came downstairs again and proceeded to the kitchen. Through the half-open
door she saw the elderly male servant, and she entered briskly.

"Can you tell me where Miss Sisily is, Thalassa?" she asked.

"Miss Sisily is out on the cliffs." Thalassa, busy chopping suet with a
knife, made answer without looking up. There was something absurdly
incongruous between the mild domestic occupation and the grim warrior face
bent over it.

"When did she go out?" asked Mrs. Pendleton, struck by a sudden thought.

Thalassa threw a swift sidelong glance at her. "It might be an hour ago,"
he said.

"Do you know where I am likely to find her?"

Thalassa pointed vaguely through an open window.

"Somewhere along there," he said. "Miss Sisily is fond of the cliffs. If
you're going to look for her you'd best not go round by the back of the
house, or you'll fall over, like as not. It's a savage spot, only fit for
savages--or madmen." He turned his back and bent over his chopping board
again.

Mrs. Pendleton turned away in perplexity, and walked up the passage to the
front door. There her eye fell on the figure of Charles Turold, lounging
moodily over the gate, smoking a cigarette.

She walked down the flinty path and touched his arm. "Would you mind going