e to my son."

"You were here last night when they brought you the news of your brother's
death, I understand?" remarked 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 Barrant 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 immediately 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
Robert's daughter."

"Was not Miss Turold present at the family gathering?"

"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 saying?"

"Anybody could. The door was partly open."

"There is some mystery here."

Barrant spoke with the thoughtful air of one viewing a new vista opening
in the distance. These surmises about the listener at the door, by their
manifest though perhaps unintended implication, pointed to a deeper and
more terrible mystery than he had imagined.

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