But who would find the way to such a lonely spot to commit murder, if murder had been committed?
Reaching the end of the long passage, he first turned towards the study on the right.

The smashed door swung creakingly back to his push, revealing the interior of the room where Robert Turold had met his death.

Barrant entered, and closed the broken door behind him.

It was here, if anywhere, that he might chance to find some clue which would throw light on the cause.
The profusion of papers which met his eye, piled on the table and filling the presses and shelves which lined the musty room, seemed, at the outset, to give ground for the hope that such an expectation might be realized.
But they merely formed, in their mass, a revelation of Robert Turold's industry in gathering material for his claim.

There were genealogical tables without number, a philology of the two names Turold and Turrald, extracts of parish registers and corporation records, copies from inscriptions from tombstones and mural monuments, copied pedigrees from the British Museum and the great English collections, a host of old deeds and wills, and other mildewed records of perished hands.