action on her part, Mr. Brimsdown hesitated,
then, reflecting 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 standing in the same spot,
staring fixedly after him, apparently in a state of consternation or
amazement, he could not say which.

He went out of the door with a vision of her questioning 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 calmness 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 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