“For what reason?”
“By some one interested.”
“The person most interested is Robert Turold’s daughter,” said Barrant thoughtfully. “That supposition fits in with the theory of her guilt. Robert Turold is supposed to have kept valuable papers in that old clock on the wall, which was found on the floor that night. Apparently he staggered to it during his dying moments and pulled it down on top of him. For what purpose? His daughter may have guessed that the proofs of her illegitimacy were kept there, and tried to get them. Her father sought to stop her, and she shot him.”
“That theory does not account for the marks on the arm,” said the lawyer.
“It does, because it is based on the belief that there was somebody else in the room at the time, or immediately afterwards.”
“Thalassa?”
“Yes—Thalassa. He knows more about the events of this night than he will admit, but I shall have him yet.”
“But the theory does not explain the letter,” persisted the lawyer with an earnest look. “Robert Turold 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 implicated, 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 premonitions—” 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.”