CHAPTER III


With parchments and papers deep on the table before him, Robert Turold
plunged into the history of his life's task. The long hand of the
mantelpiece clock slipped with a stealthy movement past the twelve as he
commenced, as though determined not to be taken by surprise, but to keep
abreast of him.

An hour passed, but Robert Turold kept steadily on. His hearers displayed
symptoms of boredom like people detained in church beyond the usual time.
Humanity is interested in achievement, but not in the manner of its
accomplishment. And Robert's brother and sister knew much of his story by
heart. It had formed the sole theme of his letters to them for many years
past. Mrs. Pendleton's thoughts wandered to afternoon tea. Her husband
nodded with closed eyes, and recovered himself with convulsive starts.
Austin Turold fixed his glance on the ceiling, where a solitary fly was
cleaning its wings with its legs. From the window Charles Turold presented
an immobile profile. Only Dr. Ravenshaw seemed to listen with an interest
which never flagged.

Yet it was a story well worth hearing, that record of indomitable
pertinacity which had refused to be baulked by years or rebuffs. Men have
acquired titles more easily. That was apparent as Robert Turold related
the history of his long and patient investigation; of scents which had led
nowhere; of threads which had broken in his hand; of fruitless burrowings
into the graves of past generations. These disappointments had lengthened
the search, but they had never, baffled the searcher nor broken his faith.