Austin groped for his glasses like a man suddenly enveloped in darkness. His fingers closed on them and adjusted them on the bridge of his nose. Through them he surveyed the man before him with close attention.
“Ravenshaw,” he said gravely, “either you are mad or I am. Did not my sister call here to see you on the night my brother was killed, and did you not go with her to Flint House and break into my brother’s room? How, then, could you have killed Robert? Besides, I saw my son at Penzance to-day. He tells me he is innocent, and that the murderer is a man whom Robert and Thalassa robbed and wounded on a lonely island thirty years ago, and left there for dead, as they thought. What does it all mean?”
“These things can all be explained,” replied Ravenshaw. “It is a long story. Sit down, and I will tell it to you.”
“Not here—not here!” replied Austin unsteadily. His glance went to the corner of the room and the tranquil figure on the couch. He hid his face for a moment in his hands, then said: “Let us go to another room.”
Ravenshaw made a sad gesture of acquiescence. “Come,” he said quietly, lifting the lamp from the table. The other two followed him, and Thalassa closed the surgery door gently behind them. The doctor led them into a sitting-room opposite, where they seated themselves. After a moment’s silence Ravenshaw began to speak in low controlled tones which gave no indication of the state of his feelings.
“You know all about this island part of the story,” he said, inquiringly, “how your brother and Remington, seeking their fortune together, came to be there?”
Austin Turold nodded.
“I am Remington,” pursued the other. “I will take up the story from that point—it will save time.”
Again Austin Turold assented with a nod. There was neither anger nor resentment in his glance. The look which rested on the speaker was one of unmixed amazement.