“I have no idea. He and his father have separate keys of the front door.”
It was evident that she had told all she knew. She rose to her feet in agitation.
“I must go. My husband will be wondering where I am. But tell me, Mr. Brimsdown, do you imagine … Is it possible …” Her voice dropped to the ghost of a frightened whisper.
He evaded this issue with legal caution.
“You have done quite right in coming to me,” he replied, as he opened the door for her departure. He held out his hand.
She touched it with trembling fingers, and went away.
Mr. Brimsdown closed the door behind her, and wearily sat down. He had been prepared to do much to shield the name of Turold, but he had not bargained for this. He did not doubt the truth of the story he had just heard, and it gave him a feeling of nausea. What a revelation of the infamy of human nature! The stupendous depth of such villainy overwhelmed him with dismay. The extent of the criminal understanding between father and son he did not attempt to fathom. His mind was filled with the monstrous audacity by which Charles Turold, apparently at the dictate of remorse, had sought to convince him of Sisily’s innocence by directing attention to the marks on the dead man’s arm which he had probably made himself. Could human cynicism go farther than that? A great wave of pity swept over the lawyer as he thought of the unhappy Sisily, and all that she had been compelled to endure. But why had she fled?
Long he sat there without stirring, until the shadows deepened and the grey surface of the sea dissolved in blackness.
“The police must be told of this,” he said at last, in an almost voiceless whisper.