Neither moved. The minutes passed leaden-footed. It was silent and still in that wild spot, as if theirs were the only two human hearts beating in a dead world. It seemed as though neither could bring it upon himself to terminate the interview. Charles was the first to break the silence. He spoke like a man coming out of a dream.
“Did that clock upstairs keep good time?” he asked in a low voice.
Thalassa turned on him as if not understanding the purport of the question.
“It was going shipshape and Bristol fashion in the afternoon. What’s that got to do with it? What does it signify if it was five minutes fast or slow?”
The logic of the answer was apparent to Charles, who knew he was only attempting to pluck something by chance out of the dark maze. But another and shrewder idea started up in his mind.
“What was your reason for hurrying back across the moors that night?”
“Miss Sisily told me to go.”
“But you had another reason—a reason of your own,” said Charles, turning quickly to regard him. “You said so yourself.”
“If I had I’ve forgotten what it was,” said Thalassa with a black look.
“You cannot have forgotten!” cried Charles. “What was it?” Hope sprang up in his heart again like a warm flame as he detected something confused and irresolute in the other’s attitude. “Thalassa, you are keeping something back. You know, or you guess, who the murderer is!”