The Moon Rock

by Arthur J. Rees

  CHAPTER XXXIII

  Some one stirred within, and a ray of light in the fanlight grew bright asfootsteps in the passage drew near. The door opened, and showed the figureof Dr. Ravenshaw holding in his hand a lighted lamp which shone uponThalassa and the dripping figure in his arms. The doctor looked down fromthe doorstep in silent surprise, then stepped quickly back from thethreshold and opened the surgery door, holding the lamp high to guideThalassa in.

  "There--on the couch," he said, placing the lamp on the table. "What hashappened?"

  "Miss Sisily fell over the cliffs by the Moon Rock. I found her andcarried her up, and brought her straight here."

  The doctor's quick glance was a professional tribute to the strength of aframe capable of performing such a feat. He turned his attention toSisily, bending over her and feeling her pulse. With a sharp exclamationhe dropped her wrist and tore open the front of her dress, placing hishand on her heart. With his other hand he took up his stethoscope from thetable.

  "Bring that lamp closer--quick!" he cried.

  Thalassa lifted the lamp from the table and stood beside him. The yellowglow of the lamp enveloped the livid bluish features of Sisily and thestooping form with the stethoscope. The instrument of silver and rubberheld miraculous possibilities of life and death to Thalassa. He watched itanxiously--directed the light upon it. The shape on the couch remainedmotionless.

  Thalassa's gaze wandered from the stethoscope to Dr. Ravenshaw. Thedoctor's bent neck showed white between the top of his shirt and thegrey hair above it. He was wearing no collar, so he must have been goingto bed--when the knock came. Thalassa's eyes dwelt on the exposed fleshwith a steady yet wondering contemplation. The lamp in his hand waveredslightly.

  Dr. Ravenshaw rose to his feet, oblivious of the man who was staring athis neck from behind. His downward glance rested on Sisily's face, and hiseyes were grave. He turned away and walked out of the room, but returnedalmost immediately with a small mirror.

  "Hold the lamp higher," he said to Thalassa. "I want the light to fallright on her face. Higher still--so."

  He fell on his knees by the couch and held the mirrored side of the glassto Sisily's lips. The lamp, held aloft, illumined his face as well ashers. His features were set and rigid.

  Thalassa stood still, his eyes brooding on the sharp outline of the bentmask. A vague idea, startling and terrible, was magnifying itself in hismind. Once his glance wandered to Ravenshaw's neck, then returned withgrowing fixity to his face, seen at closer range than he had ever beheldit. In the vivid light the elemental lines beneath the changes of timetook on a strange resemblance to a face he had known in the distant past.A spectral being seemed to rise from the dead and resume life in thekneeling body of Dr. Ravenshaw.

  Involuntarily he stepped back, and the likeness vanished in the addeddistance. The veil of the past was dropped again. He could see nothing nowbut the commonplace whiskered face of an elderly Cornish doctor bendingover the inanimate form on the couch. Again the lamp shook slightly.

  "What are you doing with that light?" said Ravenshaw peevishly. "Cannotyou hold it steady? Bring it closer, man--closer than that. Now, hold itthere."

  In the nearer vision the elemental lines of a forgotten face againconfronted Thalassa beneath the flabby contours of age. It was likelooking at a familiar outline covered by a mask--a transparent mask. Hestood stock still with uplifted lamp, like a man in a trance, but his eyesnever left Dr. Ravenshaw's face.

  Some minutes passed silently before Dr. Ravenshaw withdrew the mirror fromSisily's lips. He turned it over and looked closely at the surface of theglass. The man behind him stared over his shoulder. Their eyes met in themirror, and held for a moment fascinated. In that brief space of time therevelation and recognition were completed. Dr. Ravenshaw's glance was thefirst to break away. The hard brown eyes watching him followed thedirection of his view to a pair of spectacles resting on the table.Thalassa understood the intention, and harshly forestalled it.

  "No use to put on your glasses now," he said. "I recognize ye, and I'veseen that damned scar on your neck."

  He put the lamp back on the table, and his hand went towards his belt.Ravenshaw understood the motion and checked it with a gesture.

  "No need for that, either, Thalassa. There are other things to thinkabout."

  Thalassa's hand dropped to his side. "You're right," he muttered. "Get onwith your doctoring."

  "No--not now," answered Ravenshaw sadly. "It's no use. She is dead."

  "Dead!" Thalassa stood overwhelmed. Silently he surveyed the slightrecumbent form on the couch, his moving lips seemed to be counting thedrops which dripped from her clinging garments on to the carpet. "Dead,did ye say? Why, I carried her here--brought her across the moors to you."His voice trembled. "Can't ye do nothing?"

  "No--not now. It is too late."

  Thalassa's eyes rested attentively on the other's face. Ravenshaw'scomplete acquiescence in death as an unalterable fact stung his untutoredfeelings by its calmness. "Dead!" he repeated fiercely. "Then you've gotthat to pay for now--Remington."

  "Pay? Oh, yes, I'll pay--make payment in full," was the reply, deliveredwith a bitter look. "But not to you."

  "To think I shouldn't a' known ye!" Thalassa spoke like a man in a dream.

  "After all these years? After what I suffered alone on thatisland--through you and Turold? You'd hardly have known me if you'd met mesix months afterwards instead of thirty years. Robert Turold didn't knowme. Nobody knew me."

  Thalassa's eyes still dwelt upon him with the unwilling look of a mancompelled to gaze upon an evocation of the dead.

  "Where did you get to--that night?" he quavered. "I could a' sworn--coulda' taken Bible oath--"

  "That you and that other scoundrel had killed me? I've no doubt. But it sohappened that I was saved--miraculously and unfortunately. I fell on to aprojecting spur of stone or rock not far down, which caught and held me.By the light of the moon I saw you come along the ridge to look for me.You were almost close enough for me to push you into that infernal sulphurlake where you hoped I had gone. You turned back in time--fortunately foryourself."

  Thalassa kept his gaze upon him with the meditating intentness of onetrying to learn anew a face so greatly altered by the awful changes of theyears. His great brown hands, hanging loosely at his sides, clenched andopened rapidly with a quickness of action which had something vaguelymenacing in it.

  "I know your eyes now," he mumbled. "With the glasses on, you'redifferent. That's why ye wore them, I suppose. Turold heered ye that nightyou killed 'un. He knew your footstep--or thought he did. I laughed athim. A' would to God A'mighty I'd hearkened to him, and then I might a'catched you. How did ye get away from the island?"

  Ravenshaw raised his head to reply, then stood mute, in a listeningattitude. Outside the window the sound of footsteps crunched the gravelwalk, and approached the house. Thalassa heard and listened too. Thecrunching ceased, and there was a knock at the door. Thalassa lookedquestioningly at Ravenshaw, who nodded in the direction of the door.

  "Open it," he said. Thalassa hesitated. His eyes sought the couch. "Yes,in here," said Ravenshaw understandingly. "We shall want witnesses."

  Thalassa went to the door and opened it.

  A man's voice in the darkness asked for Dr. Ravenshaw, and the owner ofthe voice stepped quickly inside at Thalassa's invitation. The visitorpeered at the tall figure in the unlighted passage. "Is it you, Thalassa?"he said hesitatingly, and Thalassa recognized the voice of Austin Turold.The voice went on: "Tell me--"

  "In there." Thalassa jerked his head towards the gleam falling through thepartly open surgery door. "He wants you." He walked ahead and pushed thedoor open. Austin Turold followed, but started back as he looked within.Then he entered, his eyes dwelling on the shadowy outline on the couch inthe corner.

  "What has happened at Flint House, Ravenshaw? Now--to-night, I mean." Hespoke shakily. "There's a story abroad of Thalassa having been seencarrying a figure through the churchtown
and entering your house. Hassomebody fallen off the cliffs--been drowned? Is that it?" He steppedquickly across to the couch, and, looking down, as swiftly recoiled. "Whatdoes this mean?" he hoarsely cried.

  Ravenshaw did not speak.

  "Miss Sisily fell over the cliffs by the Moon Rock," said Thalassa. "Iwent down for her, but it was too late. She was drowned."

  Austin's look sought Ravenshaw's, who nodded in confirmation.

  "More horror--more misery," whispered Austin. A shudder ran through him."I do not understand," he said simply. "Thalassa?"

  "It's not for me to explain," said Thalassa quickly.

  "You then, Ravenshaw."

  Ravenshaw spoke slowly.

  "They have been looking for the man who killed Robert Turold--yourbrother. Well, I am he."

  "You!" gasped Austin, in a choking voice. "What do you mean? I do notunderstand you. My son has been arrested."

  "He has been arrested wrongly, then. It is I--I alone am responsible."

  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 mysister call here to see you on the night my brother was killed, and didyou 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 Penzanceto-day. He tells me he is innocent, and that the murderer is a man whomRobert and Thalassa robbed and wounded on a lonely island thirty yearsago, and left there for dead, as they thought. What does it all mean?"

  "These things can all be explained," replied Ravenshaw. "It is a longstory. Sit down, and I will tell it to you."

  "Not here--not here!" replied Austin unsteadily. His glance went to thecorner of the room and the tranquil figure on the couch. He hid his facefor 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 Thalassaclosed the surgery door gently behind them. The doctor led them into asitting-room opposite, where they seated themselves. After a moment'ssilence Ravenshaw began to speak in low controlled tones which gave noindication 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 tobe there?"

  Austin Turold nodded.

  "I am Remington," pursued the other. "I will take up the story from thatpoint--it will save time."

  Again Austin Turold assented with a nod. There was neither anger norresentment in his glance. The look which rested on the speaker was one ofunmixed amazement.

  CHAPTER XXXIV

  "I will pass over as briefly as possible what happened after I was leftbehind in that horrible place. By the light of the moon I saw themgo--from the ridge I saw them put out to sea. I watched them until theboat was a mere speck on the luminous waters, and finally vanished fromsight. I was left alone, a desperately wounded man, on an arid sulphurousisland, without food or water.

  "When I was sure the boat had gone I returned to our camping place, andbound my wounds with strips torn off my shirt. Then I fell asleep. I musthave developed fever in my slumber, for I have no clear recollections ofthe next few days. I vaguely recall roaming like a demented being amongthose solitudes in search of water, and finding a boiling spring. Thewater, when cooled, was drinkable. I suppose that saved my life. For food,there was shell-fish and mutton-bird eggs, with no lack of boiling waterto cook them.

  "I lived there so long that I forgot the flight of time. I became a wildman--a mere shaggy animal, living, eating, and sleeping like a beast.

  "I was rescued by a passing steamer at last, rescued without any effort ofmy own, for I had gone past caring. From the ship they saw me leapingabout the naked sides of the volcanic hills like a goat, and they put offa boat. Some lady passengers were badly scared when I was broughtaboard--and no wonder. They were very kind to me on that ship. She washomeward bound, and brought me to England. I told the captain my story,but I could see that he didn't believe me, so I told nobody else. Not thatanybody wanted to know--really. One's misfortunes are never interesting toother people.

  "I had a little money left when I landed in England--not much, butsufficient to take me to my wife and support me until I found RobertTurold. I had left my wife living with her parents in a London suburb.Robert Turold and I had both been in love with her before we left England.She loved me, but he had some strange kind of influence over her--thedominance of a strong nature over a weak, I think. Or perhaps it was amore primitive feminine instinct. He was always the strong man--eventhen--ruthless, determined. It was strange that he should have loved sucha gentle timid creature, though that, perhaps, was not so strange as a manlike Robert Turold loving any woman. But love her he did.

  "She had a great capacity for affection--she was one of those women whohave to love, and be loved. Her guileless face, her appealing eyes, seemedto beseech the protection of a masculine shield in a world which has nomercy for the weak. She was born to be guided, to be led. It was my fearof her simple trustful disposition which led me to urge her to marry mesecretly before I left England with Turold. Her parents did not favour me,and they wished their daughter to marry well--there was an aunt from whomshe had expectations, and the aunt had a prospective husband in view forher. I feared their joint influence. She consented willingly enough; shewas easy to persuade--on the eve of our parting. She clung to meweeping--her husband.

  "I was to make enough money to return to England to claim her in a year orso--that was the plan. But I had been absent nearly three when I was lefton the island. And another twelve months passed before I reached Englandagain. Four years! A long time. Almost any combination of circumstancescan be brought about in such a period. People die, marry, or can beforgotten as though they had never existed. It was my lot to be forgotten.

  "I hastened to London, to my wife's old home, and learnt that the familyno longer lived there. Where had they gone to? The maid who opened thedoor could not tell me--she did not know. At my request she went for hermistress. The lady of the house came down to me, a tall slender woman,indifferent, but well-bred enough to be polite. She had taken the housefrom the Bruntons, she said. It was too large for them after theirdaughter's marriage. It was dusk, and she could not see my face, but sheheard my startled exclamation--'Married? To whom?' To a Mr. Turold--a verysuitable match. They had been married for some months, and she wasexpecting a child.

  "How she gathered that last piece of information I do not know. Perhapsshe and Mrs. Brunton exchanged letters--women write to one another on theslightest pretexts. That thought made me cautious. Fortunately, I had notgiven my name. I thanked her, and rose to go. She offered to write downthe Bruntons' address for me (they had gone to live in the country), but Isaid I could remember it. And I got away from the house in the gatheringdarkness without her actually seeing my face--not that it would havemattered much, if she had.

  "I thought it all over that night. I visualized readily enough what hadhappened. Robert Turold, returning to England with some concocted story ofmy death, had swept her off her feet, caught her on the rebound. He hadreturned a prosperous man, and doubtless his love-making was reinforced byAlice's worldly parents and the match-making old aunt. The combination wasa strong one, and I was supposed to be dead. So she married him, withoutbreathing a word to anybody of her previous secret marriage to me. Irealized that at once. She would be too afraid--left to herself. She wouldtell herself that it wasn't worth while--that nobody need ever know now. Icould imagine her twisting her little hands together in apprehension asshe faced the problem--our secret--then gradually becoming calmer assomething whispered in her ear that it was her secret now, and need not betold. You see, I knew her nature so well. There are many suchnatures--gentle souls who shrink from responsibili
ty in a world which,sooner or later, generally sees to it that we are compelled to shoulderthe burden of our own acts.

  "I was not long in making up my mind. I determined to do nothing. I takeno special credit to myself for that decision. The marriage with RobertTurold was an accomplished fact, and my belated reappearance upon thescene would have plunged her in unhappiness. She was about to become amother, too. That weighed with me. I loved her far too well to injure heror her child. It meant letting Robert Turold go free if I remained dead,but there are other things in life besides money and revenge. Fortunatelythe position from the practical point of view was simplified by the deathof my only relative, my uncle, during my absence from England, who hadbequeathed his small property to me--not much, but sufficient for my ownsimple needs.

  "I took my uncle's name, the better to conceal my identity, and resumedthe medical studies which had been interrupted by my departure fromEngland four years before. When I received my degree I searched for aremote spot where I was not likely to encounter any one who had known mein my past life, and chose this lonely part of the Cornish coast. And hereI have remained for thirty years.

  "They have not been unhappy years. It was not my disposition to waste mylife by hugging the illusions of the past. My days were occupied walkinglong distances to see my patients scattered at distant intervals on thisdesolate coast, and my nights I spent in antiquarian and archaeologicalstudies, which were always a favourite pursuit of mine. It was a hobbywhich earned me some local repute in the course of the years, and wasultimately the means of bringing me face to face with Robert Turold again.That was the last thing in the world I desired to happen. In the earlyyears I used to think of him wedded to my wife, and wonder whether he hadsucceeded in his great ambition. After a while the memory faded, as mostmemories do with the passing of the years.

  "Then the meeting came--six months ago. I heard Flint House was let,though not to whom. The news did not interest me. But next evening, when Ireturned from my rounds, my servant met me at the door with theinformation that the new tenant of Flint House was in the consulting-roomwaiting to see me.

  "I went in. The tall elderly figure sitting there rose at my entrance andsaid: 'Not a patient, doctor--quite another matter.' I started slightly atthe familiar ring to that harsh authoritative voice, but I did not knowwho he was until he handed me his card. He had already commenced talkingabout that accursed title as he did so, and he did not notice myagitation. He had come to Cornwall in pursuit of the last pieces ofevidence for his family tree, and some local busybody had told him that Iwas versed in Cornish antiquities and heraldry. That piece of informationhad brought him to me. He begged for my assistance--my valuableassistance--in elucidating the last scraps of his genealogy from thegraves of the past.

  "I could have cut him short by laughing aloud--though not in mirth. I hadregained my self-command, for I saw that he had not the slightestsuspicion to whom he was talking. That in itself was not surprising. I hadnot recognized him. And how much greater was the change in my own case!Time alters us all in a much less period than thirty years, and there wasmore than the passage of time. Those months of horrible solitude on thatisland had changed me into an old man in appearance, with grey hair, andbleared and weak eyes from the sulphur fumes. And Time had made thedisguise impenetrable in the thirty added years. I was an old man. My hairand beard were white, and I wore thick glasses. I felt I need be under noapprehension of Robert Turold recognizing me--then, or at any time, unlessI was careless.

  "His request for my help had a strange fascination for me. There was anuncanny thrill in sitting there within an arm's length of him, meeting hisunsuspicious glance, and listening to him with the knowledge that I couldhave put his plans and ambitions to flight with a single word, and had himbegging for mercy. I was in the position of Providence, and withheld myhand, as Providence generally does. My desire to punish Robert Turold hadlong since died. At sixty, revenge is a small thing. What is humanretribution to the ferocity of Time's revenge on us all? Retribution andJustice--these are human catchwords, signifying nothing. What is Justice?Who is to judge when the scales are even? It was easier to comply with hisrequest than arouse suspicion by refusal, but that wasn't what weighedwith me. I wanted to see more of him, to win his confidence, if possible.I was curious to know what kind of life he had given the woman for whosesake I had let him go free for thirty years.

  "He took a liking to me. My knowledge of ancient Cornish lore proveduseful in the final stages of his search--his thirty years' search for afamily tree. It was not long before I discovered that he had found nohappiness in life. At times his face wore a hunted look--the look of a manwho walked his days in fear. His imperfect vision peered out on a darkenedworld with apprehension, though not of me. In my strange position with himI felt like a ghost permitted to watch, unseen and unsuspected, thetravail of a gloomy solitary mind. It was apparent enough, but only to me.My quickened eyes pierced the outward husk and saw within. I thought I hadoutlived my desire for revenge, but it grew again at the sight of apunishment which was so much more subtle than anything I could haveplanned. Death would have put his restless soul to sleep, granted himeternal respite. The sufferings of the spirit were a living torment. Hiswas a strange case. His lifelong pursuit of a single idea, his restrictedconsciousness of one image, had made him morbid, lonely, introspective.And so the past had revisited him, darkening and disquieting his mind. Hefeared shadows, he was haunted by footsteps.

  "Footsteps! I learnt that when he consulted me for sleeplessness. He toldme he used to lie awake at night, imagining he heard footsteps patteringon the rocks outside. I knew well enough whose footsteps he was hauntedby. I imagined him lying there in that lonely house, sweating with horror,listening ... listening. He asked me once, did I believe in ghosts? I toldhim no, but I said I'd known a case of man returning to life long after hewas supposed to be dead. I related the story--one which had come under myobservation as a medical man. He listened with gnawing lip and pale face,and from my window afterwards I saw him striding home across the moors,glancing backwards in the dusk.

  "It was his own fault that he ever heard those footsteps in the way hefeared. He did not play the game, according to our poor conception of whatthe game is. If he had done so he would have been quite safe from me. Butthere are some things too shocking to be contemplated, even in the worstof our kind. A man does not give away a woman--that is one of the rules.Robert Turold put a woman to shame in her coffin.

  "I had kept out of her way, never going to Flint House because I fearedher feminine eyes might be too sharp for me. But she fell ill, and RobertTurold asked me to attend her. Refusal was impossible, as there was noother doctor nearer than Penzance.

  "She did not recognize me--at first, but the shock I received when I sawher left me almost stunned. I had carried her memory through theyears--the image of a pretty slim girl, with brown hair and eyes, and kindof soft vivacity which was her greatest charm. In her place I found, lyingthere, a withered grey woman with dim eyes and broken spirit. God knowswhat she had gone through at his hands, but it had destroyed her.

  "It was her death-bed. She was worn out in body and spirit, and had nostrength to rally. She was weeks dying, but her life was steadily ebbingall that time. It was a kind of slow fever. She was delirious when I firstsaw her, and delirious or unconscious, with few lucid intervals, until shedied. And the jargon of her wandering mind was in reality the outpouringof a tortured soul. It was the title and the family name--always that, andnothing else. She wasn't well-born enough or sufficiently educated to bearthe title as his wife--it seemed that that fact had been impressed on heragain and again in the long lean years of the search for the family tree.Let her go away ... go away somewhere quietly with Sisily, and she wouldnever bother him any more. That was the unceasing burden of her cry, a cryto which I was compelled to listen with a torn heart.

  "The reserve, the frame of mind, which I wore like armour in RobertTurold's company I dropped altogether at her bedside. Her lucid int
ervalswere few, but I was not afraid of her recognizing the old Cornish doctorwith his muffler, his glasses, his shaggy white hair and beard. The dailysight of her shrunken ageing features reminded me that I had nothing tofear--that Time had effectually disguised us from each other'srecognition. We were old, we two. Life had receded from us--what had we todo with its fever, its regrets, its passions and futile joys? The clockhad ticked the time away, the fire was dying out, the hearth desolate andcold. I was resigned before, I was resigned then. I did what I could forher, which was little enough. Human progress, such as it is, has beenacquired through the spirit. The body defies us--we have no control overit. So she died--mercifully unconscious most of the time--and died, as Ihad hoped, without the least suspicion of the truth.

  "You cannot faintly imagine the shock of Turold's announcement on the dayof her burial, to me, who had been so arrogantly certain that the secretwas safe. If you remember what took place at Flint House on that occasionyou will recall that it was a question from me which brought the truth tolight. Your brother's answer awakened my suspicions, and made medetermined to find out what he actually knew. He brought out the truththen, as I've no doubt now he intended to do in any case.

  "The puzzle to me was the exact extent of his knowledge. He knew twothings for certain. One was that I had married Alice before leavingEngland, and the other was that I was still alive. But he obviously didnot know that I was Remington. How had he found out the two facts? Iguessed that the woman he believed to be his wife had revealed the secretof her earlier marriage on her death-bed, but the other was a problemwhich I could not solve. Nor did I try to. When I reached home I went mad.The calmness, the self-repression of thirty years, vanished in an instantin the monstrous infamy of that disclosure. There was something toohorribly sinister in the character of a man who could be driven byambition to make such a disclosure without regret, almost withouthesitation. He sacrificed and put to shame two gentle creatures at thebeck of his implacable mania. For the title he had forfeited tenderness,pity, decency--all the human attributes--with a brazen and unashamed face.That man walked the earth alone. By that act he set himself apart, defyingall laws, all feeling--everything.

  "As I grew calmer I reflected that he could not defy me. I could bring himtumbling from his lofty perch with a few words. He might brazen out hisattitude to the whole world, but not to me. What was more, I could dictateto him--could keep his mouth shut with a threat of reviving the past, ofputting him on his trial for robbery and attempted murder thirty yearsbefore.

  "I determined to do it--to see him and reveal myself, and let him knowthat my own course of action would be decided by his. If he chose to keepsilent, he would have nothing to fear from me.

  "I set out across the moors in the darkness. It was raining, and I walkedfast until Flint House loomed out of the blackness before me. Then Ipaused to consider my course of action. I was about to thwart a madmanwith a fixed idea, in a lonely house where he had in his service anotherman who could be depended on to make common cause against me when he knewthe truth. I was not afraid of Robert Turold, but I was of Thalassa. Iknew he was strong enough to hurl me through the window into the sea.These elements in the situation called for caution. I crept across therocks towards the kitchen window. As I did so I thought I saw a figuremove among the rocks, and I ran quickly to the narrow lip of cliff whichoverhangs the sea at the back of the house. There I stood for awhile, butcould hear nothing but the sea raging far down beneath me. I came to theconclusion that I had been mistaken. Who was likely to be prowling roundFlint House in a storm--except myself? I crept round the side of the houseand looked through the kitchen window.

  "Thalassa's wife was in the kitchen, alone, with some playing cards spreadout on the table in front of her. But before long the door leading intothe passage opened, and Thalassa came in. He sat down, but after the lapseof a few minutes he rose from his chair and approached the window. Ishrank back into the shadow of a rock, watching him. He stood looking outinto the darkness for perhaps five minutes, then I saw him start, turn hishead, and go out of the room. I heard the front door open, followed by thesound of footsteps ascending the stairs. A moment later I heard the murmurof voices in Robert Turold's room upstairs.

  "I went nearer to try and find out what had happened, but it was no use. Icould see a gleam of light in the study window, and could hear RobertTurold's voice mingled with feminine tones, then--silence, followed oncemore by the sound of an opening door. From my place of concealment I sawtwo people going down the garden path--Thalassa and a female figure. Theypassed through the gate and vanished into the darkness of the moors.

  "My opportunity had come. I went to the house and tried the front window.It was unlocked, and yielded. I got through, and went quickly upstairs. Alight was shining underneath the study door. I opened it, and saw RobertTurold sitting at his table writing with his back towards me.

  "At the sight of that atrocious scoundrel sitting there immersed in hisshameful project against a woman I had loved, my self-control gave wayutterly, completely. I had intended to be calm, to reason with him, toexact my terms with a cold logical brain. I did none of these things.Without a word of warning, before he even knew I was in the room, I sprangon him, clutching him, shaking him in a blind insensate fury till mystrength suddenly failed me and left me sick and giddy.

  "'I am Remington,' I said--'Jim Remington.' I leaned against the table,panting and exhausted, looking at him. His self-control was something tomarvel at. He just sat still, returning my look with cold motionless eyes,no doubt trying to discern the features of the man he had wronged throughthe film of age. But in spite of his self-control I could see the greypallor of fear creeping into his face, and he could not keep his lips fromtrembling. Twice he essayed to speak, but his mouth refused to utter thewords. What he did say was strange to me, when he got it out at last. 'Iwas right'--I heard him whisper, almost to himself--'I knew, I knew.' Herepeated those words several times. It was then I saw that hisself-control arose from the fact that although he was terrified he did notappear to be so greatly surprised. Surprised he was, but not in the way Ihad expected. His prime difficulty seemed to be to get out of his head theidentity by which he had known me. 'You are Ravenshaw--Dr. Ravenshaw,' hesaid. 'How can you be Remington?' He brought out this with an effort, likea man trying to shake off an unreasoning horror.

  "I had expected him to face it out, to challenge me, perhaps deny allknowledge of my existence. Instead, he merely sat there staring at me withan air of terrified realization, like a person gazing upon the dreadfulmaterialization of an expected phantom. I told him the truth in the fewestpossible words, and he listened silently, never removing his eyes from me,the phantom of his past. When I had finished he lay back in his chair, buthis eyes stared up at me with a kind of dead look, like half-closed eyesin a coffin. 'I knew that you were rescued from the island,' he said. 'ButI thought you were long since dead.'

  "That statement surprised me. I asked him how he had learned of it. Hetold me it was through the medium of an overheard conversation in a Londonhotel nearly thirty years before. He had gone up to town to see hislawyer, and one of the people at the hotel where he put up happened to beone of the passengers of the _Erechtheus_, the steamer which hadrescued me. The man sat at the next table, and Turold heard him tell thestory to a friend one night at dinner. It had happened just likethat--quite simply, but it was a possibility I had overlooked. Not that itmattered, as it happened, but it would have--if Alice had been with him.Turold, of course, kept his knowledge to himself. He was too cautious toapproach the passenger, but he instructed his lawyer to make guardedinquiries at the shipping office of the vessel in order to verify thestory. Then he returned home, consumed by anxiety, no doubt, to wait formy reappearance. As the months slipped past and I did not appear, hoperevived within him. It appears that he had heard the passenger say that Iwas a wreck--a physical wreck. That must have been a cheering item in abad piece of news. I can imagine its growing importance in Turold's mindas the ti
me went on and I made no sign. Finally (and thankfully) hereached the conclusion that I was indeed dead, and that he had nothingmore to fear. There was an element of uncertainty about it, though, a lackof definite knowledge. I fancy that was one of the reasons which led himto take Thalassa into his service when he turned up some time later. Itwas a deep and subtle thing to do. Thalassa was bound to help him againstme, if ever I came back.

  "The years went on, and he grew quite certain, as any man in his positionwould, in the circumstances. He forgot all about me. That frame of mindlasted until he came to Cornwall, and then, it seemed, I came back intohis life in the strangest way. I haunted him in the spirit, and he neveronce guessed that I might be there in the flesh. Who can explain this?

  "As he spoke of it he looked as though he had a grievance against me, as,perhaps, he had--from his point of view. 'You faded from my mind fortwenty years,' he said. 'But here--in Cornwall--your memory began to hauntme. It was your footsteps, principally. I used to fancy you were followingme across the moors. Tonight for the first time I actually heardthem--heard them above the noise of the storm. They came to my ears clearand sharp, around the house, on the rocks, under the window.' He cast onme an appalled, a hopeless glance. 'Why have you left it so long?' hecried. 'What do you want--now?'

  "He positively had no glimmering of my feelings. His fixed idea, like acancerous growth, had sucked all the healthy life out of him. Hot angerstirred within me again, but I retained control of myself this time. Iasked him how he had found out about the earlier marriage, and he told meAlice had babbled something in her delirium--enough to arouse hissuspicions. It seemed that he had waited for one of her lucid intervals,and wormed the truth out of her. 'The proofs--of course you've obtainedthem?' I asked casually. Yes, he had the proofs. He had sent to London forthem immediately. I asked him where they were. 'What do you want to knowfor?' he asked in an agitated voice. I told him quite simply, that he mustgive me his proofs and tell the members of his family that he had beenmistaken--that Alice's first husband had really died before she marriedhim. If he agreed to do that he had nothing farther to fear from me--Iwould remain dead forever. 'You can destroy proofs, but not facts,' hemuttered in reply to this. I told him the facts were never likely to cometo light if he entered into a compact of silence.

  "He sat for a few moments as if contemplating the alternatives I hadplaced before him--sat with one hand in his table-drawer, seeking forpapers, I thought. He desisted from doing this, and said quite suddenly,'The proofs are in the clock-case.'

  "I had no suspicion. He had once shown me a curious receptacle in thebottom of the clock-case, where he kept papers. I went towards the clock,and was stooping over the drawer in the bottom of the case when I heard aswift footstep behind me. I turned. He was approaching with a revolver.The secret of his disclosure and the open drawer were explained. I supposeI owed my life to his dim sight, which compelled him to come so near.

  "I sprang at him, and we struggled. That struggle brought down the clockwith a shattering crash. Robert Turold and I were locked in one another'sarms, wrestling desperately for the revolver, when I saw the great moonface of the clock flit past my vision like the face of a man taking aheader off a pier. The crash startled Robert Turold. His hand loosened,and I got the revolver from him. As I tore it from his fingers it wentoff, and shot him.

  "He backed away from me with a kind of frozen smile, then crumpled up andslid to the floor. I bent over him. He made a slight movement, but I couldsee that he was dying--that he had only a very few moments to live.

  "Coolly and rapidly I reflected. The fall of the clock would be hearddownstairs. Flight! There was a chance, if Thalassa had not returned. Myother instinct was to secure the proofs first, though they were reallyuseless then. I rummaged in the clock-case, and found a large envelopewhich I stuffed in my pocket. The face stared up at me; the clock hadstopped at a minute to nine. I had an idea--an inspiration. I pulled thelong hand down to the hour-half--to half-past nine. If I escaped from thehouse undiscovered, with only that half-stupid little woman downstairs, Iwould rush across the moors home--call my servant on some pretext as soonas I got in, and ask her the time. Then I should be quite safe--could defyeverybody. Make it ten o'clock, then! No--too long to be safe. It might bediscovered.

  "It is strange how quickly the brain works when the instinct ofself-preservation is aroused. These thoughts flashed through my mind in akind of mental lightning. In the briefest possible space of time I was onmy feet and out of the room. I locked the door on the outside, intendingto take the key to defer discovery, but it slipped from my fingers in myhaste, and fell in the dark passage. I dared not stop to search, for justthen I heard a sound--or thought I did. Panic seized me. I feared I wastrapped--my escape cut off. I flung precaution aside and went leapingdownstairs to the door. I fumbled for the door-catch in the darkness,flung open the door, and ran out into the night--across the moors andhome.

  "I had hardly got inside before your sister came with her husband to seeme--to beg me to go with her to Flint House and reason with your brother.To reason with him! He was beyond the futility of argument, the folly ofretort. I did not want to go--at first. Then it dawned upon me that akindly fate offered me a providential chance of securing my safety. Nosuspicion could fall on me if I went back--and found the body.

  "And so it turned out. We reached Flint House just at the right moment,for me. I broke into the room and found him--dead. He was not where I hadleft him. In a last paroxysm he had struggled to his feet and fallenacross the clock-case, with the intention, as I shall always believe, ofputting back the hand of the clock. I think his dying vision saw me alterit, and his last thought--his last effort--was to thwart my intention tomislead those upon whom would devolve the duty of investigating his death.But death was too quick to allow him to carry out his intention."

  The cessation of the speaker's voice was followed by silence. Thalassa hadnothing to say--no need for words. Austin Turold could not trust himselfto speak. It was not that his cynical philosophy of life failed him atthat moment. The eternal staging of the drama was the eternal tragedy ofthe performers. But he was thinking of his son. He had vision enough torealize that in Sisily's death Charles had lost all. His own hardness ofoutlook melted at that thought. It crumbled his worldliness to ashes,flooded his heart with vain regret, found utterance at last in thewhispered words--

  "How am I to tell my son?"

  His eyes, dwelling on the door of the inner room, revealed the directionof his thought.