"I was hardly conscious of what I was doing, at the time," he said.

"You took the key away with you?"

Charles nodded with the feeling that the ice was cracking beneath him.

"And how did it get back into the room afterwards?"

Charles paused to consider his reply, but the detective supplied it.

"The inference is fairly obvious," he said. "The key was found inside the
study after the locked door was burst open. It was your father who found
it, on the floor. At least, he pretended to find it there. It was your
father who started the suicide theory." He paused, then added in a smooth
reflective voice, "Really, the whole thing was very ingenious. It reflects
much credit on both of you."

Charles spoke with an air of sudden decision.

"My father did these things to shield me," he said. "I did not want to
reveal that, but I see that concealment will only direct unmerited
suspicion to him. When I returned from Flint House that night I let myself
in with my latchkey and went straight to my bedroom. My clothes were wet
through, and I lit a fire in my room to dry them. As I was spreading them
out in front of the blaze the key of the study dropped out of the
waistcoat pocket on to the floor. I had forgotten all about it till then.
I picked it up and placed it on the mantel-piece.

"Some time after I was aroused by my father entering the room. He had come
to tell me of my uncle's death--the news had just arrived from Flint
House. His face was very white. 'Your uncle has been found dead--shot in
his study,' he said. I had jumped up when he came in and was standing in
the centre of the room. As he spoke his eyes travelled past me to my wet
clothes in front of the fire, and then returned to my face with a strange
expression. 'Did you go to Flint House?' he asked sharply. I could only
nod. 'And did you see him--your uncle?' was his next question. On that, I
told him the truth--told him what I had found. I told him about locking
the door, and showed him the key on the mantel-piece. He slipped it in his
pocket, then turned and gave me a terrible look. 'I am going over to Flint
House,' he said, 'but you had better stay here.' And he left the room."

"What time did you reach Flint House that night?" asked Barrant.

Charles Turold realized that the critical moment had come. He had foreseen
it when he saw the detective standing at the gate of Flint House. The
relation of Thalassa's story to Barrant had carried with it the inevit