otland 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 acquainted with her movements
than I," 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."

"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

With a slightly incredulous air Inspector Dawfield 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. Pendleton that morning and the
facts as set forth in Sergeant 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 intelligence 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 sprawling report of the churchtown sergeant.
With a severe effort he mastered the matter contained under the flowing
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