"And suppose the police call during your absence?" 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 desperately. "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 happened."
"And why do you wish to find her?"
"Because she is deeply wronged--she is innocent."
"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 innocence. 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 innocent."
"And what else did you tell him?"
"Nothing but that--nothing that counted, at least."
"Really, Charles, your lack of intelligence is a distinct 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 elementary?
The situation must have contained some elements of humour, though. I
should like to have witnessed it. Did you call down Heaven's vengeance on
the murderer in approved fashion? How did the man of parchments take it?"
"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
excursion 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, walking 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 considered 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 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 saving the situation, so far as
it affected himself. What did that diabolical female know, really? He had
a momentary vision of her stealing about the house, prying, watching,
listening. He sank into a motionless brooding 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 mistaken, 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 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 returned to Austin. "Can you tell me where he
is staying in London?"
"I have not the least idea," returned Austin negligently.
"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 intercept the flight or start the
pursuit. Austin found himself profoundly hoping that his son was by that
time out of England.
He had not much leisure to think of that, for Barrant 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 peremptory
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, scanning 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 declared it was suicide. What does that mean--now?"
But he under-estimated Barrant's intelligence. Barrant 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 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 lessening 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 another 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 assumption 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 questioner would only make things worse when
the two women in the house knew the truth.
"Yes. He was in to supper."
"And went out afterwards?"
This was put more as a simple statement of fact than a question. Again,
Austin's subtle intelligence could see no better course than truth.
"He did. My son frequently goes out walking of an evening after supper."
"What time did he return--on this evening?"
"I do not know."
"Do you mean that?" Barrant's tone was incredulous.
"I do." The impulse which had dictated his previous answer sprang from the
thought that the foolish females downstairs could not contradict it, and
he adhered calmly to the course now he was committed to it.
"What time did Thalassa come for you from Flint House with the news that
your brother was dead?"
"I do not know the exact time. He called at the police station first."
"Had not your son returned by then?"
"I am unable to inform you. He frequently goes straight to his room when
he returns from an evening walk."
"Then you do not know whether he was in or out when you left the house?"
"I assumed he was in, as it was after his usual time for returning."
"You did not go to his room, to see?"
"No. I did not wish to disturb him."
Barrant looked as though there was only one possible construction to be
placed on these replies, but he still did not utter the question which
Austin feared and dreaded most. In a harsh peremptory voice he said--"Show
me your son's room."
In those words he stood revealed as one with all the resources of the law
at his back, able to issue commands 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 refinements 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 beneath. 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
snivelling downstairs now, when it was too late?