Robert Turold was dead, but the call for elucidation rang loudly from his coffin.

The dead man's hand beckoned him, and he dared not disobey.

He determined to go to Cornwall.
Outside in the darkness a clock chimed, and one of his own treasures repeated the hour with a soft mellifluous note.

Eleven! He had an idea that there was--or used to be--a midnight train to Cornwall.

He crossed to his bureau and consulted a time-table.