was any
real hue and cry after him. The lonely Cornwall
tragedy had not come into sufficient public notice for
that, and now it seemed almost forgotten.
He had his hazards and chances, though in a differ-
ent way. One was an encounter with a young man of


240
THE MOON ROCK
good family whose acquaintance, commenced in France
during the war, had continued in London afterwards.
The two young men had seen a great deal of each other
-dining and going to music-halls together. It was in
Leicester Square that Charles saw him getting out of a
taxi-cab to enter a hall where a professional billiard
match was in progress. He paused midway at the sight
of Charles, exclaiming: “Why, Tur- " The second
syllable of the name was nipped off in mid-air, and the
outstretched arm was dropped, as the patron of bil-
liards took in the cut of his former friend's coat. He
gazed at the ill-fitting garment with a kind of astonished
animosity, and then his puzzled look shot upwards to
the face surmounting it, no doubt with the feeling that
he may have been deceived by a chance resemblance.
Charles went past him without a sign of recognition,
but he felt that the other was still staring after him.
Another day a street musician regarded him curiously
from behind a barrel organ which he was turning with
the lifeless celerity of one without interest in the sounds
created by the process. His card of appeal—“Wanted
in 1914; not wanted now">helped Charles to recall
him as a soldier of his old regiment. They exchanged
glances across the card. The man gave no sign that
he knew his former officer, but Charles had no doubt
that he did. He placed a coin on top of the organ and
went swiftly on.
A week of increasing strain slipped by, and another
commenced. Then Fortune, with a contemptuous good-
humoured spin of her wheel, did for Charles Turold
what he could hardly have hoped to achieve in a year's
effort without her aid.
It was late at night, and he was in a despondent mood
after one of his recurring disappointments—this time
a graceful slender shape which he had earlier in the
evening pursued in a flock of home-going shop-girls
until she turned and revealed a pert Cockney face


THE MOON ROCK
241
which bore no resemblance to Sisily's. Several hours
later he paid another of his visits to Euston Square,
which he believed to be the starting point of Sisily's
own wanderings. He felt closer to her in that locality
because of that. From Euston Square he walked on
aimlessly, engrossed in impossible plans for finding
Sisily by hook or crook, until the illuminated dial of a
street clock, pointing to half-past ten, reminded him of
the passage of time.
He paused and looked round. He was in an area of
darkened suburban streets converging on a distant
broader avenue, where occasional taxi-cabs slid past
into the blackness of the night with the heartless ve-
locity of years disappearing into the gulf of Time.
He turned his steps in the direction of this thorough-
fare in order to find out the locality, but stopped half-
way at the sight of a coffee-stall on the opposite side
of the street. He was hungry and thirsty, and he had
learnt to like the safety of these places in his wander-
ings. The food might be coarse, but there were no
lengthy waits between courses; no curious glances from
the other patrons. A couple of half-drunken young men
were feeding at this stall, and a girl of the streets was
standing near them. In the light of a swinging lamp
the scene shone clearly in the surrounding darkness
the brass urn, the thick crockery, the head of the stall-
keeper bent intently over a newspaper, the munching
jaws of the customers, the girl in the background with
splashes of crimson paint like blood on her white drawn
face.
Charles was about to cross the street, but at that
moment a policeman's helmet emerged slowly from the
surrounding darkness as if irresistibly attracted by
the concentric glow of the light. At the sight of him
Charles shrank back into the friendly shadow of his
own side of the road. The policeman emerged into the
fulness of the light, serene in his official immobility.


THE MOON ROCK
243
passing under a distant lamp-post and merge once more
into the darkness. He ran quickly in pursuit.
The girl heard him coming and looked back anxiously.
This time he saw her face. In a bound he was at her
side.
“Sisily, Sisily !” he cried. “Oh, Sisily, I have found
you!"


CHAPTER XXVI
I TE saw her white face sharply uplifted in the
darkness, and caught the startled gleam of her
dark eyes. Then she recognized him.
“You!" she breathed. “Oh, Charles, how did you
find me?"
"It was chance, Sisily—but no, it was something
deeper and stranger than chance." He spoke in a tone
of passionate conviction. “I have been walking Lon-
don day and night, seeking for you. I felt sure I should
find you sooner or later. I had given up hope for to-
night, though. It was so late—so late ” The tu-
mult of his feelings checked his utterance.
“I dare not go out earlier," she whispered.
That was a reminder which brought him back sharply
to the reality of things. He looked anxiously around
him in the dark and empty street. In the vulgar ex-
pression they were both "wanted”—wanted by the po-
lice. The danger was doubled now that they were to-
gether. That was a freezing thought which had not
occurred to him during his search for her. It occurred
to him now.
“I wonder where we could go and talk in safety?” he
murmured—“and decide what is best to do.”
“We might go to where I am staying,” she unexpect-
edly suggested. “It is at the end of this street."
“Would that be quite safe?” he hazarded doubtfully.
“I think so. Mrs. Johns told me that she would be
very late to-night. She goes to spiritualistic meetings,
and does not return home until early morning sometimes.
We should be alone, and free to talk. There is nobody
else in the house."
244


THE MOON ROCK
245
He was too eager to raise any doubts of the safety
of the suggested harbourage. Their conversation,
which had been carried on in suppressed and whispered
tones, ceased as they advanced along the quiet street.
Near the end Sisily turned into the small garden of an
unlighted house. She unlocked the hall door, and they
entered. He saw her bending over the hallstand, and
guessing her intention, struck a match. She took it
from him in silence, lit the hall gas, and shut the front
door carefully. Then she struck another match from
a box on the hallstand, and preceding him into a room
on the right, lit the gas there.
It was a smallesitting-room, simply and almost shab-
bily furnished, remarkable for some strange articles
which were heaped at random on various small tables.
There was a planchette, a tambourine, and other more
mysterious appliances which suggested that the inmate
spent much time with the trappings and rappings of
spiritualism. Papers and journals devoted to spiritual-
ism were scattered about the room, and framed “spirit
photographs” hung on the walls.
Charles was not thinking of the interior of the room.
His one thought was of Sisily. He had not seen her
clearly in the dark street. She appeared to him now
unchanged, her dear face as he had last seen it, her
features luminous with tender feeling, her dark eyes
dwelling gravely on him, just as she used to look. As
she stood there, the realization of his haunting dreams,
he had to fight down an impulse to take her in his arms.
But it was not the moment for that. Because of the
graveness of their situation, love had to stand aside.
“Sisily, why did you go away?” he asked at length.
She did not immediately reply, but lowered her glance
as though collecting her thoughts. His look fastened
with anxious scrutiny on her downcast face. She did
not raise her eyes as she answered.
“I had to go, Charles," was all she said.
she stone bravenous with


246
THE MOON ROCK
“Why did you not tell me, Sisily?” he said in a tone
of reproach. “Why did you not let me know, that last
day on the cliffs ?”
He failed to understand the glance she cast at him
as he asked these questions, but it seemed to contain an
element of surprise, almost astonishment. Absorbed in
his own gloomy thoughts, he went on.
“Do you remember what you told me about your
mother's old nurse, and our memory pictures of her
name? I thought you had gone there. So I went to
Charleswood to look for you.”
"I did think of going there. I intended to when I left
Cornwall," she hurriedly rejoined. “Then, afterwards,
I thought it best not to. I stayed at a private hotel in
Euston Road on my first night in London, but did not
like it, and next day I went to a boarding-house near
Russell Square. I meant to write to Mrs. Pursill from
there, telling her my mother was dead. But that night
after dinner I heard some of the boarders talking of -
the murder, and I knew I couldn't go to Charleswood-
then. I left that place early next morning, and came
here. I had been walking about all the morning, not
knowing what to do, when I saw the card in this window
saying that there was a room to let. Mrs. Johns told
me she wanted to let the room more for company than
anything else, because she lived alone, I was glad to
find it, and grateful to her.”
"You have known all along that the police are look-
ing for you?" he said gravely.
“After I heard them talking at the boarding-house,"
she rejoined simply. “One of the women had an eve-
ning paper, and read it aloud to the others. I knew
then, of course. The woman kept looking at me as she
read as though she suspected that I was the missing girl.
I was very nervous, but tried to pretend that I didn't
notice, and left the room as soon as I dared.”


THE MOON ROCK
247
“What about this Mrs. Johns-does she suspect any-
thing?” he asked anxiously.
“Oh, no. She is a very unworldly kind of woman, and
thinks of nothing but spiritualism. She never reads
newspapers.”
“Do not talk about it,” he said suddenly, as though
this picture of her wanderings was too much to be
borne. "Why did you go away from Cornwall with-
out a word? You said you had reasons. What were
they, Sisily?”
"I will tell you-now.” The soft difference in the
tone of the last word was too femininely subtle for him
to understand. “That afternoon, when my father was
talking to you all in the front room downstairs do
you remember?”
“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently.
“I heard something- I was at the door."
“It was you, then, and not Thalassa, who looked
through the door!” he said, glancing at her curiously.
“I did not mean to listen,” she replied, flushing
slightly. “I was going out to the cliffs—to the Moon
Rock. I was very unhappy, and wanted to be alone with
my thoughts. On my way past the door something my
father was saying reached me. It concerned me. I did
not take it in at first, or understand what it really
meant. As I stood there, wondering, my eyes met my
aunt's through the opening in the door, and I saw her
spring to her feet. I hurried away because I did not
want to see her. I wanted to think over what I had
just heard, to try and understand what it meant.
"I went down to the Moon Rock, and sat there,
thinking and thinking. They were so strange and ter-
rible, those words I had overheard, but they were so
few that I did not really guess then all that they meant.
All I knew was that there was some dreadful secret
behind them, some secret of my mother's which had
not take it xing reached meet the door somethine with


248
THE MOON ROCK
something to do with me. I wished that I had heard
more. As I sat there, wondering what I ought to do,
you came "
“To tell you that I loved you, that I shall love you
as long as I live,” he interrupted eagerly.
Again a faint flush rose to her cheeks, but she hur-
ried on: “I could not tell you that I loved you while
those dreadful words of my father were ringing in my
ears. I wanted to see him first, to question him, to know
if I had partly guessed the truth, or if there was any
loophole of escape for me. Oh, do not think any worse
of me now if I tell you that I loved you then and shall
always love you. I wanted to tell you so that day by
the Moon Rock, but I knew that I must not.”
“Why not?” His louder voice broke in on her sub-
dued tones impetuously. “You should not have sent
me away, Sisily. That was wrong. It has brought
much misery upon us both.”
“It was not wrong!" she replied, with unexpected
firmness and a momentary hardness of glance, which
reminded him of her father's look. "It was because I
was nobody-less than that, if what I thought was true.
There was your position to think of. You were to come
into the title--my father told me that before.”
“Damn the title !” the young man burst out furiously.
“I told you that day I would have nothing to do with it.
Why did you think about that?"
"Because I've heard of nothing else all my life, I
suppose,” she rejoined with the ghost of a smile. "I
couldn't tell you then that I loved you, because of it,
and other things. Now, it is different. It does not
matter what I say-now.” She spoke these words with
an underlying note of deep sadness, and went on: “When
you told me that you loved me I saw my duty plainly.
I knew I must go away and hide myself from you, from
everybody, go somewhere where nobody knew me, where


THE MOON ROCK
249
I would never be known. But I wanted to see my father
first, to make sure.”
“I understand,” he muttered in a dull voice.
“I thought it all out on the way to the hotel with my
aunt. I determined to go back and see my father that
night. I felt that I could not sleep until I knew the
whole truth. I left the dinner table as soon as I could,
and hurried down to the station to catch the half-past
seven wagonette to St. Fair.
“I got out of the wagonette at the cross-roads, and
walked over the moors. When I reached Flint House I
knocked at the door, and Thalassa let me in. I told
him I wanted to see my father, and he said he would
wait downstairs and take me back across the moors
when I came down.
“I ran upstairs and knocked at the door of my
father's study. He did not reply, so I opened the door
and went in. He was sitting at his table writing, and
when he looked up and saw me he was very angry. 'You,
Sisily! he said—'what has brought you here at this
hour?' I told him I had come to hear the truth from
his own lips. I asked him to tell me everything. He
gave me one of his black looks, but it did not frighten
me-nothing would have frightened me then. He seemed
to consider fo: a rgoment, and then said that perhaps,
after all, it would be better if he told me himself.
"So he told me told me in half-a-dozen sentences
which seemed to burn into my brain. I sat still for a
while, almost stunned, I think; then, as the full force
of what he had told me came home to my mind, I did
something I had never done before. I pleaded with
my father—not for my own sake, but for my mother's.
I told him I would go anywhere, do anything, if he
would only keep her secret safe. I might as well have
pleaded with the rocks. He sat there with a stern
face until I went down on my knees to him and begged


250
THE MOON ROCK
him to think about it—to keep it secret for a little
while at least. He grew angry, very angry, at that. I
remember-I shall never be able to forget—his reply.
'A little while?" he said, 'and the claim for the title
is to be heard next week. I'm to postpone my claim
for the sake of your mother, a
Sisily broke off suddenly, her white face flaming
scarlet, her eyes widely distended, as though that last
terrible scene was again produced before her vision.
Charles Turold watched her mutely, with the under-
standing that nothing he could say would bring com-
fort to her stricken soul.
She continued after a pause
“I left him then. I knew that I should never be able
to speak to him again. Downstairs, Thalassa was wait-
ing for me. He had a letter in his hand. He looked at
me, but did not speak, just opened the door, and we
went out across the moors. We went silently. Thalassa
was always kind to me, and I think that somehow he
understood. It was not until we were nearing the cross-
roads that I turned to him and said quickly, 'Thalassa,
you must not tell anybody that I saw my father to-
night.' I wanted to keep it secret, I wanted nobody to
know-never. I knew my father would not talk, it was
not of sufficient consequence to him. He thought of
nothing but the title. Thalassa promised that he
wouldn't. “Nobody will ever find out from me, Miss
Sisily,' he said.
“Thalassa went back across the moors, and I waited
by the cross-roads till the wagonette came. When I
got back to the hotel I went up to my room and to bed,
I do not know what time it was next morning when my
aunt came into my room, and told me that my father
was dead. She did not tell me much. There had been
a terrible accident, she said, and he had been found
dead in his room. I did not feel shocked, only ... in-
different. I did not even wonder what had happened


252
THE MOON ROCK
back to Flint House that night, but he will not tell
them anything. So they suspect him also.”
She roused at that. “Oh, they must not !" she cried
in distress. “Poor Thalassa! He must tell them the
truth.”
“The question is what is the truth?” It flashed
through his mind as he spoke that his interrogation
was the echo of one put to him by his father before he
left Cornwall.
“The truth is, that Thalassa and I left the house to-
gether that night before it happened. Oh, cannot they
believe that? Cannot it be proved ?”
"I could tell them when you left,” he said in a low
tone.
“You !” she cried, looking at him with a kind of fear.
“How do you know?”
“Because I saw you. I was standing outside, close
to the house."
“Why were you there?” she put in quickly.
He was slower in answering. “I had gone to see your
father-about you. I was standing there, thinking ...
waiting, when the front door opened, and you and
Thalassa came out. I was surprised to see you, but it
seemed to me an opportunity—a final chance to speak
to you again. I started after you, Sisily, once more
to ask you to consider my love for you, but you and
Thalassa were swallowed up in the darkness of the
moors before I could reach you. I followed with the
intention of overtaking you, but I got lost on the moors
instead, and was wandering about in the blackness for
nearly half an hour before I found my way back to
Flint House again."
“Could you not tell them—the police—that?" she
asked, a little wistfully.
“It would be useless,” he solemnly replied.
“What do you mean?” she said breathlessly,
His rejoinder was a long time in coming. When his


THE MOON ROCK
253
set lips moved the words were barely audible. “Because
I would not be believed. Because I went straight up
the path to the house, determined to see your father
before it grew later. The front door was open, and
the house seemed in complete darkness. I entered, and
went upstairs. There was a light in your father's
study. I found your father-dead." He fixed care-
worn eyes upon her. “That story sounds incredible,
even to you, doesn't it? But- "
"Oh!" That startled cry seemed wrung from her
involuntarily. Then, swiftly, as if her mind had de-
tached itself to look on her own actions that night
through his eyes: “You thought, you believed that
- ” She checked herself, but her look completed
the thought.
“I did not know what to think, but I did not think-
that,” he gloomily rejoined. “Afterwards, the next
night, I found out something which made me think-
He paused.
“Yes, yes, tell me what you thought,” she said nerv-
ously.
“I thought it was Thalassa."
She shook her head.
“Who was it then? The latest theory of the police
is that I had something to do with it. They're looking
for both of us. They must have found out that I was
at Flint House that night. It's too late to tell them
the truth now, not that they were likely to have believed
me at any time. Why, my own father believes that I
did this thing." He laughed discordantly. “I tried
to convince your father's lawyer of your innocence, and
I might have told him the truth if he had been sympa-
thetic. I don't know, though,” he added anxiously.
“I had to consider your position all along. If my story
was disbelieved it only made it worse for you. If it was
not Thalassa, who could it have been? Have you any
idea—the faintest suspicion?"


254
THE MOON ROCK
Did he
My fathe thoughts,
Again she shook her head. She made an effort to
look at him, but there were tears in her eyes for the
first time. His hand was resting on the table, and she
touched it gently with her fingers.
“We must find out.” He spoke loudly, as if with the
idea that a firm utterance lessened the tremendous diffi-
culty of that performance.
“What can we do?" Her tone was hopeless enough.
“Let me think.” He fiddled with the planchette on the
table as though he had some notion of invoking the
shade of Robert Turold to answer the question. “Had
your father any enemy? Did he fear anybody?”
She raised thoughtful eyes to his in reply.
“My father feared nobody,” she said, “at least, I do
not think so. Nobody had any real influence over him
except Thalassa."
“What sort of an influence?”
“It is difficult to describe,” she hesitatingly answered.
“Thalassa could take liberties which nobody else would
have dared. He used to go into his room at any time.
Sometimes I have awakened late at night and heard
the murmur of their voices coming from my father's
study.”
“Anything else?” he said, looking at her keenly.
“There was never any question of Thalassa leaving
us,” she went on. “Wherever we went, and we were
always going to some fresh part of England about
the title, Thalassa went also. Perhaps it was because
he had known him for so long that my father allowed
Thalassa to do things which nobody else could do.
Thalassa used to sneer about the title, and say no
good would come of it. They had a quarrel once, long,
long ago. I was a very little girl at the time, and I
can just remember it,” she added dreamily.
She was apparently unconscious of the significance of
these revelations, but they made a deep impression upon
Charles. There was something expectant and cruel in


THE MOON ROCK
255
his face as he listened—the aroused instinct of the
hunter. He addressed her-
“This bears out what I have believed all along. Tha-
lassa knows about the murder. He is mixed up in it
in some way.”
“Oh, why do you think that?" she exclaimed, clasp-
ing her hand in distress.
“Why?” he echoed. “Because your father was not
the man to stand insolence from Thalassa or anybody
else unless he had to. Thalassa must have had him
under his thumb in some way. Why did I not know of
this before? It's clear enough now. Thalassa, even if
he did not commit the murder- "
“He did not,” she said quickly. “He left the house
with me, so he could not have done it."
“Then he knows who did. He and your father
shared some secret together—some dreadful secret
which brought about your father's death. That is one
reason why Thalassa will not speak-because he is im-
plicated in this mystery, whatever it is."
“No, no. He is keeping silence because of me I feel
sure. I made him promise not to tell.”
Charles Turold shook his head decidedly. “He may
have more than one reason for keeping silent,” he said
with a swift flash of intuition. “If it is as you say, he is
shielding himself as well as you. If your father was
killed while Thalassa was out of the house that night,
Thalassa knows who did it."
Her eyes met his in an agony of perplexity and dis-
tress. "Oh, no, I cannot think you are right,” she said.
“If I could only see Thalassa—for five minutes— "
“What good would that do?” he abruptly demanded.
“He would tell me the truth—if he knew.”
He shook his head incredulously. “You do not know
all,” he murmured. He shrank from telling her of the
marks on her father's arm.


THE MOON ROCK
257
“I shall not sleep,” she said, in a miserable broken
voice. “I shall lie awake, thinking of you."
He caught her swiftly in his arms, and kissed her
on the lips. “If I find out the truth, nothing shall
come between us then, Sisily?"
“No, nothing,” she said.
He turned with a sudden swift movement as though
to go, but she still held him.
“Tell Thalassa ... that I ask him to tell you the
truth, if he knows it ..."
She released him then, and stood looking after him
as he walked from the room and out of the house.


CHAPTER XXVII
D LINT HOUSE looked a picture of desolation in
f the chill grey day, wrapped in such silence that
Charles's cautious knock seemed to reverberate
through the stillness around. But the knocking, re-
peated more loudly, aroused no human response. After
waiting awhile the young man pulled the bell. From
within the house a cracked and jangling tinkle echoed
faintly, and then quivered into silence. He rang again,
but there was no sound of foot or voice; no noise but
the cries of the gulls overhead and the hoarse beat of
the sea at the foot of the cliffs.
A cormorant, sitting on a rock near by, twisted its
thin neck to stare fearlessly at the visitor. But Charles
Turold was not thinking of cormorants. Where was
Thalassa ? Where was his wife? He believed they were
still in Cornwall, but they might have left the house. He
had been in London a long while. Not so long, though
-only twelve days. Twelve days! Twelve eternities
of unendurable hopelessness and loneliness, such as the
damned might know. Was he to fail, now, after finding
Sisily? He had a responsibility, a solemn duty. He
had reached Cornwall safely from London-run the
gauntlet of all the watching eyes of the police and
he would not go back without seeing Thalassa. His
mind was thoroughly made up. He would find him, if
he had to walk every inch of Cornwall in search of him.
And when he found him he would wrest the truth out
of him-yes, by God, he would! When he found him,
but where was he to be found? The crafty old scoun-
drel might be in the house at that moment, lurking there
like a wolf, perhaps grinning down at him from behind
258


THE MOON ROCK
259
some closed window. ... A sudden rage surged over
him at that thought, and he fell savagely on the shut
door, beating it with insensate fury with his fists. Damn
him, he would force his way in!
The cormorant ruffled its greenish feathers and
watched him curiously. The faint cries of the gulls
overhead seemed borne downward with a note of mock-
ing derision. Charles Turold stepped back from the
door with an uneasy look at the cormorant, as though
fearing to detect in its unreflecting beadiness of glance
some humanly cynical enjoyment at his loss of self-
control. The wave of feeling had spent itself. Not thus .
was victory to be won. He paused to consider, then
tried the knocker again. The knocker smote the wood
with a hollow sound, like a stroke on the iron door of a
vault, loud enough to rouse the dead. Charles Turold
had a disagreeable impression of Robert Turold start-
ing up in his grave-clothes at the summons, listening
... But no! The dead man was safe in his grave by
this time. He had forgotten that.
A sudden silence fell on the house: a deep and pro-
found stillness, as though seas and wind had hushed
their wailing speech to listen for the answer to the
knock. The birds, too, were silent. The house re-
mained immutably quiet. Charles Turold bent down,
and peered through the keyhole, but could see nothing
within but darkness. Then, as he looked, a sound
reached his ears, a sound like a thin cackle of laughter
from the interior of the house. In the gathering gloom
within he had a momentary impression of a stealing
greyish shape—a shape which vanished from his vision
as he looked.
He rose to his feet, his mind groping blindly for
some tangible explanation of this spectral thing, but
finding none. A ghost? He shook off that feeling
roughly. God knows, that house might well be haunted,
but not by a ghost that could laugh, though there was


260
THE MOON ROCK
no merriment in that ghastly cackle. The reality of
the thing, whatever it was, could not be worse than the
sound. Had he really seen anything, after all? Was
there some trap about it, some danger to himself? He
would have to risk that.
The distant sight of a human figure far away on the
wide space of the moors, clambering over the granite
slabs of a stile, turned his thoughts to a more percep-
tible danger. If he could see that man more than half
a mile away, his own figure must be apparent over a
long distance in that clear brown expanse. Perhaps
at that very moment the policeman from the church-
town was prowling about the moors in search of him.
His actions at that lonely house were suspicious enough
to attract anybody's attention. That was an act of
imprudence which he had no right to commit. He had
not evaded the keen eyes of the London police to be
trapped like a rat by a rural constable. It was too
dangerous for him to remain there. He determined to
spend the rest of the day among the cliffs, and return
to Flint House when night fell.
He walked away, briskly at first, but with a more
laggard step as he plunged into the shelter of the great
rocks, for he had had nothing to eat since the night
before, and was beginning to be conscious of his weak-
ness. But he strode on, doggedly enough, for more
than an hour, until he found himself at a part of the
coast he had not seen before-a theatre of black rocks,
with dark towering walls, and a hissing sea whitening
at the base.
At the foot of these cliffs three jagged conical rocks
rose bare and glistening, the spray from the broken sea
dashing far up their sides. As Charles stood there,
looking down, he saw a man appear from the edge of
the furthest one and walk rapidly across the sloping
shelf of rock which spanned the narrow bay near the


262
THE MOON ROCK
Charlie He hookeddy "Keep not like a wild gainst
beside him. When the rugged passage was crossed, and
the narrow wild bay left behind, he spoke.
“For what?”
“To have the truth out of you, you infernal scoun-
drel !" cried the young man fiercely, his self-control
suddenly vanishing at that indifferent tone. “You know
all about the murder of your master; you're going to
tell me, or I'll throw you off these cliffs into the sea.”
He gripped the other's arm as he spoke, but Tha-
lassa tore off his fingers, and leapt backward against
a rock, a knife in his hand, snarling like a wild beast.
“Keep off !” he cried. “Keep off, or by Christ,
I'll ” He hooked the air with his knife.
Charles eyed him across the space, affected almost
to nausea by his evil glance. What a fool he had been
to lose his temper! Not in that way was the truth to
be reached. The man before him was not to be terror-
ized or intimidated. Sisily's way would have been the
best. He wondered whether it was too late to attempt it.
“I was hasty, Thalassa," he said. “Come, do not let
us quarrel after I have risked everything to get down
here to see you. I have a message for you—from
Sisily."
The face of the man crouching by the rock changed
instantly. He made a step forward, as if to speak,
then cast a gleaming eye of unbelief at his companion.
“It's a lie!” he said. “You haven't seen her.”
“I'm speaking the truth,” Charles earnestly replied.
“Do you think I'd have come back to Cornwall other-
wise, knowing the police are searching for me?”
“Ay, you know that, do you?” muttered the other.
“They've been watching Flint House for you. You
were a fool to come back here.”
“I'd risk more than that to learn the truth, Thalassa.
It's for Sisily's sake. I've seen her. She's in London,
and I've come from her. She gave me this message to
bring to you. She said: “Tell Thalassa that I ask


THE MOON ROCK
263
him to tell the truth—if he knows it.' The police are
looking for her as well as me.”
“I've heered so.” With these words, uttered quickly,
Thalassa fell into the silence of a man on his guard and
pondering. Charles approached nearer.
“Thalassa,” he pleaded, “if you are keeping anything
back you must tell me for Sisily's sake.”
“How do I know you've seen her?” retorted Thalassa,
darting a dark crafty look at him.
Charles was overwhelmed by a sense of catastrophe.
Here was a possibility which had been overlooked. How
was he to instil belief that he spoke the truth? A mo-
ment passed. Thalassa cast another black look at him,
and turned as if to walk away. “I'll keep my word,”
he muttered to himself.
The young man's quick ear caught the whispered sen-
tence, and saw the way. “I'll prove it to you," he said.
“You promised Sişily that you'd tell nobody she was at
Flint House to see her father on the night he was killed.
How could I know that unless I'd seen her?”
“What else?" said Thalassa, facing him with a
strange and doubtful glance.
“You let her in,” Charles rapidly continued, “and
you waited downstairs for her. Afterwards you took
her back across the moors to catch the wagonette. It
was on the way, near the cross-roads, that Sisily made
you promise not to tell anybody that she'd been there
that night.”
“Suppose it's true what then?” Thalassa's voice
was edged with the craftiest caution. “She's sent you
to me to ask for the truth, say you. 'Twould have been
safer not. What else is there to say, when she's told
you everything?" He cast a look of savage jealousy
at the young man.
“Much.” Charles spoke rapidly, but his glance was
despairing. “What happened while you were away from
the house? What sent your wife mad? What did you


264
THE MOON ROCK
find when you returned? You know these things, Tha-
lassa."
“Happen I did, what good'd come of telling them?”
“To save Sisily."
“They'd not help to save her.”
“Do you think she shot her father?”
Thalassa gave him another dark look, but remained
silent.
“You know she didn't, you hound !" cried Charles,
anger flaring up in him again. "It was you—it must
have been you. Listen to me! I know almost enough
to hang you. I was in the house while you were away,
and found your master lying dead in his study, and the
key of the door in the passage outside. Who could
have dropped it there except you?”
“ 'Tweren't me. 'Twas done afore I got back to the
house," answered Thalassa.
“What time was it when you left the house with
Sisily?”
“Agone half-past eight: perhaps ten minutes after.
She came running downstairs, her eyes staring and
blazing. "Thalassa, dear Thalassa, for pity's sake let
me out,' she said half-sobbing. “Oh, what did I come
for? He's wicked-wicked.' Twasn't for me to say
anything between father and daughter, so I just opened
the door without a word, and went out with her.”
“What time did Sisily catch the wagonette?"
“That's what I don't know. She made me go back
when we got to the cross-roads. She knew as well as
I did that the old fool who drives it wasn't particular
as to time, and she worried about my old woman getting
scairt if she found herself alone, and me out. 'Go back
to her, Thalassa,' she said, 'I shall be all right now.'
That was just after she'd made me promise to tell no-
body that she'd been to see her father that night. And,
by God, I kept my word. Nobody got anything out
of me, though they tried hard enough. Well, when she


THE MOON ROCK
265
sent me back I went, leaving her standing, for I had
my own reason for going. When I looked back after a
bit I saw her standing there by the light of the dirty
little lamp above the cross-roads."
“Did you see the wagonette on the road?”
“Not a sign of it. Just her-alone.”
A faint hope died in Charles's breast. Even the
drunken irregularity of a Cornish cabman told against
Sisily. But that point was not so immediately impor-
tant as Thalassa's story that the murder had been
committed during his absence from Flint House. Al-
though his own experience supported that supposition,
Charles was reluctant to accept a theory which plunged
the events of that night into deeper mystery than
ever.
“Well, go on,” he said. “What did you find when
you got back?”
“The house was dark and the door open. The wind
was coming in from the sea sharp enough to take your
head off your shoulders, and I thought perhaps I'd
jammed the door without closing it, and it had blowed
open with the wind. But when I got inside I heered
something like moaning. I thought that might be the
wind too, for it's for ever screeching up and down the
passages like a devil, specially o’ nights. - " He
stopped suddenly, with a cautious sidelong look at his
listener.
“Yes, yes!” cried Charles. “And what then?”
Thalassa went on, but a little moodily.
“I went along to the kitchen and found the old woman
lying on the floor, in a kind of fit or faint, making the
queer noise I'd just heered. When I picked her up she
opened her eyes, laughing and crying and making
mouths as she pointed to the ceiling. I could
get nothing out of her for a while. Then she mut-
ters something about a crash upstairs, and goes off
into another fit. I carried her into her bedroom


268
THE MOON ROCK
The ey he had said to rest do resting on
ing crazily on the summit far above where they stood.
The eye of Charles ranged along the shore to the spot
where he had said good-bye to Sisily not so very long
ago, then returned to rest doubtingly on Thalassi. The
old man stood with his hand resting on a giant rock, his
dark eyes fixed on the rim of the waste of grey water
where a weak declining sun hung irresolutely, as though
fearing the inevitable plunge.
“I'd a' given my right arm to have saved her from
this," Charles heard him mutter.
Charles found himself looking down at Thalassa's
brown muscular arm, corded with veins, stretched out
on the rock by which he stood. It was as though it had
been bared for his inspection, which was not, indeed, the
case. If that arm could save Sisily, it was at her
service. But what was the good of that? What was
the good of his own efforts to help her? Charles had
a suffocating feeling of the futility of human effort
when opposed by the malignity of Fate. He asked him-
self with aching heart what was to be the outcome of it
all? He had failed. What then? It was not until that
moment that he realized how strongly he had been
buoyed up by the false optimism of hope. His con-
sciousness, as though directed by the power of a devil,
was forced to look for the first time upon the hideous
inevitability of the appointed end.
“No, no! Not that—not that,” he shudderingly
whispered to himself.
Neither moved. The minutes passed leaden-footed.
It was silent and still in that wild spot, as if theirs were
the only two human hearts beating in a dead world. It
seemed as though neither could bring it upon himself
to terminate the interview. Charles was the first
to break the silence. He spoke like a man coming out
of a dream.
“Did that clock upstairs keep good time?” he asked
in a low voice.


270
THE MOON ROCK
“Is that all?” Bitter disappointment rang in
Charles's voice. “That might have been me. I was out
on the rocks that night, close to Flint House."
“ 'Tweren't you.” Thalassa's reply was so low as to
be almost inaudible. “I don't know who it was, but I'll
take my Bible oath it weren't you."
“Who was it then?” Charles asked breathlessly.
“A dead man, or his spirit. I know that now, though
I laughed when he said it. I know better now.”
He stopped suddenly, like one who has said too much,
and looked moodily out to sea.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Never mind what I mean. It's nothing to do with
you. A man's a fool when he gets talking. The tongue
trips you up.”
“Thalassa,” said Charles solemnly, “if you know
anything which might throw the remotest light on this
mystery it is your duty to reveal it.”
“It's easy to talk. But I swore_I swore I would
never tell.”
“This is the moment to forget your oath."
“It's fine to talk—for you. But he'd come back to
haunt me, if he knew." He jerked his thumb in the di-
rection of the distant churchyard where Robert Turold
lay.
Charles looked at his grim and secret face in despair.
“I hope you realize what you are doing by keeping
silence,” he said.
“I'm keeping a still tongue in my head, for one thing."
“For one thing-yes. For another, you're injuring
Sisily—you're doing more than injure her. You're let-
ting her remain under suspicion of her father's death,
in hiding in London, hunted by the police. Yet she
believed in you. It was she who sent me to you, it was
she who said: "Tell Thalassa from me to tell the truth,
if he knows it.' Is she mistaken in you, Thalassa? Do
you think more of your own skin than her safety?


THE MOON ROCK
271
Suppose she is caught and tried and condemned, Tha-
lassa? What then? It will be too late then. You
said that you would give your right arm to save her,
but what is the good of that if you won't tell the truth
now? You fear being haunted, do you? If anything
happens to Sisily, it will be through you, and you'll
be haunted till you die.”
“You're right,” said Thalassa suddenly. He gave
the rock a great slap with his heavy hand, with the air
of a man taking a mighty resolve. “Yes, by God, you're
right! Listen, and I'll tell you."


CHAPTER XXVIII
IT was a strange story which Charles Turold heard
by that grey Cornish sea—a story touched with the
glitter of adventurous fortune in the sombre set-
ting of a trachytic island, where wine-dark breakers beat
monotonously on a black beach of volcanic sand strewn
with driftwood, kelp, dead shells, and the squirming
forms of blindworms tossed up from the bowels of a
dead sea. It was there in the spell of solitude thirty
years before that Robert Turold's soul had yielded to
temptation at the beck of his monstrous ambition.
That, however, was the end—or what Robert Turold
imagined to be the end-of the story. The listener was
first invited to contemplate a scene in human progress
when men gathered from the four corners of the earth
and underwent incredible hardships of hunger, thirst,
disease, lived like beasts and died like vermin for the
sake of precious stones in the earth. Thalassa brought
up before the young man's eyes a vivid picture of an
African diamond rush of that period—a corrugated
iron settlement of one straggling street, knee-deep in
sand, swarming with vermin and scorpions, almost
waterless, crowded with a mongrel, ever-increasing lot
of needy adventurers brought from all parts of the
world by reports of diamonds which could be picked
out with a penknife from the dunes and sandy shingle
which formed the background of the villainous “town."
In the great waves and ridges of sand which stretched
everywhere as far as the eye could reach, runaway
scoundrels of every shade of colour wormed on their
bellies with the terrible pertinacity of ants, sweating
In the great as far as the of colour w
272


THE MOON ROCK
273
and groping in that choking dust for the glittering
crystals so rarely found.
Thalassa had been infected by the diamond fever like
so many more, Like other young men he wanted plenty
of money for women and grog—what else, he asked,
could a man get for money that was worth having? In
those days he was a sailor before the mast, lacking
the capital for such delights. So he deserted his timber
tramp when she touched at Port Elizabeth, and set out
for the diamond fields with another runaway—the ship's
cook, who had an ambition to have his meals cooked
for him for the rest of his life, instead of cooking meals
for other people.
The fields were far to the north. Thalassa reached
them after a terrible journey through the stony veldt
and sandy desert, broken by barren hills. His compan-
ion died of the hardships, and was buried in the desert
which stretched to the wandering course of the Orange
River. Thalassa secured his license and went "pros-
pecting.”
“Dost a' know anything about diamonds-digging
for them?” he broke off to ask.
Charles Turold shook his head.
Thalassa lapsed into silence for some moments, his
eyes fixed on the sea hissing among the black wet rocks
at his feet, then said-
"A man's a fool most of his days, but sometimes he
can be such a fool that the memory 'll come up to mock
him when he lays dying. Here was I, deserting my
ship and throwing away a year's wages and aʼmost my
life to get to these damned fields, thinking to pick up
diamonds cut and glittering like I'd seen them in Lon-
don shops, when as soon as I'd clapped eyes on the
first diamond I saw dug up I knew that I'd left behind
me at the other end of the world as many rough dia-
monds as there was in the whole of that dustbin of a


THE MOON ROCK
275
didn't
to other
heered
order Bass beer at five shillings a bottle in a God-
forsaken place like that?
"He was one of them.” Thalassa moved his hand
vaguely in the direction of St. Fair churchyard.
“Smart and lively he was then—not like what he was
afore he died. I took a fancy to him as soon as I set
my eyes on him. He was a man in those days, and I
knowed a man when I saw 'un. I didn't care so much
for the looks of the other 'un-Remington was his
name, as I heered afterwards. Well enough for some
tastes, but too much of the God Almighty Englishman
about him to suit me. A handsome chap he was, this
Remington, I'm bound to say-young and slim, wi' a
pink face like a girl's, not a hair on it, and lookin' as
though he might a' turned out of a bandbox. Him-
Turold-had a moustache, and his face was a dark ’un,
but I liked him for all his black looks—though not so
black in those days, either. More eager like.”
Charles Turold found himself trying to picture Rob-
ert Turold in the part of a smart lively young fellow,
and failing utterly. But Time took the smartness out
of a man in less than thirty years. It had also taken
the liveliness out of Robert Turold for good and all.
Thalassa went on with his story. The young men
were served with their beer at five shillings a bottle, and
sat down in a corner to drink it. They talked as
they sipped, and Thalassa listened. His original idea
that they were young men of wealth (because of the
Bass) was soon dispersed by the trend of their con-
versation. They had gone out from England to make
their fortunes on the fields, but had come a cropper like
himself, and were discussing what they'd do next. The
fair-haired one, Remington, was all for getting back to
England while they had any money left, but Turold
was dead against it. There were plenty of diamonds
to be found, and he was going to have some of them.
He'd been talking to a man who was just back from
ose days: ind himself a lively your


276
THE MOON ROCK
the interior with a story of a river beach full of dia-
monds, and he was fitting up an expedition to go back
and get them. Turold wanted to join in, but Rem-
ington said he'd heard too many stories of diamonds
to be picked up for the asking. Had he forgotten about
the cursed Jew who got a hundred pounds out of them?
Turold said this was different—the man had brought
back a little bottleful of diamonds. Remington replied
with a sneer about “salting.” They argued. “Suppose
we dropped the last of our money?” Remington asked.
“No worse than crawling back to England like whipped
curs, poorer than we set out,” said the other. Rem-
ington said he didn't want to go back to England like
that, but he'd sooner face it than run the risk of being
stranded in that hell of a place. Turold answered he
was not going back till he'd made a fortune. He said
(Thalassa remembered his exact words): “I don't care
how I do it, Remington, but I will do it-mark my
words." "Show me a more sensible plan than this, and
I'm with you,” Remington had replied.
It was at this stage that Thalassa was seized with an
inclination to thrust himself into the dialogue. Striving
to explain his reasons at that distance of time, he said
it was Robert Turold's last remark which really decided
him-did the trick, as he phrased it. Actually it must
have been a prompt recognition of the kinship between
two lawless souls.
He left his seat and went across to where the two
young Englishmen were earnestly talking, unaware that
they had been overheard. He approached them as one
shipwrecked sailor might approach two other castaways
marooned on the same rock. They all wanted money,
and they all wanted to get away from that God-for-
saken hole. Diamonds they were after? Well, he could
take them to a place at the other end of the world where
there were enough diamonds in the rough to make them
all rich for life.
hoords..you," stage, imself


278
THE MOON ROCK
in Turoland again"; but haland an
enough diamonds in the rough to make them all rich
two bottlesful, and some in a leather bag, where the
dead man also kept one of those digging licenses which
the damned German officials sold you—what did they
call it? Prospector's license-a schurfschein? said
Remington. Yes, that was it. He knew it again as
soon as he got one on the fields.
Turold and Remington again talked together in
whispers, and then Turold asked Thalassa how he pro-
posed to get the diamonds. Thalassa had his plan
ready. They must get down to the Cape and get a
boat to Sydney from Capetown. That was the jump-
ing-off place. From Sydney they were to take a boat
to-another place. The island was a bare two days'
sail from the "other place,” and Thalassa proposed to
hire a cutter on the mainland and sail over to it. He
was no navigator, but he could find his way back to
that island again at any time.
Turold seemed inclined to agree, but Remington put
in another of his sharp questions. Why did he want
to bring two strangers into the business? What was
to prevent him getting the diamonds on his own account,
without sharing with anybody? Thalassa replied that
he had no money to finance the expedition, and even
if he got the diamonds they'd be no use to him. How
could a rough seaman like himself, who could hardly
write his own name, turn the stones into the large sum
of money they represented? That was an enterprise
which called for civilized qualities of education and
address which he did not possess. From his standpoint
it was an even deal between them. They were to sup-
ply the money and intelligence in return for his knowl-
edge, and they would share and share alike.
It was Robert Turold who ultimately settled the deci-
sion—winning over the reluctant Remington with words
which Thalassa had never forgotten. He also recog-
nized the risk, but he thought it was well worth taking.


THE MOON ROCK
279
It seemed that the two had a little more than £200 left
between them—just about enough to carry the thing
through. What was the use of returning to England
with that paltry sum, he had asked. He spoke of a
girl-some girl who was waiting in England for Rem-
ington while he made his fortune abroad. Was he
going to go back to her penniless ? “Even if this doesn't
turn out right,” he went on, “we'll have reached another
part of the world, with a fresh chance of making money,
instead of being poor in England, that breeding-ground
for tame rabbits, where poverty is the unforgiveable
sin.” “I liked him for those words," said Thalassa,
“for they came from a man whose thoughts were after
the style of my own. 'Twas they decided the other
chap, and next morning we set out for Capetown. From
there we got passages in a cargo boat for Sydney."
Charles found it easier to visualize this picture than
the former. The departure of the three upon such a
wild romantic venture had in its elements all the au-
dacity, greed, and splendour of youth, and he also was
young.
Thalassa went on with his story.
During the voyage to Sydney, Robert Turold used to
talk to him on deck at nights after Remington had gone
to his bunk. It was in these solitary deck tramps under
glittering stars that Thalassa first heard from the
other's lips of the Turrald title: the title for which the
fortune he was seeking was merely a stepping stone
the means to obtain it. “Night after night he talked
of nothing else,” said Thalassa, “and I knew he would
do what he wanted to do.” It was easy to gather from
his story that his original admiration for Robert Tur-
old soon grew into a deeper and stronger feeling. There
was something in the dead man's masterful ambitious
character which exercised a reluctantly conceded but
undoubted fascination upon his companion's fierce
spirit.


282
THE MOON ROCK
the encircling walls of the crater. There they had their
supper, and there, as they lounged smoking, Remington
in an evil moment for himself suggested that they should
sort the diamonds into three heaps-share and share
alike. Robert Turold agreed, and they emptied the
stones out of the bottles and leather bag into a single
heap. Remington took one bottle and Robert Turold
another; to Thalassa fell the empty bag. As the stones
were sorted one was to be placed in each receptacle until
the tally ran out.
It must have been a strange spectacleso strange
that it made a lasting impression on the least imagi-
native mind of the three, for he tried in his rude way
to reproduce it on that Cornish beach after the lapse of
thirty long years. He threw bits of rock on the sand
to indicate the positions in which they had sat. From
his description Charles pictured the scene adequately
enough: the violet-black beach, exhaling sulphuric va-
pours, the yellow-grey volcanic rocks, the gurgling ebul-
litions of a geyser throwing off volumes of smoke high
above them, and the faces of the three men (ruddy in
the fire-glow, white in the moonlight) intent on the
division of the heap of dull stones scattered on a flat
rock between them. Thalassa remembered all these
things; he remembered also how startled they were, the
three of them, at the unexpected sound of a kind of
throaty chuckle near by, and turned in affright to see
a large bird regarding them from the shadow of the
rocks—a sea bird with rounded wings, light-coloured
plumage, and curiously staring eyes above a yellow
beak. When it saw it was observed it vanished swiftly
seaward in noiseless flight.
The division, commenced good-humouredly enough,
soon developed the elements of a gamble between Robert
Turold and Remington. They forgot Thalassa's ex-
istence as they argued and disputed over the allotment
of certain stones. The foot or so of flat rock became


THE MOON ROCK
283
the circumference of their thoughts, ambitions, and pas-
sions—their world for the time being. In that sordid
drama of greed Thalassa seemed to have comported
himself with greater dignity than his two superiors by
birth and education. He even took it upon himself to
reason with them on their folly. Perhaps he knew from
his own seamy experience of life what such things de-
veloped into. At all events, he urged his companions to
defer the division until they returned to civilization and
could get the spoils appraised by eyes expert in the
knowledge of precious stones. But they would not
listen, so, not liking the look of things, he withdrew a
little distance off and watched them, leaning against a
rock. That was his tacit admission (so Charles inter-
preted this action) that he was on Robert Turold's side,
and felt that his own interests were identical with those
of the master mind. The two, left to themselves, wran-
gled more fiercely than ever. There were unpleasant
taunts and mutual revilings. The listener by the rock
learnt definitely what he had previously suspected—that
there was bitter blood and bad feeling between the two
men, buried for a time, but now revived with a savage-
ness which revealed the hollowness of their supposed
reconciliation. It was about a girl, some girl in Eng-
land with whom they had both been in love. Thalassa
gathered that Remington had left England as the fa-
voured suitor. He had (in Thalassa's words) "cut
Turold out.”
Charles Turold could not forbear a faint exclamation
of astonishment. His brain reeled in trying to imagine
the austere figure of Robert Turold squabbling over a
girl and some diamonds on a lonely island in the South
Pacific. He was too amazed at the moment to see the
implications of this part of the story
“They went on snarling and showing their teeth, but
not biting,” continued Thalassa, "sorting out the little
stones all right, but quarrelling over the bigger. There
liation. Caled the ho how revived et


THE MOON ROCK
285
to me, his face black with rage—he's got the dia-
monds.'
"I ran after him up the beach, but he heard me com-
ing and had the start of me. He had firm ground under
him by then, and was tearing along the rocks towards
the path I'd taken them that afternoon, turning round
now and again to look back, the blood glistening in the
moonlight on his white face. There we was—him going
higher and higher, me after him, and Turold standing
below on the beach, staring up at the two of us.
"Run my best, I couldn't get near him. I suppose
he thought he was done for if I caught him, and by
that time my blood was pretty well up. I had one pull
over him—I knew the island, and he didn't. The path
he was taking led to the top of the island, where the
crater was, with a kind of wall of rocks round it. But
before you came to that there was a great hole which
fell down God Almighty knows how deep, and was sup-
posed to have been another volcano at some time or
other. This hole was divided into two by a narrow
ridge running right across it, and the path Remington
was on took him straight to the edge. So he'd either
got to go across this ridge when he come to it or turn
back and be caught.
"He was a long way ahead when he come to it, but
he never stopped. He just gave one glance down at
me, and went on to the ridge. I watched him balancing
along it like a man on a tight rope, mounting higher
and higher, for the ridge went up steep on the far side.
Thinks I to myself, “You're a plucky one,' then all of a
sudden I heard a shout from below, and looked down.
There stood Turold, waving me out of the way. He'd
been to the boat for a gun we'd brought with us, and
was taking aim at Remington. The next thing I saw
was Remington turning round on the ledge to come
back to my side, having found out, I suppose, that the
ridge would take him into the crater. Just as he turned


288
THE MOON ROCK
“Whom did my uncle marry?” asked Charles.
“You might a' guessed that. 'Twas the girl t'other
had cut him out of. I thought the masterful devil'd
get her when Remington was out of the way, but I asked
him once straight out, and he said yes, it was the same
girl. She was a pretty timid little thing in those days,
but I don't know why they was both so mad after her.
However, there it was.”
“And do you think that after all these years, Rem-
ington is really alive?” said Charles, looking at him
earnestly. “Do you think it was he who murdered my
uncle?”
“Happen maybe, happen not. The night he was killed
I found him in a rare funk in his room. He rang his
bell like a fury, and when I went up he swore he heard
the footsteps of Remington just afore, running round
the rocks outside of Flint House just as he heard him
pattering along the rocks on the island that night. I
didn't believe 'un then, but I'm not so sure since. If
he's come back to get Turold it's for sure he's still
somewhere about, waiting his chance to get me as
well. I'm keeping my eye open for 'un—walked the
coast for miles, I have, looking for him. He won't take
me unawares, same as Turold.” His eyes searched the
cliffs behind them.
“You may not recognize him if you meet him. It is
thirty years since you saw him. A man changes a lot
in thirty years.”
“That's true, 'tis a thought which never crossed my
mind." Thalassa's look was troubled.
“As you've told me this story you'd better leave it
in my hands, and not go looking for anybody with that
knife of yours."
“What be you going to do?”
“I must go to Scotland Yard and tell them your
story. It's the only chance."
“And get me into trouble?”


CHAPTER XXIX
D ARRANT returned to London in the mental dis-
D position of a man who sees an elaborate theory
thrown into the melting-pot by an unexpected turn
of events. The humbling thought was that he had al-
lowed a second fish to glide through his hands without
even suspecting that it was on his line. He had never
remotely connected Charles Turold with the murder
until Mr. Brimsdown had imparted Mrs. Brierly's dis-
closure to him. He had acted promptly enough on that
piece of information, but once again he was too late.
Austin Turold might have felt reassured if he had
known how little his share in the events of that night
occupied Barrant's mind during their last interview.
The complexion Austin's conduct bore to the detec-
tive's reflection was that of a father who had inten-
tionally misled the power of authority in order to shield
his son. The law took a serious view of that offense,
but it was a matter which could be dealt with at leisure
in Austin's case. By his brother's death Austin Turold
had become a man of property and standing. It was
the drawback of his wealth that he could not disappear
like his son. He was to be found when wanted. The
main thing just then was to catch the son, or the girl-
or both. Barrant went back to London for that pur-
pose.
As the days slipped away without that end being
achieved he became worried and perplexed. His own
position was an unenviable one, and his thoughts were
far from pleasant. He felt that he had failed badly,
and that his standing with his superiors in Scotland
Yard was under a cloud in consequence. But he could
290


THE MOON ROCK
291
not see where he had actually been at fault. It was
such a damned amazing case. In most crimes the
trouble was to find sufficient clues, but in this case there
were too many. And the inferences pointed different
ways. That was the trouble. He was not even sure
that in this latest discovery, so annoyingly belated, he
had reached the ultimate solution of the facts. It was
not that the theory of these two young people commit-
ting murder for love was too cynical for belief. He had
encountered more incredible things than that in his pro-
fessional career. Life was a cynical business, and youth
could be brutal in pursuit of its aims, especially when
the aim was passion, as it usually was. In his experi-
ence youth and age were the dangerous periods—youth,
because it knew nothing of life, and age because it knew
too much. There were fewer surprises in middle-age.
That was the period of responsibility—when humanity
clung to the ordered way with the painful rectitude of
a procession of laden ants toilino ud a hill. Youth was
not like that-nor age.
No, it was not that. His difficulty was to fit all the
circumstances into any compact theory of the case.
Try as he would, there were always some loose ends
left over, some elements of uncertainty which left him
perplexed. He fashioned a new view of the murder,
with Charles Turold as the principal figure in it-the
actual murderer. He assumed that Charles and Sisily
had gone to Flint House that night to prevent the truth
about Sisily's birth becoming known. The assertion of
her illegitimacy rested upon her father's bare statement,
but his lawyer was convinced he would not have made
the statement without having the proofs in his posses-
sion. These proofs had not been found. Very well.
What inference was to be drawn from that? Sisily
knew that they were kept in the clock-case, and pointed
out the hiding place to her lover. In a struggle for
their possession Robert Turold was shot down, or he


292
THE MOON ROCK
might have been shot first and staggered to the clock
afterwards to see if they had been stolen. Either sup-
position accounted for the fallen clock, and fitted in
with nearly all the known facts of the murder.
Nearly all, but not all! In face of Mrs. Brierly's
disclosure it seemed a condition precedent to the eluci-
dation of the mystery to substitute Charles Turold for
Thalassa as the person whose undisciplined love for Sis-
ily had led him to shoot her father to shield her name.
Nor was it incredible to suppose that he had remained
in Cornwall to cover her flight in the hope of diverting
suspicion from her. But the loose end in the theory
was Thalassa's share in that night's events, and his dog-
ged silence since under strong suspicion.
Thalassa knew more than he had yet revealed, but
what did he know? What was his share in the business?
It was difficult to say. Barrant was unable to accept
the assumption that three people were concerned in the
murder. That idea, if not impossible, was at least con-
trary to reason. But if it was excluded, how was the
silence of Thalassa to be explained? Was he afraid?
It was as difficult to associate that quality with him
as with an eagle or beast of prey.
And the theory failed to explain the reason for Rob-
ert Turold's frantic letter to his lawyer on the night of
the murder. That was another loose end.
What a case! It was an abnormal and sinister mys-
tery in any light, with no absolute or demonstrative
certainty of proof by any of its circumstances, however
regarded. The effect of its perplexing clues distorted
the imagination, outraged the sense of possibility and
experience. To reach conclusiveness in it seemed as im-
possible as an attempt to scale an unending staircase in
a nightmare. The facts were there, but they were in-
explicable, or at least they stared at him with the aspect
of many faces.
As he weighed these doubts he found his thoughts re-


294
THE MOON ROCK
in the draughty passages with queer gasping noises, like
a wind strangled. Then there was the most absolute
silence. The curtains hung perpendicular, as thickly
motionless as blankets. Barrant noticed that the hall-
stand and a chair beside it were thick with dust. Evi-
dently the house was empty.
Turning first to make quite sure that the front door
was securely shut, he took his way upstairs to Robert
Turold's study.
A point of light, falling through the shattered panel
of the closed door, pierced the vague gloom of the pas-
sage and hovered on the door of the bedroom opposite
—the room into which the dead man had been carried.
Barrant entered the study and looked around him.
It was intolerably dirty and neglected; everything was
covered with a thick grey dust. Barrant walked over
to the clock and regarded it attentively.
What a rascally fat face that moon had! It must
have seen some queer sights in old houses during its
two hundred years of life. Strange that those old clock-
makers could make clocks to last so long, but couldn't
keep their own life-springs running half the time! The
moral verse was curious enough. Why should a man
who spent half his lifetime putting together a clock
presume to tell his fellow creatures to make the most
of the passing hour?
His reflections took a more practical turn. The
clock was the sole witness to the time of the murder.
There were two other clocks in Flint House, but nobody
had thought of looking at them when the crime was dis-
covered. Barrant regarded that as a regrettable over-
sight. It was always important to know the exact time
when a murder was committed. Thalassa said that the
hood clock was going and kept excellent time, but the
value of that secondary testimony was impaired by the
fact that Thalassa might not be telling the truth. On
sight. It wider was.comand kept


THE MOON ROCK
29.5
the other hand, there was certain presumptive evidence
which suggested that he was. It was a proved fact that
Mr. and Mrs. Pendleton and Dr. Ravenshaw left the
doctor's house in a motor-car for Flint House not later
than half-past nine on the night of the murder. As-
suming that they covered the journey across the moors
in five or six minutes and occupied another five minutes
in getting upstairs and breaking in the door, the testi-
mony of the hood clock seemed correct, because Dr.
Ravenshaw said death had just taken place, and he and
the doctor who made the post-mortem examination were
both agreed that Robert Turold could not have lived
many minutes after he was shot. Therefore the pre-
sumptive evidence seemed to determine the time of death
accurately enough.
But that was only a minor phase of the mystery. The
real problem was the hidden connection between the
clock and the murder. What had brought the clock
down, and why had Robert Turold fallen almost on
top of it, his outstretched hands resting on the dial?
The complete elucidation of the mystery lay behind
the obscurity in which these two points were shrouded.
To find the answer to them was the surest and quickest
way of reconciling all the contradictory facts of the
case. But Barrant racked his brains for the reason
in vain.
He examined the room. There was a leather-topped
writing-table with drawers, several cabinets filled with
manuscripts and papers, some walnut chairs with carved
legs, and a tall deep bookcase filled with dreary-looking
books. His eyes wandered over the titles of the volumes.
They also belonged to a bygone period—a melancholy
accumulation of works as dead as their writers. Two
whole shelves were occupied with the numbers of a for-
gotten periodical which claimed to give "ample details
of the unhappy difference between Queen Caroline of


296
THE MOON ROCK
Great Britain and her consort George the Fourth."
Barrant wondered idly why human nature was always
so interested in the washing of dirty linen. Above
these was ranged a row of published sermons. Bar-
rant's eye roamed higher and fell on a fat sturdy vol-
ume wedged in between some slimmer books. The title
of this book was "Clocks of All Periods.” Clocks!
He reached for the volume and placed it on the table.
A cursory glance through the pages conveyed the sug-
gestion that it contained more information about clocks
than was worth acquiring or writing down. There
was a chapter on water clocks, to begin with: “Known
to the Egyptians and the Holy Land.” Barrant turned
the leaves. “The Ancient Chinese used a smouldering
wick as timekeeper.” Barrant shook his head impa-
tiently. “King Alfred's supposed device of measuring
Time by Candles—a Myth.” Would to heaven his in-
vention of juries was a myth, too. Scotland Yard would
get on much better without them. “A Lamp-clock was
another Simple and Ingenious Design." How intoler-
ably long-winded the writer was. What had he to say
about hood clocks? “Very few of the Early Clocks
had Dials. The Device was generally a Mechanical
Figure which struck the Hour on a Bell.” Evidently
the forerunner of the devilish alarum clock. “Early
clockmakers-Old English monks as Clockmakers.”
The pages flowed rapidly through Barrant's fingers.
“Introduction of Minute Hand Marks—Period of
Clocks Showing Tides-Longfaced Clocks.” Ah, here
it was at last-"Hood Clocks."
He began to read the chapter with interest, but as
he was about to turn the first page the silence of the
room was broken by a faint cackling laugh-an elfin
sound which died away instantly. He looked up,
startled. His surprise was not lessened at the sight of
Mrs. Thalassa watching him from the open doorway.


THE MOON ROCK
297
She entered on tiptoe, with a strange air of caution,
examining him with restless eyes.
“I heard you," she mumbled. “I saw you go up-
stairs. Mr. Thalassa was out, and I was afraid to go
to the door. I've been playing patience, and it won't
come out.”
She showed her apron full of small cards. She
placed them on the table, and arranged them in rows.
A new idea came into Barrant's mind as he looked
at her. If the poor creature had recovered sufficient
wits to take to her cards again she might be coaxed
to recall what she had seen on the night of the murder.
He drew near her. “Can I help you?” he said.
She nodded sideways at him like a child-a child
with withered face and grey hair.
Together they bent over the cards. A gull flashed
past the window with a scream, as though it had seen
them and was repelled at the strange sight.
“Only kings can go into vacant spaces," murmured
Barrant's companion, intent on the game.
The result of the game was inconclusive. A king
remained surrounded by small cards, like a real mon-
arch overwhelmed by the rabble on May Day. Mrs.
Thalassa's eyes strayed mournfully over the rows, then
she gathered up the cards and shuffled them again.
“Do you know any other games of patience ?” Bar-
rant asked.
She shook her head.
“Then this is the game you were playing on that
night?”
“What night?" she whispered.
“The night Mr. Turold was killed.”
“I don't want to think of that-it frightens me."
She remembered, then! Her face went grey, but her
eyes were alert, watching his.
"Listen to me”—he spoke very gently—“I want to


CHAPTER XXX
direction d' to interp and can elear en
DARRANT hastened from the room downstairs to
the front door. From the open doorway he saw
Charles Turold advancing across the rocks in the
direction of the house, and he ran swiftly down the
gravel path to intercept him.
Charles looked up and came on as if there was noth-
ing to turn back for. His clear glance dwelt on the
figure by the gate without fear—with seeming gratifi-
cation. Barrant was amazed. He had been prepared
for an attempt at flight, but not this welcoming look.
Never before had he known a man show joy at the
prospect of arrest. The experience was so disturbing
that he went across the intervening space to meet
Charles, and laid a hand upon his arm.
“I suppose you know you are wanted by the police?"
he said.
“I am aware of it,” was the quiet reply. “I was
going to give myself up.”
“Did you come back to Cornwall for that purpose?”
asked the detective, shooting another puzzled glance
at him.
“I came back to try and discover the truth."
“About what?"
“About my uncle's death."
“And have you discovered it?"
“I have.”
Barrant did not understand the young man's atti-
tude, or the tone of heartfelt relief in which he uttered
these words, but he felt that the conversation in its
present form had gone far enough.
300


THE MOON ROCK
301
“Do you propose to tell me the truth?” he asked,
with a slight cynical emphasis on the last word.
“I do."
Barrant's surprise kept him silent for a moment,
but when he spoke he was very incisive
“In that case it is my duty to warn you— "
“There is no need to warn me,” Charles quickly in-
terrupted. “I know. Any statement I make will be
taken down and used against me. That's the formula,
isn't it, or something to that effect? Let us go into
the house--my story will take some time in the telling.”
He made this request as a right rather than a favour,
and Barrant found himself turning in at the gate with
him. In silence they walked to the house, and it was
Charles Turold who led the way to the sitting-room.
“It was here it began," he murmured, glancing
round the deserted apartment, “and it seems fitting
that the truth should be brought to light in the same
place.”
“Provided that it is the truth,” commented his com-
panion.
Charles did not reply. They had been standing face
to face, but he now drew a chair to the table and sat
down. Barrant walked to the door and locked it before
seating himself beside him.
“You can begin as soon as you like," he said.
“I think I had better tell you about my own actions,
first of all, on that night,” said Charles, after a brief
silence. “It will clear the way for what follows. I was
up here that night—the night of the murder."
“I know that much," was Barrant's cold comment.
“You suspected it-you did not know it,” Charles
quickly rejoined.
He remained profoundly silent for a moment, as if
meditating his words, and then plunged into his tale.
The account of his own visit to Flint House on the
night of the murder he related with details withheld


302
THE MOON ROCK
from Sisily. The visit was the outcome of a quarrel
between father and son over Robert Turold's announce-
ment about his wife's previous marriage. Charles was
shocked by his uncle's decision to make the story public,
and had wandered about the cliffs until dark trying to
decide what to do. Ultimately he returned home and
asked his father to use his influence with his brother
to keep the secret in the family. His father called
him a fool for suggesting such a thing, declined to of-
fend his brother or blast his own prospects by such
damned quixotic nonsense. On this Charles had an-
nounced his intention of seeing his uncle and telling
him he would leave England immediately and forever
unless the scandal was kept quiet. That made his
father angry, and they quarrelled violently. Charles
cut the quarrel short by flinging out of the house in the
rain, to carry out his intention of interviewing his uncle,
He walked across the moors to Flint House. The front
door was open, the downstairs portion of the house in
darkness, and his uncle lying upstairs in his study-
dead.
He hurried over all this as of small importance in the
deeper significance of Thalassa's story. That was to
him the great thing—the wonderful discovery which was
to clear Sisily and put everything right. He believed
that the plan which had brought him to Cornwall was
working splendidly. The chance encounter with the de-
tective was really providential-a speeding up, a saving
of valuable time.
The possibility of disbelief did not dawn upon him.
He overlooked that his listener was also his custodian
and judge—the suspicious arbiter of a belated story
told by one whose own actions were in the highest de-
gree suspicious. His overburdened mind forgot these
things in the excitement of hope. He talked with the
candour and freedom of one young man confiding in
another. When he had finished he looked at his com-


THE MOON ROCK
303
panion expectantly, but Barrant's eyes were coldly
official.
“A strange story!” he said.
“A true one,” Charles eagerly rejoined. “Thalassa
has been walking along the coast ever since in the ex-
pectation of finding this man. He will kill him if he
meets him.”
It was Barrant's lot to listen to many strange stories
which were always true, according to the narrators, but
generally they caused him to feel ashamed of the pov-
erty of human invention. He was not immediately
concerned to discover whether Thalassa's story was
true or false, or whether it had been concocted between
him and Charles with the object of deceiving the au-
thorities. The consideration of that infamous brown-
faced scoundrel's confession could be postponed-if it
had ever been made. The present business was with
Charles Turold. There was something infernally mys-
terious in his unexpected reappearance in that spot.
He had gone to London when he disappeared-he ad-
mitted that. What had brought him back? To see
Thalassa, as he said, in order to try and get at the
truth? Nonsense! Hem Barrant—was not simple
enough to believe that. What then?
Barrant was not prepared to supply a ready answer
to that question. But his trained ear had detected
many gaps in the young man's own narrative which,
filled in, might give it. Turold knew more than he had
said-he was keeping things back. Again—what
things? Behind him stood the shadowy figure of the
girl and her unexplained flight. Barrant's instinct
told him that Charles was shielding her. He turned
to the task of endeavouring to reach the truth.
“Let's go back a bit,” he said casually. “You've
left one or two points in your own story unexplained.
What about the key?”


304
THE MOON ROCK
“The key?" Charles started slightly. You
mean
“I mean the key of the room upstairs. You said you
found the key in the passage outside. You must have
locked the door after you and taken it away with you.”
“I did,” replied the young man, in some hesitation.
“For what reason?"
Charles realized that he was on very thin ice. In his
intense preoccupation with Thalassa's story he had
forgotten that his own impulsive actions on that night
must be construed as proof of his own guilt or bear too
literal interpretation of having been done to shield
Sisily. He saw that he was in a position of extraordi-
nary difficulty.
"I was hardly conscious of what I was doing, at the
time,” he said.
“You took the key away with you?”
Charles nodded with the feeling that the ice was
cracking beneath him.
“And how did it get back into the room afterwards?”
Charles paused to consider his reply, but the detec-
tive supplied it.
“The inference is fairly obvious," he said. “The
key was found inside the study after the locked door
was burst open. It was your father who found it, on
the floor. At least, he pretended to find it there. It
was your father who started the suicide theory." He
paused, then added in a smooth reflective voice, “Real-
ly, the whole thing was very ingenious. It reflects
much credit on both of you."
Charles spoke with an air of sudden decision.
“My father did these things to shield me,” he said.
“I did not want to reveal that, but I see that conceal-
ment will only direct unmerited suspicion to him. When
I returned from Flint House that night I let myself
in with my latchkey and went straight to my bedroom.
My clothes were wet through, and I lit a fire in my


THE MOON ROCK
305
room to dry them. As I was spreading them out in
front of the blaze the key of the study dropped out of
the waistcoat pocket on to the floor. I had forgotten
all about it till then. I picked it up and placed it on
the mantel-piece.
“Some time after I was aroused by my father enter-
ing the room. He had come to tell me of my uncle's
death—the news had just arrived from Flint House.
His face was very white. 'Your uncle has been found
dead-shot in his study,' he said. I had jumped up
when he came in and was standing in the centre of the
room. As he spoke his eyes travelled past me to my
wet clothes in front of the fire, and then returned to my
face with a strange expression. "Did you go to Flint
House?” he asked sharply. I could only nod. 'And
did you see him—your uncle?' was his next question.
On that, I told him the truth-told him what I had
found. I told him about locking the door, and showed
him the key on the mantel-piece. He slipped it in his
pocket, then turned and gave me a terrible look. 'I am
going over to Flint House,' he said, “but you had better
stay here.' And he left the room.”
“What time did you reach Flint House that night?"
asked Barrant.
Charles Turold realized that the critical moment had
come. He had foreseen it when he saw the detective
standing at the gate of Flint House. The relation
of Thalassa's story to Barrant had carried with it the
inevitable admission that Sisily was at Flint House
on the night of her father's death. The point Charles
had to decide was whether he should divulge the addi-
tional information that he had seen her leave Flint
House with Thalassa on that night. As he covered
the space which intervened between him and Barrant
waiting at the gate, he decided that the moment had
come to tell all he knew.
“I know now that it couldn't have been much after


306
THE MOON ROCK
half-past eight,” he said in reply to Barrant's ques-
tion.
“Did you see Miss Turold there?”
“I was coming to that. I was standing outside, con-
sidering what I would say to my uncle, when the door
opened and she and Thalassa came out.”
“Did you not speak to them?”
“I went to do so, but they disappeared in the dark-
ness of the moors before I could reach them. I hastened
after them, but I got off the road track and wandered
about the moors for nearly half an hour before I could
find my way back to Flint House."
“And found the door open and your uncle lying dead
upstairs?"
“Yes.”
“Why have you not come forward with this story
before?"
“How could I expect any one to believe a story which
sounds improbable in my own ears? Even my father
refused to believe it—then, or afterwards."
“Still, you might have cleared Miss Turold on the
question of time. There was the stopped clock, you
know. You reached Flint House shortly after half-
past eight, and went upstairs thirty minutes later."
Charles Turold was subtle enough to see that this
remark covered more than a trap. It suggested that
Barrant discredited the whole of his story. The hood
clock in the dead man's study had pointed to half-past
nine on the night he was killed. Thalassa's story, as
it stood, proved that Sisily must have left the house
long before then. But Charles's story threw suspicion
back on to Sisily by suggesting that the police had been
misled about the time of the murder, which must have
been committed at least half an hour earlier than they
assumed. Charles did not attempt to point out this
supposed flaw in the detective's reasoning. He con-


308
THE MOON ROCK
“It's rather a pity you didn't.” Barrant's tone was
not free from irony. “For then you might have secured
the proof which at present the story lacks.”
“There are other proofs," Charles earnestly con-
ţinued. “There were the marks on my uncle's arm, and
the letter he wrote to his lawyer under the influence of
the terror in which Thalassa found him—the fear
caused by overhearing Remington's footsteps. Tha-
lassa posted that letter.”
“Did he tell you so?” asked Barrant quickly. Then,
as Charles remained silent, he went on-
“How did you find out about the marks on your
uncle's arm?”
Charles hesitated before replying in a low voice
“I paid a visit to Flint House on the night after the
murder."
“For what purpose?”
“To see if I could find out anything which might
throw light on the mystery. I got in through a window
and went upstairs. I saw the marks ... then.”
“Did you discover anything else?”
“No; the dog started to bark, and I left as quickly
as I could.”
“I see.”
Barrant's voice was non-committal, followed after a
pause by a quick change of tone.
"I shall investigate this story later," he said coldly.
“Meantime "
“Why not investigate it immediately?” asked Charles
in a disappointed voice. "Thalassa will be back di-
rectly, or I can take you down to the cliffs were I left
him."
Barrant was reminded of the flight of time. It would
be as well to remove Charles before Thalassa returned.
Time enough for Thalassa's story later! At that mo-
ment it seemed to Barrant that the final solution of the
mystery was almost in his hands. Mrs. Thalassa had


THE MOON ROCK
309
probed endeck. The one
been wiser than he. The single game of patience sug-
gested the solution of the problem of the time. It did
more than that. It seemed to provide the key of the
greater problem of Charles Turold's actions on that
night. He had endeavoured to shield Sisily by altering
the hands of the clock. The rest, for the present, must
remain mere conjecture. One more question he es-
sayed-
“Can you tell me where Miss Turold is to be found?”
“I know, but I am not going to tell you."
Barrant's eye rested on Charles.
“You must come with me,” he said.
Charles nodded. Despairingly he reflected that the
interview had not turned out as he expected. There
were other means, and he must be patient.
And Sisily? There was anguish in that thought.


CHAPTER XXXI
hance harder the face he had seen in ug
I TITH a beating heart Sisily gained the shelter
of her room and locked the door, her eyes
glancing quickly around her. She did not ex-
pect to see anything there, but she had reached the
stage of instinctive terror when one fears lurking shad-
ows, unexpected noises, or an imagined alteration in
the contour of familiar things. There was nothing in
the room to alarm her, and her thoughts flew back to
the face of the man she had seen in the street outside.
The owner of the face had leered at first, and then his
glance hardened into suspicion as he looked. When
she hurried past him he had shifted his position to stare
at her by the light of the street lamp. Had he followed
her? That was the question she could not answer. She
had heard footsteps behind her in the dark street, horri-
ble stealthy footsteps which had caused terror to rush
over her like a flood, and sent her flying along the street
to her one haven. As she ran she had felt a touching
faith in the security of her room, if she could reach it.
Out there, in the open street, it had seemed impregnable,
like a fortress.
Now as she sat there she had a revulsion of feeling.
The room was not safe, the house was not safe. Not
now. She had been very imprudent. She had run
straight home to her hiding-place, her only refuge.
Why had she not waited to make sure that she was
followed? Then she could have slipped away in a dif-
ferent direction until she had evaded pursuit, and re-
turned to her room afterwards. She had been very
foolish.
She approached her window and gazed down, but
310


THE MOON ROCK
313
room of ra ed staying for a There was a groas seate
cance which might gather round her secret visit to Flint
House and her subsequent disappearance. Not even
when she heard of her father's death had the folly of
her contemplated action dawned on her. Her dreamy
unpractical temperament, keyed up to the great act
of abnegation, had not paused to consider what the
consequences might be to herself.
Lying there in the darkness of her room, she recalled
how that revelation had been made to her. It was the
first night after her arrival in London, in the drawing-
room of a private hotel near Russell Square, where she
had intended staying for a few days while she sought for
some kind of employment. There was a group of women
seated round the fireplace, talking. She was seated by
herself some distance away, turning over the leaves of
a magazine, when a loud remark by one of the speakers
startled her into an attitude of listening fear. “Have
you read about this Cornwall murder?” The words,
cold and distinct, had broken into her sad reflections
like a stone dropped from a great height. They had
gone on talking without looking at her, and she had
listened intently, masking her conscious features with
the open magazine. It was well that she did. They dis-
cussed the murder in animated tones. The strangest
case! . . . A great title ... the Turrald title . . . to
be heard before the House of Lords next week . . . and
now the claimant was murdered ... he was very
wealthy, too. Thus they talked; then the first voice,
which seemed to dominate all the others, broke in: “It
was thought to be suicide at first, but I see by to-
night's paper that his daughter is suspected. She has
disappeared, and is supposed to have fled to London.
What are girls coming to-always shooting somebody
or somebody shooting them! It's the war, I sup-
pose ..."
The shock of that double disclosure had been almost
too much to bear. Till then she had not known that


THE MOON ROCK
315
impelled her to glance through a window which looked
out on the moors and the rocks near the house.
Her eyes had fallen on a shape, shrouded in the ob-
scurity of the rocks not far from the window, which
seemed to have some semblance to the motionless figure
of a man. She had stood there for a moment, glancing
down intently, but it had not stirred. If it had human
semblance, it seemed to be carved in stone. She came
to the conclusion that she was mistaken. Experience
had taught her what strange shapes the rocks took after
nightfall. With another fleeting glance she had hur-
ried downstairs, and from the house.
She thought about it now without arriving at any
conclusion as to what it was that she had seen so indis-
tinctly-whether man or rock. Charles had been up
there that night, but it was not Charles. This figure
or rock was on the other side of the house.
Stupor descended gradually on her tired brain like the
coming of darkness, and she fell into sleep—the first
rest that had visited her since she learnt of Charles's
arrest. But her slumber was disturbed by dreams. She
dreamt that she was back in Cornwall, sitting on her
old perch at the foot of the cliffs, looking at the Moon
Rock. The face in the Rock was watching her, as it
had always watched her, but this time with a dreadful
sneer which she had never seen before. It frightened
her so that she moaned and tossed uneasily, and awoke
with a cry, shaking with terror.
As she reached out her hand for the matches by the
bedside to light the gas, the sound of the front door-bell
pealed through the house. Sisily sprang up, her eyes
seeking to pierce the darkness, her ears listening in-
tently. Who could it be? She was alone in the house.
Mrs. Johns had gone to one of her spiritualistic meet-
ings, and was not likely to be home until late. Besides,
she had her own key, with which she always let herself
in. She crept cautiously to the window and strained


316 :
THE MOON ROCK
shought, to be out there would be calm
her eyes downward. She was just able to catch a
glimpse of two vague figures underneath in the dark-
ness. The light of the street lamp glinted on some-
thing one of them was wearing on his head. It was a
policeman's helmet.
The terror of the hunted took possession of her. She
sought to remain calm; her trembling lips essayed a
sentence of a prayer. But it was no use. She was too
young for philosophy or Christian resignation. Terror
shook her with massive jaws. She did not want to be
caught, to be put in prison, to be killed. She wandered
aimlessly about the room like a trapped creature. She
must escape-she would escape!
With a great effort she calmed herself to reflect-to
calculate if there was any chance of getting away. She
esteemed it fortunate that she had not lit the gas in
her room. The whole house was in darkness. The po-
liceman might think there was nobody in, and go away.
But she dared not reckon on that.
There came another and louder ring of the bell down-
stairs.
Again she crept to the window and looked down. The
policeman and the other man were conferring in a mur-
mur which reached her ears. The policeman stepped
back into the garden path and scanned the darkened
windows of the house. She shrank back from the
window.
The ring was followed by the sound of knocking at
the front door-knocking heavy and prolonged, which
reverberated solemnly through the silent house. Then
once more there was silence.
In her ignorance of the methods of the law she won-
dered wildly whether the next step would be to break
in the door and search the house. Terror shook her
again at this thought, scorched her with burning breath.
She would escapeshe must. But how? Her finger-
nails pierced the palms of her hands as she vainly tried


THE MOON ROCK
319
Death would be better than that. She walked still more
rapidly.
With that possibility impending she shrank from any
chance contact with passers-by, turning into side streets
to avoid any one she saw coming. Once, a policeman,
appearing unexpectedly out of the shadows, set her
heart beating wildly, but he passed by without looking
at her.
It grew later, and the streets became quite deserted.
She had been walking for more than an hour when she
noticed that the houses were scattered, with open spaces
now and then, and a bracing freshness in the air which
suggested that she was getting away from where the
herds of London slept, into open spaces. For some ob-
scure reason this made her nervous, and she turned back.
After a while London closed in on her again, but this
time in a more squalid quarter, a wilderness of dirty
narrow streets, where even in the darkness the debasing
marks and odours of squalid poverty were perceptible
in the endless rows of houses which seemed to crowd in
upon her. She came to a bridge and crossed it into an
area of gaunt and darkened factories. Here, strange
nocturnal noises and sights frightened her. She saw
shadowy forms, and heard rough voices on a wharf in
the blackness of the river beneath her, followed by a
woman's scream. She ran when she heard that-ran
along the riverside till she came to another bridge, which
she recrossed. She found herself in a quieter and better
part of London, where the streets were wide and well-
kept, and she slackened her pace into a walk again.
The night wore on like eternity, with immeasurable
slowness yet incredible swiftness. She had been walking
for hours, and yet she had no feeling of fatigue. She
seemed to move through the streets without any effort
of her own. Towards the morning she was carried
along with a complete absence of bodily sensation, as
if she had been in very truth one of those disembodied


320
THE MOON ROCK
spirits of Mrs. Johns' spirit world, driven through the
solitude of the ages by the implacable decree of some
incalculable malignant force called immortality. She
felt as though centuries of time had rolled over her
head when the murk of the lowering sky lightened, and
the London dawn was born, naked and grey.
The dawn brought London to life with a speed which
was in the nature of a miracle. From the appearance
of the first workers to the flocking of the streets, was,
as it were, but a moment. The 'buses and trams com-
menced running, and shops opened. Sisily found her-
self walking along Holborn, where the thickening
crowds jostled her as she walked. But she did not
care for that now, nor did she seek the comparative
seclusion of the side streets. Her fear of capture had
passed away, and her only feeling was impenetrable
isolation and loneliness. The people who were passing
had no more existence to her than if they had been a
troop of ghosts. She had the sensation of belonging to
another world and could not have communicated with
them if she had wished. But the spirit which had sus-
tained her during the night disappeared with the
clamorous advance of the day. She became in an in-
stant conscious of the grievous pangs of a body which
seemed to have been flung back to her in a damaged
state. It ached all over. Her head throbbed with a
dull buzzing sound, and she was so tired that she could
hardly stand. She felt as if she must lie down-in the
street, anywhere. And she was tormented by thirst.
But she still kept on.
She found herself, after a while, by one of those
little backwaters which are the salvation of strangers
to London: a green railed square, with trees and foun-
tains, and a quiet pavement where a street artist was
drawing bright pictures with crayons. An old four-
wheeler was moored in the gutter by the entrance, the
horse munching in the depths of a nose-bag, the elderly


THE MOON ROCK
321
driver reclining against the side of the cab, smoking
and watching the pavement artist.
Sisily entered the empty square to rest herself. As
she sat there on one of the wooden seats the full misery
of her situation came home to her, and she asked herself
anxiously what she was to do. She had nowhere to go,
and no money to buy food or shelter-nothing in the
world that she could call her own except the clothes
she was wearing. They were the coat and skirt she had
put on to come to London, and she noticed with femi-
nine concern that the dark cloth showed disreputable
stains and splashes of her night's exposure. Hastily
she took her handkerchief from her pocket to remove
the tell-tale marks. As she did so a bit of buff card-
board fluttered on to the gravel at her feet. She
stooped and picked it up. It was the return half of
her ticket to Cornwall.
The remembrance of her arrival at Paddington re-
vived in her as she looked at it—the fright she had
had when the ticket collector caught her by the arm
to return half of the whole ticket she had given up.
She had put the ticket in the pocket of her jacket and
never thought of it again. Had Fate decreed her or-
iginal mistake of taking a return ticket when she
needed only a single one? She was at that moment
inclined to think so.
The question of its use was decided as soon as she
saw it. The ticket would take her back to Cornwall
and Thalassa. Thalassa would help and shield her.
The gilt hands of a church clock opposite the square
pointed to half-past eight. She knew that the morning
express for Cornwall started shortly after ten, but she
did not know what part of London she was in or the
direction of Paddington. Animated by a new hope,
she left her seat and asked the cabman for directions.
The cabman looked at her with a ruminating eye.
That eye, with unfathomable perspicacity, seemed to


322
THE MOON ROCK
to pry into her empty pockets and pierce her penniless
state. He did not ask her if she wanted to be driven
there, but intimated with a shake of his grey head that
Paddington was a goodish walk. Then he gave her
directions for finding it-implicit and repeated direc-
tions, as though his all-seeing eye had also divined that
she was a stranger to the ways of London.
Sisily thanked him and turned away, repeating his
directions so that she should not have to ask anybody
else. First to the right, second to the left, along Tot-
tenham Court Road to Oxford Street, up Oxford Street
to Edgeware Road, down Edgeware Road to Praed
Street—so it ran. She followed them carefully, and
found herself on Paddington station a quarter of an
hour before the departure of the express.
She entered a third-class carriage, but sat in a cor-
ner seat, longing for the train to move out. The min-
utes dragged slowly, and passengers kept thronging in.
All sorts of people seemed to have business in Cornwall
at that late season of the year. They came hurrying
along in groups looking for vacant compartments.
Sisily kept an eager eye upon the late arrivals, hoping
that they would pass by her compartment. By some
miraculous chance she was left undisturbed until almost
starting time, then a group of fat women dashed along
the platform with the celerity of fear, and crowded
ponderously in. The next moment the train began to
slip away from the station, and was soon rushing into
the open country at high speed.
Of the details of that journey she knew nothing at
all. She sat staring out of the window, her thoughts
racing faster than the train. The events of the last
few days receded from her mental vision like the flying
houses and fields outside the carriage window, fading
into some remote distance of her mind. Relief swelled
in her heart as the train rushed west and London was
left farther and farther behind. Something within her


324
THE MOON ROCK
She awoke with a start to find that it was getting dusk
‘and the train was running smoothly through South
Cornwall. As she looked out of the window a grey
corpse of a hill seemed to rise out of the sea. It was
Mount St. Michael. Then she caught a glimpse of
Carn Brea and the purple moors. The people in the
carriage began to collect light luggage and put on coats
and wraps. The next moment the train came to a
standstill at Penzance station.
She clung to the safety of the throng in passing
through the barrier, fearing most the St. Fair wagon-
ette which might be drawn up outside. She was not
known in Penzance, but the driver of the wagonette
might recognize her. But Mr. Crows, indifferent to
shillings, had not yet arrived. Sisily hurried past a
group scanning the distant heights for the gaunt out-
line of the descending cab, like shipwrecked mariners on
the look-out for a sail.
She reached the moor road by a short cut through
the back part of the town, and set out for Flint House
in the velvety shadows of the early gloaming.
It had been raining, but the rain had ceased. The
sun, hidden through a long grey day, shone with dying
brilliance in a patch of horizon blue, gilding the wet
road, and making the wayside puddles glitter like mir-
rors. A soddened little bird twittered joyfully in the
hedge, casting a round black eye at her as she passed.
The moors, carpeted with purple, stretched all around
her, glistening, wet, beautiful.
In the train she had felt hungry and tired, with
burning head and cold limbs. As she walked these
feelings wore off, and were replaced by a feeling of
upliftment which was magical in its change. Her mis-
ery and her burden dropped from her. The softness
of the moors was beneath her feet, and a sweet wind
touched her lips and cheeks with a breath which was
a caress. The plaintive distant cry of a gull reached


THE MOON ROCK
325
her like a greeting. The solitude of Cornwall sur-
rounded her.
When she reached the cross-roads she struck out
across the moors. Before her, at no great distance,
she could see the swelling mountainous reaches of green
water breaking on the rocks in a long white line of foam,
and the dark outline of Flint House clinging to the
dizzy summit of the black broken cliffs.
Her false strength failed her suddenly as she neared
her journey's end. The house loomed dimly before her
tired vision in the fast gathering darkness. She stum-
bled with faltering steps round the side of the house
to the kitchen door, and turned the handle. It was
locked. She knocked loudly.
As in a vision she saw the white furtive face of Mrs.
Thalassa peering out at her from the window, and her
fluttering hands pressed against the glass, as though
to thrust her back. Sisily rushed to the window.
“Let me in!” she cried. “It is l_Sisily.”
The window opened suddenly, and Mrs. Thalassa
stood there looking out at her like a small grey ghost-
a ghost with watchful glittering eyes.
“Go away-go away,” she whispered with a cunning
glance. “Quick! They're looking for you—they'lí
catch you.”
Sisily's heart went cold within her. “Where is Tha-
lassa?” she faltered. “Send him to me tell him I
have come back.” Her eyes travelled vainly around the
gloom of the empty kitchen in search of him.
“He's gone - gone away!"
“Gone? Oh, no, no! Don't say that. Where has
he gone?”
"I don't know. He went away. He's not coming
back.” She shook her head angrily, with a wild gleam
in her eye. “You go away, too, or they'll catch you-
the police. They come every night to look for you."
She cast another cunning look at the girl, and shut


THE MOON ROCK
327
the sea with a splash, as if dislodged by a giant foot.
As though that signalled the cockcrow of their glee,
the dancers stopped in listening attitudes, and sank
back into rocks once more.
Sisily turned her eyes weakly from the slumbering
rocks to the hills. The light of a coming moon behind
them showed the outline of the granite pillars and stone
altars of the Druids, where they had once sought to
appease their savage gods, like the Israelites of old.
Sisily had often meditated by these places of sacrifice,
trying to picture the scene. Now, as she looked, it was
enacted before her eyes. A red light brooded on one
of the hills, growing brighter and brighter. Brutish
shaggy figures came out of the darkness, dragging a
youth to the altar. Sisily saw him distinctly. He was
naked, with a beautiful face, haggard and white, and
was bound with cords. Suddenly he freed himself, and
dashed down the slope into the darkness. He was pur-
sued and brought back, and the cries of his pursuers
mingled with an appalling scream for help which seemed
to float down the mountain side to where she lay, filling
the silent air with echoes.
This scene, too, faded away, and the beams of the
rising moon, now beginning to show over the hill-tops,
formed in her mind the mirage of a beautiful day—one
of those exquisite days which Nature produces at long
intervals. Sisily saw a blue sky, sunlight like burnished
silver, green fields and clear pools in which everything
was reflected ...a slumbrous perfect day, with
drowsy cattle knee-deep in grass, bees, and floating
butterflies, and the shrill notes of happy birds.
Once more the tangled loom of her fevered brain
wove a new picture. She was back in her bedroom at
Flint House, looking down at the graven face of the
Moon Rock. As she looked, a great hand seemed to
come out of the sea and beckon to her. The summons
was one she dare not disobey. She left her bed, crept


328
THE MOON ROCK
downstairs in the darkness, out to the edge of the
cliff, and looked down. The face of the Moon Rock
was watching her intently. She thought it called her
name,
Ah, what was that cry? She came to her senses,
startled, and looked fearfully round her. She was alone
on the cliffs, above the Moon Rock, and she could hear
the sea hissing at its base. But what else had she
heard? Had somebody called her name? It was still
very dark. To the south the light of the Lizard stabbed
the black sky with a white flaming finger as if seeking
to pierce the darkness of eternity. Nearer, the red
light of the Wolf rock gleamed—a warning to passing
souls flying southward from England to eternal bliss
to fly high above the rock where the spirit dog lay
howling in wait. Had the cry come from there?
“Sisily! Sisily !”
No. It was not the howl of the Wolf dog that she
had heard. That was her own name. She crept closer
to the edge of the cliff and looked down into the sea-
down at the Moon Rock. The old Cornish legend of
the drowned love came back to her. Was Charles
dead? and calling her to him? She would go to him
gladly. She had loved him in life, and if he wanted
her in death she would go to him.
She clutched a broken spur of rock on the brink and
looked down to where the sea bored round the black
sides of the Moon Rock. She could see her own pool
too, lying peaceful and calm in the encircling arm of the
rock. In her delirium she struggled to her feet and
started to climb down the face of the cliff.


THE MOON ROCK
331
and I won't let you in. You killed your father, and
you'd like to kill me, but I'll keep you locked out. Go
away!” Her voice rose to a screech,
The blood rushed to Thalassa's head as he listened
to these words. He understood quite suddenly-this
was not a demented raving. Sisily had been there she
had come back to him in her fear-and she had been
driven away. He turned to his wife and caught her
up in his great arms, shaking her violently, as one
shakes a child. The sight was terrible and absurd, but
there was no one to witness it but the dog, who circled
round and round in yelping excitement, as though the
scene was enacted for his benefit alone.
“Has Miss Sisily been here?”
The question thundered out in the empty silence.
Mrs. Thalassa crouched like a preposterous hunched-
up doll on the seat where her husband had flung her,
looking up at him with stupid eyes, but not speaking.
He approached her again.
"Speak, woman, speak, or I'll strangle you."
She backed away, whimpering with fear. “No, no,
Jasper, leave me alone.”
“Has Miss Sisily been here?”
The sight of those long outstretched hands, by their
menace to her life, seemed to restore her reason. “Yes,"
she mumbled.
“When?"
“This evening—before dark—when you were out.”
“And you wouldn't let her in?"
"No."
“How did you know it was her?"
“She knocked at the door, and I looked out of the
window.”
“Did you see which way she went?”
“Over by the cliffs, where she used to go.”
Thalassa repeated these last words mechanically.
Anger possessed him, but apprehension stirred in his


334
THE MOON ROCK
A giant's strength still lurked in his ageing frame. It
was well for him that it did. He had only his feet to
depend upon in that long slippery ascent, and the wind
tugged at him angrily, as if anxious to jerk him off
the path into the sea. But he fought his way up with
his burden, though his body was swaying and his head
was dizzy when he reached the top.
He did not stop for a moment. Still holding her fast
he set out, not for Flint House, but to the churchtown.
Dizzy, panting, and staggering, he struggled on across
the moors, and as he walked he listened anxiously for
any sound from the inanimate form in his arms.
But she lay still and motionless against his breast.
On he went until he reached the churchtown, and
made his way up the empty street to Dr. Ravenshaw's
house. He turned in the garden gate, and beat with
his heavy boot against the closed door.


CHAPTER XXXIII
COME ONE stirred within, and a ray of light in the
O fanlight grew bright as footsteps in the pas-
sage drew near. The door opened, and showed
the figure of Dr. Ravenshaw holding in his hand a
lighted lamp which shone upon Thalassa and the drip-
ping figure in his arms. The doctor looked down from
the doorstep in silent surprise, then stepped quickly
back from the threshold and opened the surgery door,
holding the lamp high to guide Thalassa in.
“There on the couch,” he said, placing the lamp
on the table. “What has happened?”
“Miss Sisily fell over the cliffs by the Moon Rock.
I found her and carried her up, and brought her
straight here."
The doctor's quick glance was a professional tribute
to the strength of a frame capable of performing such
a feat. He turned his attention to Sisily, bending over
her and feeling her pulse. With a sharp exclamation
he dropped her wrist and tore open the front of her
dress, placing his hand on her heart. With his other
hand he took up his stethoscope from the table.
“Bring that lamp closer-quick!” he cried.
Thalassa lifted the lamp from the table and stood
beside him. The yellow glow of the lamp enveloped the
livid bluish features of Sisily and the stooping form
with the stethoscope. The instrument of silver and
rubber held miraculous possibilities of life and death
to Thalassa. He watched it anxiously-directed the
light upon it. The shape on the couch remained mo-
tionless.
Thalassa's gaze wandered from the stethoscope to
335


336
THE MOON ROCK
Dr. Ravenshaw. The doctor's bent neck showed white
between the top of his shirt and the grey hair above
it. He was wearing no collar, so he must have been
going to bed—when the knock came. Thalassa's eyes
dwelt on the exposed flesh with a steady yet wondering
contemplation. The lamp in his hand wavered
slightly.
Dr. Ravenshaw rose to his feet, oblivious of the man
who was staring at his neck from behind. His down-
ward glance rested on Sisily's face, and his eyes were
grave. He turned away and walked out of the room,
but returned almost immediately with a small mirror,
“Hold the lamp higher," he said to Thalassa. "I
want the light to fall right on her face. Higher still
so.”
He fell on his knees by the couch and held the mir-
rored side of the glass to Sisily's lips. The lamp, held
aloft, illumined his face as well as hers. His features
were set and rigid.
Thalassa stood still, his eyes brooding on the sharp
outline of the bent mask. A vague idea, startling and
terrible, was magnifying itself in his mind. Once his
glance wandered to Ravenshaw's neck, then returned
with growing fixity to his face, seen at closer range than
he had ever beheld it. In the vivid light the elemental
lines beneath the changes of time took on a strange
resemblance to a face he had known in the distant past.
A spectral being seemed to rise from the dead and
resume life in the kneeling body of Dr. Ravenshaw.
Involuntarily he stepped back, and the likeness van-
ished in the added distance. The veil of the past was
dropped again. He could see nothing now but the com-
monplace whiskered face of an elderly Cornish doctor
bending over the inanimate form on the couch. Again
the lamp shook slightly.
“What are you doing with that light?” said Raven-


THE MOON ROCK
339
opened rapidly with a quickness of action which had
something vaguely menacing in it.
“I know your eyes now," he mumbled. “With the
glasses on, you're different. That's why ye wore them,
I suppose. Turold heered ye that night you killed 'un.
He knew your footstep-or thought he did. I laughed
at him. A' would to God A’mighty I'd hearkened to
him, and then I might a' catched you. How did ye get
away from the island ?”
Ravenshaw raised his head to reply, then stood mute,
in a listening attitude. Outside the window the sound
of footsteps crunched the gravel walk, and approached
the house. Thalassa heard and listened too. The
crunching ceased, and there was a knock at the door.
Thalassa looked questioningly at Ravenshaw, who nod-
ded in the direction of the door.
"Open it,” he said. Thalassa hesitated. His eyes
sought the couch. “Yes, in here,” said Ravensb-un-
derstandingly. “We shall want witnesses.”
Thalassa went to the door and opened it.
A man's voice in the darkness asked for Dr. Raven-
shaw, and the owner of the voice stepped quickly inside
at Thalassa's invitation. The visitor peered at the
tall figure in the unlighted passage. “Is it you, Tha-
lassa ?” he said hesitatingly, and Thalassa recognized
the voice of Austin Turold. The voice went on: “Tell
me »
"In there.” Thalassa jerked his head towards the
gleam falling through the partly open surgery door.
“He wants you.” He walked ahead and pushed the
door open. Austin Turold followed, but started back
as he looked within. Then he entered, his eyes dwell-
ing on the shadowy outline on the couch in the corner.
“What has happened at Flint House, Ravenshaw?
Now-to-night, I mean.” He spoke shakily. “There's
a story abroad of Thalassa having been seen carrying


340
THE MOON ROCK
a figure through the churchtown and entering your
house. Has somebody fallen off the cliffs-been
drowned? Is that it?" He stepped quickly across to
the couch, and, looking down, as swiftly recoiled.
“What does this mean?" he hoarsely cried.
Ravenshaw did not speak.
“Miss Sisily fell over the cliffs by the Moon Rock,"
said Thalassa. “I went down for her, but it was too
late. She was drowned."
Austin's look sought Ravenshaw's, who nodded in
confirmation.
“More horror-more misery,” whispered Austin. A
shudder ran through him. “I do not understand," he
said simply. “Thalassa ?”
“It's not for me to explain," said Thalassa quickly.
“You then, Ravenshaw."
Ravenshaw spoke slowly.
“They have been looking for the man who killed Rob-
ert Turold-your brother. Well, I am he.”
“You !” gasped Austin, in a choking voice. "What
do you mean? I do not understand you. My son has
been arrested.”
“He has been arrested wrongly, then. It is I-I
alone am responsible.”
Austin groped for his glasses like a man suddenly
enveloped in darkness. His fingers closed on them and
adjusted them on the bridge of his nose. Through
them he surveyed the man before him with close atten-
tion.
“Ravenshaw," he said gravely, “either you are mad
or I am. Did not my sister call here to see you on the
night my brother was killed, and did you not go with
her to Flint House and break into my brother's room?
How, then, could you have killed Robert? Besides, I
saw my son at Penzance to-day. He tells me he is inno-
cent, and that the murderer is a man whom Robert and
Thalassa robbed and wounded on a lonely island thirty


THE MOON ROCK
343
wanted to know-really. One's misfortunes are never
interesting to other people.
“I had a little money left when I landed in England
-not much, but sufficient to take me to my wife and
support me until I found Robert Turold. I had left
my wife living with her parents in a London suburb.
Robert Turold and I had both been in love with her
before we left England. She loved me, but he had some
strange kind of influence over her—the dominance of a
strong nature over a weak, I think. Or perhaps it was
a more primitive feminine instinct. He was always the
strong man-even then-ruthless, determined. It was
strange that he should have loved such a gentle timid
creature, though that, perhaps, was not so strange as
a man like Robert Turold loving any woman. But
love her he did.
“She had a great capacity for affection—she was one
of those women who have to love, and be loved. Her
guileless face, her appealing eyes, seemed to beseech
the protection of a masculine shield in a world which
has no mercy for the weak. She was born to be guided,
to be led. It was my fear of her simple trustful disposi-
tion which led me to urge her to marry me secretly
before I left England with Turold. Her parents did
not favour me, and they wished their daughter to
marry well—there was an aunt from whom she had ex-
pectations, and the aunt had a prospective husband in
view for her. I feared their joint influence. She con-
sented willingly enough; she was easy to persuadeon
the eve of our parting. She clung to me weeping-her
husband.
“I was to make enough money to return to England
to claim her in a year or so—that was the plan. But
I had been absent nearly three when I was left on the
island. And another twelve months passed before I
reached England again. Four years! A long time.
Almost any combination of circumstances can be


344
THE MOON ROCK
brought about in such a period. People die, marry, or
can be forgotten as though they had never existed. It
was my lot to be forgotten.
“I hastened to London, to my wife's old home, and
learnt that the family no longer lived there. Where
had they gone to? The maid who opened the door
could not tell me—she did not know. At my request
she went for her mistress. The lady of the house came
down to me, a tall slender woman, indifferent, but well-
bred enough to be polite. She had taken the house from
the Bruntons, she said. It was too large for them
after their daughter's marriage. It was dusk, and she
could not see my face, but she heard my startled ex-
clamation—Married? To whom? To a Mr. Turold
--a very suitable match. They had been married for
some months, and she was expecting a child.
“How she gathered that last piece of information I
do not know. Perhaps she and Mrs. Brunton exchanged
letters—women write to one another on the slightest
pretexts. That thought made me cautious. Fortunate-
ly, I had not given my name. I thanked her, and rose
to go. She offered to write down the Bruntons' address
for me (they had gone to live in the country), but I
said I could remember it. And I got away from the
house in the gathering darkness without her actually
seeing my face-not that it would have mattered much
if she had.
“I thought it all over that night. I visualized read-
ily enough what had happened. Robert Turold, return-
ing to England with some concocted story of my death,
had swept her off her feet, caught her on the rebound.
He had returned a prosperous man, and doubtless his
love-making was reinforced by Alice's worldly parents
and the match-making old aunt. The combination was
a strong one, and I was supposed to be dead. So she
married him, without breathing a word to anybody of
her previous secret marriage to me. I realized that


THE MOON ROCK
345
at once. She would be too afraid-left to herself. She
would tell herself that it wasn't worth while that no-
body need ever know now. I could imagine her twisting
her little hands together in apprehension as she faced
the problem-our secret—then gradually becoming
calmer as something whispered in her ear that it was
her secret now, and need not be told. You see, I knew
her nature so well. There are many such natures-
gentle souls who shrink from responsibility in a world
which, sooner or later, generally sees to it that we
are compelled to shoulder the burden of our own
acts.
“I was not long in making up my mind. I deter-
mined to do nothing. I take no special credit to my-
self for that decision. The marriage with Robert Tur-
old was an accomplished fact, and my belated reappear-
ance upon the scene would have plunged her in unhap-
piness. She was about to become a mother, too. That
weighed with me. I loved her far too well to injure her
or her child. It meant letting Robert Turold go free
if I remained dead, but there are other things in life
besides money and revenge. Fortunately the position
from the practical point of view was simplified by the
death of my only relative, my uncle, during my absence
from England, who had bequeathed his small property
to me—not much, but sufficient for my own simple
needs.
"I took my uncle's name, the better to conceal my
identity, and resumed the medical studies which had
been interrupted by my departure from England four
years before. When I received my degree I searched
for a remote spot where I was not likely to encounter
any one who had known me in my past life, and chose
this lonely part of the Cornish coast. And here I have
remained for thirty years.
“They have not been unhappy years. It was not
my disposition to waste my life by hugging the illu-


346
THE MOON ROCK
sions of the past. My days were occupied walking long
distances to see my patients scattered at distant inter-
vals on this desolate coast, and my nights I spent in
antiquarian and archaeological studies, which were al-
ways a favourite pursuit of mine. It was a hobby
which earned me some local repute in the course of the
years, and was ultimately the means of bringing me
face to face with Robert Turold again. That was the
last thing in the world I desired to happen. In the
early years I used to think of him wedded to my wife,
and wonder whether he had succeeded in his great ambi-
tion. After a while the memory faded, as most mem-
ories do with the passing of the years.
“Then the meeting came—six months ago. I heard
Flint House was let, though not to whom. The news
did not interest me. But next evening, when I returned
from my rounds, my servant met me at the door with
the information that the new tenant of Flint House
was in the consulting-room waiting to see me.
“I went in. The tall elderly figure sitting there rose
at my entrance and said: 'Not a patient, doctor-
quite another matter.' I started slightly at the familiar
ring to that harsh authoritative voice, but I did not
know who he was until he handed me his card. He had
already commenced talking about that accursed title
as he did so, and he did not notice my agitation. He
had come to Cornwall in pursuit of the last pieces of
evidence for his family tree, and some local busybody
had told him that I was versed in Cornish antiquities
and heraldry. That piece of information had brought
him to me. He begged for my assistance—my valuable
assistance-in elucidating the last scraps of his gene-
alogy from the graves of the past.
"I could have cut him short by laughing aloud-
though not in mirth. I had regained my self-command,
for I saw that he had not the slightest suspicion to
whom he was talking. That in itself was not surpris-


THE MOON ROCK
347
ing. I had not recognized him. And how much greater
was the change in my own case! Time alters us all in
a much less period than thirty years, and there was
more than the passage of time. Those months of hor-
rible solitude on that island had changed me into an
old man in appearance, with grey hair, and bleared and
weak eyes from the sulphur fumes. And Time had
made the disguise impenetrable in the thirty added
years. I was an old man. My hair and beard were
white, and I wore thick glasses. I felt I need be under
no apprehension of Robert Turold recognizing me-
then, or at any time, unless I was careless.
“His request for my help had a strange fascination
for me. There was an uncanny thrill in sitting there
within an arm's length of him, meeting his unsus-
picious glance, and listening to him with the knowledge
that I could have put his plans and ambitions to flight
with a single word, and had him begging for mercy.
I was in the position of Providence, and withheld my
hand, as Providence generally does. My desire to
punish Robert Turold had long since died. At sixty,
revenge is a small thing. What is human retribution
to the ferocity of Time's revenge on us all? Retribu-
tion and Justice these are human catchwords, signi-
fying nothing. What is Justice? Who is to judge
when the scales are even? It was easier to comply with
his request than arouse suspicion by refusal, but that
wasn't what weighed with me. I wanted to see more
of him, to win his confidence, if possible. I was curious
to know what kind of life he had given the woman for
whose sake I had let him go free for thirty years.
“He took a liking to me. My knowledge of ancient
Cornish lore proved useful in the final stages of his
search-his thirty years' search for a family tree. It
was not long before I discovered that he had found
no happiness in life. At times his face wore a hunted
look-the look of a man who walked his days in fear.
I was in therovidence and long since man retribut
thing. wing since dichly desire to


THE MOON ROCK
349
not give away a woman,that is one of the rules. Rob-
ert Turold put a woman to shame in her coffin.
“I had kept out of her way, never going to Flint
House because I feared her feminine eyes might be too
sharp for me. But she fell ill, and Robert Turold asked
me to attend her. Refusal was impossible, as there
was no other doctor nearer than Penzance.
“She did not recognize me—at first, but the shock I
received when I saw her left me almost stunned. I had
carried her memory through the years—the image of a
pretty slim girl, with brown hair and eyes, and kind
of soft vivacity which was her greatest charm. In her
place I found, lying there, a withered grey woman with
dim eyes and broken spirit. God knows what she had
gone through at his hands, but it had destroyed her.
"It was her death-bed. She was worn out in body
and spirit, and had no strength to rally. She was weeks
dying, but her life was steadily ebbing all that time. It
was a kind of slow fever. She was delirious when I first
saw her, and delirious or unconscious, with few lucid
intervals, until she died. And the jargon of her wan-
dering mind was in reality the outpouring of a tortured
soul. It was the title and the family name-always
that, and nothing else. She wasn't well-born enough or
sufficiently educated to bear the title as his wife-it
seemed that that fact had been impressed on her again
and again in the long lean years of the search for the
family tree. Let her go away ... go away somewhere
quietly with Sisily, and she would never bother him any
more. That was the unceasing burden of her cry, a cry
to which I was compelled to listen with a torn heart.
“The reserve, the frame of mind, which I wore like
armour in Robert Turold's company I dropped alto-
gether at her bedside. Her lucid intervals were few,
but I was not afraid of her recognizing the old Cornish
doctor with his muffler, his glasses, his shaggy white
hair and beard. The daily sight of her shrunken age-


350
THE MOON ROCK
ing features reminded me that I had nothing to fear-
that Time had effectually disguised us from each other's
recognition. We were old, we two. Life had receded
from us—what had we to do with its fever, its regrets,
its passions and futile joys? The clock had ticked the
time away, the fire was dying out, the hearth desolate
and cold. I was resigned before, I was resigned then.
I did what I could for her, which was little enough.
Human progress, such as it is, has been acquired
through the spirit. The body defies us—we have no
control over it. So she died-mercifully unconscious
most of the time—and died, as I had hoped, without the
least suspicion of the truth.
“You cannot faintly imagine the shock of Turold's
announcement on the day of her burial, to me, who had
been so arrogantly certain that the secret was safe. If
you remember what took place at Flint House on that
occasion you will recall that it was a question from me
which brought the truth to light. Your brother's an-
swer awakened my suspicions, and made me determined
to find out what he actually knew. He brought out the
truth then, as I've no doubt now he intended to do in
any case.
“The puzzle to me was the exact extent of his knowl-
edge. He knew two things for certain. One was that I
had married Alice before leaving England, and the other
was that I was still alive. But he obviously did not
know that I was Remington. How had he found out
the two facts? I guessed that the woman he believed
to be his wife had revealed the secret of her earlier
marriage on her death-bed, but the other was a problem
which I could not solve. Nor did I try to. When I
reached home I went mad. The calmness, the self-re-
pression of thirty years, vanished in an instant in the
monstrous infamy of that disclosure. There was some-
thing too horribly sinister in the character of a man


THE MOON ROCK
353
to exact my terms with a cold logical brain. I did none
of these things. Without a word of warning, before
he even knew I was in the room, I sprang on him, clutch-
ing him, shaking him in a blind insensate fury till my
strength suddenly failed me and left me sick and giddy.
“'I am Remington," I said—'Jim Remington. I
leaned against the table, panting and exhausted, looking
at him. His self-control was something to marvel at.
He just sat still, returning my look with cold motion-
less eyes, no doubt trying to discern the features of
the man he had wronged through the film of age. But
in spite of his self-control I could see the grey pallor
of fear creeping into his face, and he could not keep
his lips from trembling. Twice he essayed to speak,
but his mouth refused to utter the words. What he
did say was strange to me, when he got it out at last.
'I was right-I heard him whisper, almost to himself-
'I knew, I knew.' He repeated those words several times.
It was then I saw that his self-control arose from the
fact that although he was terrified he did not appear
to be so greatly surprised. Surprised he was, but not
in the way I had expected. His prime difficulty seemed
to be to get out of his head the identity by which he
had known me. You are Ravenshaw-Dr. Ravenshaw,'
he said. "How can you be Remington?' He brought
out this with an effort, like a man trying to shake off
an unreasoning horror.
“I had expected him to face it out, to challenge me,
perhaps deny all knowledge of my existence. Instead,
he merely sat there staring at me with an air of terrified
realization, like a person gazing upon the dreadful ma-
terialization of an expected phantom. I told him the
truth in the fewest possible words, and he listened si-
lently, never removing his eyes from me, the phantom
of his past. When I had finished he lay back in his
chair, but his eyes stared up at me with a kind of dead


356
THE MOON ROCK
never likely to come to light if he entered into a com-
pact of silence.
“He sat for a few moments as if contemplating the
alternatives I had placed before him—sat with one hand
in his table-drawer, seeking for papers, I thought. He
desisted from doing this, and said quite suddenly, “The
proofs are in the clock-case.'
"I had no suspicion. He had once shown me a curi-
ous receptacle in the bottom of the clock-case, where
he kept papers. I went towards the clock, and was
stooping over the drawer in the bottom of the case when
I heard a swift footstep behind me. I turned. He was
approaching with a revolver. The secret of his dis-
closure and the open drawer were explained. I suppose
I owed my life to his dim sight, which compelled him
to come so near.
“I sprang at him, and we struggled. That struggle
brought down the clock with a shattering crash. Rob-
ert Turold and I were locked in one another's arms,
wrestling desperately for the revolver, when I saw the
great moon face of the clock flit past my vision like the
face of a man taking a header off a pier. The crash
startled Robert Turold. His hand loosened, and I got
the revolver from him. As I tore it from his fingers
it went off, and shot him.
"He backed away from me with a kind of frozen smile,
then crumpled up and slid to the floor. I bent over
him. He made a slight movement, but I could see that
he was dying—that he had only a very few moments
to live.
“Coolly and rapidly I reflected. The fall of the
clock would be heard downstairs. Flight! There was
a chance, if Thalassa had not returned. My other in-
stinct was to secure the proofs first, though they were
really useless then. I rummaged in the clock-case, and
found a large envelope which I stuffed in my pocket.
The face stared up at me; the clock had stopped at a


THE MOON ROCK
357
opent on some hen I should clock, then
minute to nine. I had an idea—an inspiration. I
pulled the long hand down to the hour-half—to half-
past nine. If I escaped from the house undiscov-
ered, with only that half-stupid little woman down-
stairs, I would rush across the moors home-call my
servant on some pretext as soon as I got in, and ask
her the time. Then I should be quite safe could defy
everybody. Make it ten o'clock, then! No—too long
to be safe. It might be discovered.
"It is strange how quickly the brain works when the
instinct of self-preservation is aroused. These thoughts
flashed through my mind in a kind of mental lightning.
In the briefest possible space of time I was on my feet
and out of the room. I locked the door on the outside,
intending to take the key to defer discovery, but it
slipped from my fingers in my haste, and fell in the
dark passage. I dared not stop to search, for just
then I heard a sound—or thought I did. Panic seized
me. I feared I was trapped-my escape cut off. I
flung precaution aside and went leaping downstairs to
the door. I fumbled for the door-catch in the dark-
ness, flung open the door, and ran out into the night-
across the moors and home.
“I had hardly got inside before your sister came with
her husband to see me—to beg me to go with her to
Flint House and reason with your brother. To reason
with him! He was beyond the futility of argument,
the folly of retort. I did not want to go-at first.
Then it dawned upon me that a kindly fate offered me
a providential chance of securing my safety. No sus-
picion could fall on me if I went back—and found the
body.
"And so it turned out. We reached Flint House just
at the right moment, for me. I broke into the room
and found him-dead. He was not where I had left
him. In a last paroxysm he had struggled to his feet
and fallen across the clock-case, with the intention, as