“This bears out what I have believed all along. Thalassa knows about the murder. He is mixed up in it in some way.”
“Oh, why do you think that?” she exclaimed, clasping her hand in distress.
“Why?” he echoed. “Because your father was not the man to stand insolence from Thalassa or anybody else unless he had to. Thalassa must have had him under his thumb in some way. Why did I not know of this before? It’s clear enough now. Thalassa, even if he did not commit the murder—”
“He did not,” she said quickly. “He left the house with me, so he could not have done it.”
“Then he knows who did. He and your father shared some secret together—some dreadful secret which brought about your father’s death. That is one reason why Thalassa will not speak—because he is implicated in this mystery, whatever it is.”
“No, no. He is keeping silence because of me—I feel sure. I made him promise not to tell.”
Charles Turold shook his head decidedly. “He may have more than one reason for keeping silent,” he said with a swift flash of intuition. “If it is as you say, he is shielding himself as well as you. If your father was killed while Thalassa was out of the house that night, Thalassa knows who did it.”
Her eyes met his in an agony of perplexity and distress. “Oh, no, I cannot think you are right,” she said. “If I could only see Thalassa—for five minutes—”
“What good would that do?” he abruptly demanded.
“He would tell me the truth—if he knew.”