“That’s it,” was the brief reply.
Mr. Brimsdown felt there was more than that—some deeper, secret reason. Before granting the request it occurred to him to try and get what he could in exchange. Self-interest is the strongest of human motives, and men wanting favours are in a mood to yield something in return.
“Well, Thalassa,” he said, amiably enough, but watching him with the eye of a hawk, “I do not think your request is altogether unreasonable—in the circumstances. I dare say it could be arranged. I’ll try to do so, but I should like you to answer me one or two questions first.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Was your master’s daughter here—in the house, I mean—on the night of his death?”
Thalassa’s face hardened. “You, too?” he said simply. “I say again, as I said before, that she was not.”
“You said so,” rejoined Mr. Brimsdown softly. “The question is—are you telling the truth? If you know anything of the events of that night you may be injuring Miss Turold by your silence.”
For a moment Mr. Brimsdown thought his appeal was going to succeed. He could have sworn that a flicker of hesitation—of irresolution—crossed the old man’s stern countenance. But the mood passed immediately, and it was in an indifferent voice that Thalassa, turning to go, replied—
“If that’s what you’re reckoning on, I’d better go and pack my traps.”
“Oh, I don’t make that a condition,” replied the lawyer, acknowledging his defeat in a sporting spirit. “You can remain here and look after the house until you decide what to do. As Robert Turold’s old servant you are entitled to consideration. I will help you afterwards, if you will let me know your plans. I am sure that would have been your late master’s wish.”