He stopped suddenly, like one who has said too much, and looked moodily out to sea.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Never mind what I mean. It’s nothing to do with you. A man’s a fool when he gets talking. The tongue trips you up.”
“Thalassa,” said Charles solemnly, “if you know anything which might throw the remotest light on this mystery it is your duty to reveal it.”
“It’s easy to talk. But I swore—I swore I would never tell.”
“This is the moment to forget your oath.”
“It’s fine to talk—for you. But he’d come back to haunt me, if he knew.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the distant churchyard where Robert Turold lay.
Charles looked at his grim and secret face in despair. “I hope you realize what you are doing by keeping silence,” he said.
“I’m keeping a still tongue in my head, for one thing.”
“For one thing—yes. For another, you’re injuring Sisily—you’re doing more than injure her. You’re letting her remain under suspicion of her father’s death, in hiding in London, hunted by the police. Yet she believed in you. It was she who sent me to you, it was she who said: ‘Tell Thalassa from me to tell the truth, if he knows it.’ Is she mistaken in you, Thalassa? Do you think more of your own skin than her safety?”