The Peacock of Jewels

BY FERGUS HUME

AUTHOR OF
“THE MYSTERY OF A HANSOM CAB,” “THE RED WINDOW,”
“THE YELLOW HOLLY,” “THE SEALED MESSAGE,”
“THE DISAPPEARING EYE,” ETC., ETC.

G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK

Copyright, 1910, By
G W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY

CONTENTS

THE PEACOCK OF JEWELS

CHAPTER I
THE ROTHERHITHE CRIME

To find Barkers Inn was much the same to an ordinary person as looking for a needle in the proverbial haystack. Dick Latimer, however, knew its exact whereabouts, because he lived there, and on this foggy November night he was making for it unerringly with the homing instinct of a bee. Leaving Fleet Street behind him, somewhere about eleven-thirty, he turned into Chancery Lane, and then struck off to the right down a by-road which narrowed to an alley, and finally ended in a cul-de-sac. Here the young man hurried through the rusty iron gates of a granite archway, and found himself in an oblong courtyard paved with cobble-stones and surrounded by tumble-down houses with steep roofs of discolored tiles. A few steps took him across this to a crooked little door, which he entered to mount a crooked little staircase, and in one minute he was on the first-floor landing, where a tiny gas-jet pricked the gloom with a bluish spot of light. Hastily using his latchkey, he admitted himself through a door on the left into a stuffy dark passage, technically called the entrance hall. Eventually entering the sitting-room, he hurled himself into a creaking basket-chair, and gave thanks to the gods of home that he had arrived.

The friend with whom Latimer shared these Barkers Inn chambers was seated by the fire clothed comfortably in a suit of shabby old flannels, reading a letter and smoking a briar-root, complacently at ease. He nodded when Dick stormed into the room, and spoke with his pipe between his teeth.

“Beastly night, isn’t it?” remarked Mr. Fuller, who had been spending the evening at home very pleasantly.

“You’d say much more than that, Alan, my boy, if you’d been out in the fog,” retorted Latimer. “Bur-r-r I’m glad to be indoors and to find you still out of bed at the eleventh hour. I’ve had adventures: official adventures.”

“Connected with your employment as a journalist, I suppose,” said Fuller in a lazy manner, and tucking the letter into his breast pocket, “but seriously speaking, Dicky, are adventures to be found in this over-civilized city?”

“Romance stalks the London streets, more or less disguised as the commonplace, my son. I can a tale unfold, but sha’n’t do so until I change my kit and have a Scotch hot on the way to my mouth. Is the water boiling?” he demanded, directing his gaze towards the old-fashioned grate where a small black kettle fumed and hissed on the hob.

“It’s been boiling for me,” said Fuller, indicating an empty tumbler at his elbow, “but I’ve enough water for your needs.”

“I only hope you’ve left enough whisky, which is far more precious. Poke up the fire and warm my slippers and make a fuss over me. I want to be fussed,” said Dick plaintively, as he retreated to his bedroom, “for I’m a poor orphan boy alone in this foggy world.”

“Ass!” observed Alan politely, and exposed the soles of his friend’s slippers to the fire, “what about supper?”

“I’ve had that,” sang out Latimer, “at someone else’s cost.”

“You must have ruined him then with your appetite,” answered Fuller, laughing; while he tilted back his chair to place his feet against the mantelpiece and his hands behind his head. In this position he smoked quietly and admired the photograph of an extremely pretty girl, which stood beside the clock, while the small black kettle sang the song of home.

The room was both long and broad with a low whitewash ceiling, crossed with black oak beams, a somewhat slanting floor—owing to the great age of the building—and three squat windows which overlooked the dingy courtyard. These were draped with faded curtains of green rep, drawn at this late hour to exclude the cold, and before one stood the writing-table of Latimer, while the escritoire of Fuller bulked largely against the other. Between the two, and blocking the approach to the middle window, stretched a slippery horse-hair sofa, covered with a rugged Eastern shawl to hide its many deficiencies. A shabby Kidderminster carpet concealed the worn floor, but its sad hues were brightened by three or four gayly colored mats, purchased at a cheap price. The round table, the unmatched chairs, the heavy sideboard, the sofa aforesaid, and the chipped bookcase, were all the flotsam and jetsam of auction rooms, belonging, more or less, to the comfortably ugly style of the Albert period. On the plain green-papered walls were various photographs of men and women, with sundry college groups; pictures of football teams, cricketers and boating-crews; odd bits of china and miniature statues on brackets; likewise foils, fencing masks, boxing gloves and such-like paraphernalia of sport. It was a real man’s room, suggestive of exuberant virility, and remarkably untidy. All the same there was order in its disorder, as both Latimer and Fuller knew exactly where to lay their hands on any article they wanted. The room was chaotic enough to drive a woman to distraction, but comfortable and home-like for all that.

The journalist returned in a well-worn smoking suit, and proceeded to light his pipe. Fuller brewed him a glass of grog, and handed it across as he sat down in the saddleback chair on the verge of the hearthrug. The two men were fine specimens of humanity in their different ways. Latimer was large and fair and heavily built, with big limbs, and a suggestion of great strength. He had untidy yellow hair and a yellow mustache which he tugged at hard when perplexed. His blue eyes were keen, but on the whole he did not reveal much brain power in his face, which undoubtedly told the truth, since he was more of an athlete than a scholar. Fuller, on the contrary, was brilliantly clever, and as a solicitor was doing very well for himself in a dingy Chancery Lane office. He was tall and slim, with a wiry frame, and a lean, clean-shaven face, clearly cut and bronzed. Indeed with his steady dark eyes and closely clipped black hair, and remarkably upright figure, he suggested the soldier. This was probably due to heredity, since he came of a fighting line for generations, although his father was a country vicar. Also, in spite of his sedentary occupation, the young man lived as much as possible in the open, and when not running down to his native village for weekends, haunted the parks on every possible occasion, or walked four miles on Hampstead Heath and into the country beyond. It was no wonder that he looked tanned, alert, bright-eyed, and active, more like a squire of the Midlands than a votary of Themis. Since Fuller senior was poor, the boy had to earn his bread and butter somehow, and after he left Cambridge had elected to become a lawyer. Shortly after he blossomed out into a full-blown solicitor, he chanced upon his old school friend, Dick Latimer, who had taken to journalism, and the two had set up house together in the ancient Inn. On the whole they were fairly comfortable, if not blessed with an excess of the world’s goods. Finally, being young, both were healthy and happy and hopeful and extremely enterprising.

“Well now, Dicky, what have you been doing?” asked Alan, when his friend, clothed and in his right mind, sipped his grog and puffed smoke-clouds.

“Attending an inquest at Rotherhithe.”

“Oh, that murder case!”

Latimer nodded and stared into the fire. “It’s a queer affair.”

“So far as I have read the newspaper reports, it seems to be a very commonplace one.”

“I told you that Romance was often disguised as the Commonplace, Alan.”

“As how, in this instance?”

His friend did not reply directly. “What do you know of the matter?” he asked so abruptly that Fuller looked up in surprise.

“Why, what can I know save what I have read in the papers?”

“Nothing, of course. I never suggested that you do know anything. But it’s no use my going over old ground, so I wish to hear what you have learned from the reports.”

“Very little, if you will be so precise,” said Alan after a pause. “In a fourth-class Rotherhithe boarding-house frequented chiefly by seamen, a man called Baldwin Grison was found dead in his bedroom and on his bed, a few days ago. The Dagoes and Lascars and such British seamen as live under the same roof are not accused of committing the crime, and as Grison was desperately poor and degraded, there was no reason why he should be murdered, since he wasn’t worth powder and shot. Old Mother Slaig, who keeps the house, declared that Grison retired to his room at ten o’clock, and it was only next morning, when he did not come down, that she learned of his death.”

Latimer nodded again. “All true and plainly stated. You certainly think in a methodical manner, Alan. The man was found lying on his bed in the usual shabby suit of clothes he wore. But his breast was bare, and he had been pierced to the heart by some fine instrument which cannot be found. Death must have been instantaneous according to the report of the doctor who was called in. But you are wrong in thinking that the crime was motiveless. I believe that robbery was the motive.”

“The papers didn’t report any belief of the police that such was the case.”

“The police don’t know everything—at least the inspector didn’t, although he knows a great deal more now,” said Latimer, removing his pipe, “but the single room occupied by the deceased was tumbled upside down, so it is evident that the assassin was looking for the fruits of his crime. Whether he found what he wanted is questionable.”

“What was it?” asked Fuller, interested in the mystery.

“I’ll tell you that later, although I really can’t say for certain if I am right. Let us proceed gradually and thresh out the matter thoroughly.”

“Fire ahead. I am all attention.”

“The police,” continued Dick meditatively, “hunted out evidence as to the identity and the status of the dead man, between the time of death and the holding of the inquest. Inspector Moon—he’s the Rotherhithe chap in charge of the case—advertised, or made inquiries, or got hold of the sister somehow. At all events she turned up yesterday and appeared at the inquest this very day.”

“Who is the sister?”

“An elderly shrimp of a woman with light hair and a shrill voice, and a pair of very hard blue eyes. She heard that her brother was murdered, or Moon hunted her up in some way, and willingly came forward with her story.”

“What is her story?”

“I’m just coming to it. What an impatient chap you are, Alan. Miss Grison—Louisa is her Christian name—keeps a shabby boarding-house in Bloomsbury, and is one of those people who have seen better days. It seems that her brother Baldwin was secretary to a person, whose name I shall tell you later, and was kicked out of his billet twenty years ago, because he couldn’t run straight.”

“What had he done?”

“I can’t say. Miss Grison wouldn’t confess, and as the story wasn’t pertinent to the murder she wasn’t pressed to confess. All she said was that her brother was an opium-smoker and after losing his billet drifted to Rotherhithe, where he could indulge in his vice. She tried to keep him respectable, and allowed him ten shillings a week to live on. But he sank lower and lower, so she saw very little of him. All she knew was that she sent the ten shilling postal order regularly every Friday so that Baldwin might get it on Saturday. He never visited her and he never wrote to her, but lived more or less like a hermit in Mother Slaig’s boarding-house, and went out every night to smoke opium in some den kept by a Chinaman called Chin-Chow. Miss Grison sobbed bitterly when she gave her evidence and insisted that her brother owed his degradation to the enmity of people.”

“What sort of people?”

“She didn’t particularize. He was weak rather than bad, she insisted, and when he lost his situation, he lost heart also. At all events he devoted himself to the black smoke, and lived in the Rotherhithe slum, until he was found dead by the old hag who keeps the house.”

“Did Miss Grison’s evidence throw any light on the crime?”

“No. She declared that she did not know of anyone who would have killed the poor devil.”

“Was there any evidence on the part of the doctor, or Mother Slaig, or those seamen in the house to show who murdered the man?” asked Fuller.

“Not the slightest. The house was open morn, noon and night, and those who lived there came and went at their will without being watched. It’s a rowdy locality and a rowdy house, but Mother Slaig keeps fairly good order as she’s a formidable old hag resembling Vautrin’s aunt in Balzac’s story.”

“Madame Nourrisau; I remember,” said Fuller, nodding. “Then I take it that no one in the house heard any struggle, or cry for help?”

“No. Besides, as I have told you, death must have been instantaneous. No one, so far as Mother Slaig or others in the house knew, visited Grison on that night, or indeed on any other occasion—so they say—since the man was more or less of a hermit. He went to bed at ten and at the same hour next morning he was found dead with his room all upside down.”

“Was anything missed?”

“There was nothing to miss,” said Latimer quickly. “I saw the room, which only contained a small bed, a small table and two chairs. The man had but one, suit of ragged clothes, which he concealed under a fairly good overcoat his sister declared she sent to him last Christmas. He was desperately poor and never seemed to do anything but smoke opium.”

“What kind of a man was he to look at?”

“Something like the sister. Small and fair-haired, with blue eyes. Of course, owing to the black smoke, he was a wreck morally and physically and mentally, according to Mother Slaig, and the boys used to throw stones at him in the streets. However, to make a long story short, nothing could be found to show how the poor wretch had come by his death, so an open verdict was brought in—the sole thing which could be done. To-morrow his sister, who seems to have loved him in spite of his degradation, is taking away the corpse for burial.”

“Where is it to be buried?”

Latimer looked up slowly. “In the churchyard of Belstone, Sussex,” he said.

Alan sat up very straight and his manner expressed his unbounded astonishment. “That’s my father’s parish,” he gasped.

“Yes. And the churchyard is attached to the building your father preaches in, my son,” said Latimer dryly, “odd coincidence, isn’t it?”

“But—but—what has this murdered man to do with Belstone?” asked Fuller in a bewildered manner.

“That’s what I want to find out, Alan. Can’t you remember the name?”

“Never heard of it. And yet the name Baldwin Grison is not a common one. I should certainly have remembered it had it been mentioned to me. It is odd certainly, as Belstone isn’t exactly the hub of the universe. Grison! Baldwin Grison.” Fuller shook his head. “No, I can’t recall it. To be sure he may have been in the village twenty years ago, since you say that he has lived since that time in Rotherhithe. I was only seven years of age then, so I can remember nothing. But my father may know. I’ll ask him when I go down this week-end.”

“There’s another thing I wish you to ask him.”

“What is that?”

“The romantic thing which lifts this case out of the commonplace. Only Inspector Moon knows what I am about to tell you and he informed me with a recommendation not to make it public.”

“Then why do you tell me?” said Fuller quickly. “Is it wise?”

“Quite wise,” responded his friend imperturbably, “because I asked Moon’s permission to take you into our confidence.”

Fuller looked puzzled. “Why?”

Again Dicky replied indirectly. “It seems that Grison, unlucky beggar, had one friend, a street-arab brat called Jotty.”

“Jotty what—or is Jotty a surname?”

“It’s the only name the boy has. He’s a clever little Cockney of fourteen, and wise beyond his years, picking up a living as best he can. Grison used to give him food occasionally, and sometimes money. Jotty ran errands for the man, and was the sole person admitted to his room.”

“Well! well! well!” said Alan impatiently. “I’m coming to it, if you don’t hurry me,” said Latimer coolly. “Jotty on one occasion entered the room, and found Grison nursing between his hands—what do you think?”

“How the deuce should I know?”

“A peacock of jewels!”

Alan stared, and cast a swift glance at the photograph of the pretty girl on the mantelpiece. “A peacock of jewels!” he repeated under his breath.

“Or a jewelled peacock, if you like. Grison put it away when he saw the boy: but that he had such an article is quite certain, as Jotty hasn’t the imagination to describe the thing. Now in spite of all search, Inspector Moon can’t find that peacock, and you may be sure that after Jotty told his tale the inspector searched very thoroughly.

“Well?” Alan cast a second look at the photograph.

“Well,” echoed Dick, rather annoyed, “can’t you draw an inference. I think, and Moon thinks, that the assassin murdered Grison in order to gain possession of the peacock, which was of great value. If he wants to make money out of it he will have to sell it, and in this way the inspector hopes to trap the beast. For that reason, and so that the assassin may not be placed on his guard, Moon doesn’t want anyone but you and me and himself to know the truth. You can’t guess why I have told you this.”

“Yes.” Alan nodded and rubbed his knees, while a puzzled look came over his dark clean-cut face. “I remember telling you about the fetish of the Inderwicks ages ago.”

“Tell me again as soon as you can withdraw your gaze from that photo.”

Fuller colored, and laughed consciously. “When a man is in love, much may be forgiven him. And you must admit, Dicky, that she’s the beauty of the world. Now isn’t she?”

Latimer eyed the photograph in his turn. “She’s pretty,” he said judicially.

“Pretty,” echoed Fuller with great indignation, “she’s an angel, and the loveliest girl ever created, besides being the most fascinating of women.”

“Oh, spare me your raptures,” broke in Dick impatiently. “Your taste in looks isn’t mine, and I’ve met Miss Marie Inderwick, which you seem to forget. She is very nice and very pretty and——”

“Oh, hang your lukewarm phraseology,” interrupted the other. “She’s the most adorable girl in the universe.”

“I admit that, for the sake of getting on with the business in hand. Now what about the peacock of jewels?”

“I told you all I know, which isn’t much,” said Alan, reluctantly changing the subject. “Marie lives at the big house in Belstone which is called ‘The Monastery’ because it was given by Henry VIII., to the Inderwick of——”

“Oh, confound Henry VIII. What about the peacock?”

“It’s the family fetish, and for one hundred years has been in the possession of the Inderwicks. It was stolen some twenty years ago, and no one ever knew what became of it. Now——”

“Now it turns up in the possession of Baldwin Grison, who has evidently been murdered on its account. And yet you deny latter-day romance.”

“Well,” observed Alan rubbing his knees again, “I admit that your truth is stranger than your professional journalistic fiction. But how did this man become possessed of the ornament?”

Latimer shrugged his mighty shoulders. “How dense you are! Didn’t I tell you how Louisa Grison declared that her brother had been secretary to a certain person, whose name I said I would tell you later on. I shall tell you now, if you aren’t clever enough to guess it.”

“Rats,” said Fuller inelegantly. “How can you expect me to guess it?”

“By using what common-sense Nature has given you. Hang it, man, here is an excessively unique ornament belonging to the Inderwick family which has been missing for over twenty years. Grison’s sister says that she intends to bury her brother’s body in Belstone churchyard, and declared at the inquest that at one time he was the secretary to a certain person. Now if you put two and two together, you will find that the person is——”

“Mr. Sorley. Randolph Sorley,” cried Fuller suddenly enlightened.

“In other words, the uncle and guardian of Miss Marie Inderwick. Well now, you can see that two and two do make four.”

“Humph!” Fuller nursed his chin and looked thoughtfully at the fire. “So this murdered man was Mr. Sorley’s secretary. According to his sister he lost the situation—perhaps, Dick, because he stole the peacock.”

“We can’t be positive of that, Alan. Grison, in his secretarial capacity, certainly lived at The Monastery and assisted Mr. Sorley in preparing for the press that dreary book about precious stones which seems to be his life work. He had every chance to steal, but if Mr. Sorley had suspected him he assuredly would have had him arrested.”

“Perhaps Grison bolted and could not be traced.”

“I think not. He was, so far as I can gather from what Miss Grison says, dismissed in due form. He lived with her for a time at the Bloomsbury boarding-house and later on drifted to Rotherhithe to indulge in his love for the black smoke. No! no! no! my son. Mr. Sorley could never have believed that Grison was in possession of the peacock of jewels.”

“Then why did he discharge him?”

“We must find out, and that won’t be easy after twenty years. Mr. Sorley is growing old and may not remember clearly. But Grison on the evidence of Jotty undoubtedly had this peacock, and since it cannot be found, he must have been murdered by someone who desired the ornament. The disorder of that sordid room shows that a strict search was made by the assassin, and it could be for nothing save the golden peacock. Now, if the assassin did find it, Alan, and if you and I and Moon and Jotty keep silent, the man will think that he is safe and will sell his plunder.”

“Wait a bit, Dick. He may unset the jewels and sell them separately. Then it will be difficult to trace him by the sale of the article.”

“True enough of Solomon. However we must take our chance of that. If he is certain that the loss is not suspected he may sell the whole without splitting it into parts. If he does, Moon—who has his eye on all pawnshops and jewellers and on various receivers of stolen goods—can spot the beast and arrest him. But, as a second string to our bow, it is just as well to know all about this family fetish, since its history may throw some light on the mystery of its disappearance. Now what you have to do, my son, is to go down to Belstone and learn all you can about Grison when he was secretary to old Sorley. Ask Miss Inderwick and her uncle about him.”

“Marie won’t know anything save by hearsay,” said Alan, shaking his head. “Remember she’s only twenty years of age, and was an infant in arms when the family fetish disappeared. Besides if I make inquiries I shall have to account for my curiosity by revealing what you have told me to keep secret.”

“H’m! h’m! h’m!” murmured the other, frowning, “there is that objection certainly. We must put out our sprat to catch the mackerel. However, it wants three days till Saturday, so I shall see Moon and hear what he suggests about the matter. The Inderwicks are poor, aren’t they, Alan?”

“There is only one Inderwick left,” answered the young solicitor, rising to stretch his limbs, “and that is Marie. Of course she is desperately poor, as I told you ages ago. She has The Monastery, the few acres of the park, and two hundred a year to live on. Sorley is her mother’s brother, her uncle and guardian, with another two hundred income. By pooling the cash, the two manage to keep things going.”

“H’m! It’s a dull life for the girl. Do you like Mr. Sorley?”

“No,” replied Fuller serenely. “He’s a selfish old animal, who only regards Marie as a necessary piece of furniture. She was at school for many years and only returned home some twelve months ago. Now she acts as her uncle’s housekeeper, and leads an infernally dull life. Mr. Sorley never seems to think that Marie is young and requires enjoyment. He’s a beast.”

“Ho,” chuckled Dick shrewdly, “you seem to dislike him excessively. I can easily see that he doesn’t favour your suit.”

“No, hang him, he doesn’t. If Marie married me, the old man would be left with his two hundred a year to get on as best he could, and you may be jolly well sure, Dicky, that he doesn’t want to leave the big house.”

“Natural enough,” yawned Latimer. “Well, my son, you help Moon to hunt down Grison’s assassin and recover the fetish of the Inderwicks and perhaps the old man, out of gratitude, may accept you as a nephew-in-law.”

“It’s worth trying for at all events,” said Alan thoughtfully. “Marie’s an angel, and I’m bound to marry her sooner or later. I’ll go down on Saturday and start operations.”

CHAPTER II
AT THE VICARAGE

Alan Fuller thoughtfully tucked the rug round his knees in the third-class compartment of the train which was taking him to Belstone. There was no station at the village, but the Brighton express stopped at Lewes, and thence he could walk or drive to his destination. The young man was in tip-top spirits, as the suggestion of Latimer that he should join in the search for Grison’s assassin, and secure the return of the peacock fetish to Marie Inderwick, ‘rendered him hopeful that success in this direction would lead to his marriage with the girl. Of course that could not take place for some time since he was not yet making a sufficient income to justify his becoming the husband of the most adorable girl in the universe. Still, if Mr. Sorley would withdraw his absurd opposition—and he probably would do so, were the peacock recovered—Alan concluded that he might become officially engaged to Marie, and so she would not be snapped up by other suitors. Legally speaking he would have a lien on her.

Not that this was really needed, since Marie loved him as much as he loved her, but the position would be more satisfactory to both if matters were arranged on this basis, and in a practical way. After all, Marie was young and impressionable, and if Mr. Sorley found a rich man anxious to become the husband of his lovely niece he might, and probably would, worry her into accepting the suitor. Marie would fight—Alan was quite positive on this point—but she might be worn out by her uncle’s persistence, and Fuller knew well enough that the old man was as obstinate as a mule, when once he set his mind on achieving a certain end. On the whole then, Alan was pleased that chance had thrown in his way an opportunity of doing Mr. Sorley a service, as a benefit conferred would undoubtedly soften him. Certainly the peacock belonged to Marie, but—looking upon it, as she would, as a mere ornament—she probably would not mind its remaining in her uncle’s possession when it was found. And Sorley was a fanatic about jewels: their glitter and rainbow hues seemed to send him crazy with delight. To recover the radiant splendor of the peacock, he would assuredly concede much and Alan felt quite sure that consent to his marriage with the girl would not be withheld. But everything depended upon the tracing of the miserable Grison’s assassin and that was not an easy task.

Before leaving London, Fuller had visited Inspector Moon at his Rotherhithe office, along with Latimer, and the policeman had been greatly interested in the fact that the solicitor knew the original possessors of the article for which Grison had apparently been murdered. He had also been astonished, and with good reason, at the coincidence that Latimer, to whom he had spoken about Jotty’s evidence, should have a friend who was—so to speak—mixed up in the matter of the peacock. Since Fate appeared to point out Fuller as an active agent in bringing this unknown murderer to justice, through the instrumentality of the stolen ornament, Moon had readily given the young man permission to speak of the matter to Mr. Sorley and to Marie. Meanwhile the inspector still continued to hunt for the trail, but without success. The assassin had come and gone in the crowd which inhabited Mother Slaig’s boarding-house entirely unnoticed, and now that Grison was buried in the Belstone churchyard as arranged by his sister, it appeared as if the Rotherhithe murder would have to be relegated to the list of undiscovered crimes. Further revelations depended either on the chance that the criminal would pawn or sell what he had risked his neck to obtain, or on some evidence procured from Marie and Sorley, relative to the peacock. Where had it originally come from? who had manufactured it? why did the Inderwick family regard it as a fetish? and finally, why had Grison stolen it? These were the questions which Fuller came down to Belstone to ask.

Meanwhile the inspector still continued to hunt for the trail, but without success. The assassin had come and gone in the crowd which inhabited Mother Slaig’s boarding-house entirely unnoticed, and now that Grison was buried in the Belstone churchyard as arranged by his sister, it appeared as if the Rotherhithe murder would have to be relegated to the list of undiscovered crimes. Further revelations depended either on the chance that the criminal would pawn or sell what he had risked his neck to obtain, or on some evidence procured from Marie and Sorley, relative to the peacock. Where had it originally come from? who had manufactured it? why did the Inderwick family regard it as a fetish? and finally, why had Grison stolen it? These were the questions which Fuller came down to Belstone to ask.

It was therefore no wonder that, since Alan’s future happiness depended upon his success in solving so deep a mystery, he should be thoughtful on the journey, to Belstone. Dick and he had talked a great deal about the matter but, for want of further evidence could arrive at no conclusion. Until Mr. Sorley explained about the peacock, and stated what he knew concerning Grison, there was nothing more to be done. Alan thought that the uncle would probably know more than the niece, since she had been an infant in arms when the fetish had been stolen. All the same he resolved to question Marie first, on the chance that she might know something, and upon what she stated would depend his future plans. The young man did not like Mr. Sorley, not only because that gentleman thwarted his marriage with Marie, but also for the very simple reason that he mistrusted Sorley’s character. His eyes were too shifty; his manners were too suave; and although he always wished to know the private affairs of everyone else, he never by any chance confessed anything that had to do with himself. It was necessary on these grounds, as Fuller considered, to deal with Marie’s uncle in a wary manner.

In due course the train stopped at Lewes, and Alan got out with the intention of walking the five miles to Belstone. He had only a gladstone bag containing a few necessary articles for a Saturday-to-Monday’s stay in the country, since he invariably kept a supply of clothes at his home. With a nod to the station-master, to whom he was well-known, Fuller left the station, and ignoring the application of several cabmen, struck at an angle to reach the high road. He was soon on the hard metal and walked along swiftly and easily swinging his bag, glad of the exercise to grow warm again, as the day was cold and he was chilled from sitting in the train. As it was now the end of November there was a slight grey fog spreading its veil over the surrounding country, and the sun was conspicuous by its absence. But that Alan thought of Marie’s bright face, which he would be certain to see smiling before him on this day or the next, he would have been depressed by the want of sunshine. But what lover who hopes to look into the eyes of the girl he adores within a specified number of hours can feel down-hearted, however gloomy the skies or moist the earth? Not Alan Fuller, who moved on to his much-desired goal with love songs humming in his active brain. And the burden of these was “Marie Marie Marie!” with the delicious name joined to the most eulogistic adjectives in the English tongue.

It was when he was almost within sight of Belstone village that the motor bicycle came along. Alan heard the buzz of the machine round the corner and stood aside to let it pass, indifferent to its coming and going. But when he saw a slim old man with an ascetic, clean-shaven face, smartly dressed in a grey suit with brown gaiters, seated thereon, he both started and called out in his surprise.

“Mr. Sorley. This is unexpected. You on a bicycle?”

The rider shut off the motive power and brought his machine to a standstill a few yards past the young man. “You are astonished,” he said, coming back wheeling the bicycle. “Well, Alan, I don’t wonder at it. At the age of sixty, it is not many people who would risk their brittle bones in this way.”

“No, indeed,” replied Fuller, staring at Mr. Sorley’s fresh complexion and closely-cropped white hair surmounted by a very juvenile tweed cap. “And I thought you were such an indoor man.”

“Pooh! pooh! pooh!” said Sorley good-humoredly. “You know how particular I am about exercise, Alan. I walk every day a certain distance in order to keep myself in health. For years I have slipped out to range the park; but with increasing age should come increasing activity, so, I have bought this,” he shook the machine, “and already—in three weeks that is—I have learned to ride it without fear. I can explore the country now, and intend to do so, my dear lad. The park is too small for me, and I must take all the exercise possible if I wish to keep my looks and vitality. Increasing age: increasing activity,” said Mr. Sorley again, “there you are.”

“Increasing age generally means sitting by the fire and going to bed early, sir,” replied Alan dryly, “don’t overdo it.”

“My boy, there is nothing so objectionable as advice.”

“I beg your pardon. I only thought——”

“Then don’t think on my behalf at all events,” snapped Mr. Sorley, who appeared rather ruffled by Fuller’s reflection on his age. “When you come to my years, Alan, I doubt if you will look so healthy as I do.”

The young man mentally admitted that it was possible he might not wear so well. Sorley was a marvel of preservation, and although he had turned sixty certainly did not look more than forty-five at the most, save for his white hair. His face was almost without wrinkles; his form, spare and lean, was unbowed, and the up-to-date clothes he always affected gave him quite a youthful air at a distance. In fact he was a very handsome man in an elderly way, and but for his shifty eyes and slack mouth—these marred his appearance considerably—he would have impressed people even more than he already did. But with all his juvenile aspect and ingratiating ways, there was something untrustworthy about the man. At least Alan thought so, and had always thought so, but perhaps he might have been more observant than the usual run of humanity, for Marie’s uncle was extremely popular, although his usual life was somewhat after the style of a hermit. But this Mr. Sorley ascribed less to inclination than to the want of money, since he humorously said that he and Marie, unable to make both ends meet, had to make one end vegetables.

“You are wonderful, Mr. Sorley,” said Alan, hastening to soothe the old man’s easily hurt vanity. “I never saw you look better. How do you manage to knock all these years off your age?”

“Abstention from over-drinking and overeating,” said Mr. Sorley briskly, giving his recipe for everlasting youth. “An hour’s sleep in the afternoon and plenty of it at night. Cold tubs, dumbbell exercises in the altogether as Trilby says with the window open, judicious walks and an optimistic way of looking at things. There you are,” he ended with his favourite catch-phrase as usual.

“Now you must add trips on a motor bicycle,” laughed Alan, smiling. “By the way, how is Marie?”

“Blooming as a rose, fresh as a daisy, cheerful as a lark,” prattled Mr. Sorley, with a swift and not altogether approving glance at the speaker’s face. “She’ll be getting married soon. I can’t expect to keep such beauty and grace hidden from the world. And she must make a good match, my lad”—this was for Alan’s particular benefit as the young man knew very well——“a title and money, good looks and a landed estate, with brains added. That is the suitor I have chosen for Marie.”

“You are looking for a bird of paradise,” said Fuller, coloring at the hint conveyed, “does such perfection exist in a mere human being?”

“I hope so; I hope so,” said Sorley, still cheery and still shifty in his glance, “we must look for the rarity, my lad. But I’m in no hurry to lose Marie. She is a great comfort to her old uncle. I was annoyed the other day, greatly annoyed, and she talked me into quite a good humor.”

“What annoyed you, sir?” asked Fuller, not because he cared, but merely from a desire to chat about Miss Inderwick.

“A funeral which took place in the village.”

“Oh, Baldwin Grison’s funeral?”

Sorley brought his shifty green eyes to the young man’s face. “What do you know about Baldwin Grison?” he asked sharply, and, as it seemed to Alan’s suspicious nature, rather uneasily.

“All that the newspapers could tell me, Mr. Sorley. He was murdered at Rotherhithe by some unknown person, and his sister brought the body down here for burial in the village churchyard.”

“That last wasn’t in the newspapers,” retorted the other quickly and looking everywhere but at Alan’s face.

“No, it wasn’t. But my friend Latimer—you may remember meeting him at the vicarage, Mr. Sorley—was at the inquest and afterwards spoke to Miss Grison, who told him of her intention.”

“Did she tell him also that her brother was my secretary twenty years ago, Alan?” demanded Sorley, his face growing red and his eyes glittering. “Did she say how he was turned out of the house as a drunken swine?”

“Miss Grison hinted something of those things at the inquest, but did not go into details, and, as they were unnecessary, she was not pressed. But she told Latimer that her brother had been discharged by you for some reason.”

“He was a hard drinker, and also smoked opium,” said Sorley angrily. “I did what I could for him, but had to discharge him in the long run. That woman had no right to bring the body here and bury it under my nose, as it might be. Decency should have prevented her bringing back the man to a place whence he was kicked out twenty years ago.”

“She didn’t bring back the man, but his remains, sir.”

“It would have been better had she thrown those into a London ditch,” replied Sorley tartly. “Grison was a bad servant to me and a bad brother to her and a profligate animal. I don’t wonder he was murdered.”

“Can you suggest any motive for the commission of the crime?” asked Fuller, looking straightly at the elder man.

“Grison was a drunkard, an opium-smoker, a liar and a loafer. A man like that must have made many enemies, and in the low slum he lived in he certainly risked what has, in the end, happened. The wonder is that he was not murdered before, Alan.”

“Well, he had one good point,” said Fuller meaningly and to force confidence if possible on the part of Sorley. “He wasn’t a thief.”

“Can you prove that he was not?”

“Can you prove that he was?” demanded Alan in his turn. “At all events you omitted that particular crime from your category.”

“The poor devil’s dead and I don’t wish to say more about him than I have already stated,” said Sorley moodily, and beginning to start his machine, “but I trust that his silly sister will not come and worry me.”

“Why should she?” asked Fuller, noticing that the man before him evaded the question of Grison being a thief.

“There’s no reason in the world why she should, except that she was infatuated with her brother and believed that I had discharged him unjustly. I shouldn’t be surprised if she came to tell me that again, by word of mouth as she has told me dozens of times by letter. She ascribed Grison’s downfall to me, and was always asking me to assist him when he was at Rotherhithe during the last twenty years. Of course I didn’t, both because I am poor as you know, Alan, and for the simple reason that Grison was not worth helping. I was his best friend, and far from bringing about his downfall I did my best to keep him straight. But all in vain: all in vain. He became quite a scandal in the place and Mrs. Inderwick, my sister, insisted that I should get rid of him. I did so, and he went to the dogs entirely. So there you are, Alan, my boy, and I can’t stay here all day talking about a matter which annoys me intensely.”

By this time the machine was alive with energy and Mr. Sorley swung himself into the saddle as he ended his voluble speech. With a nod he set the starting gear in motion, and almost instantaneously was a dot on the horizon travelling towards Lewes at the speed of a swallow. Alan looked after him thoughtfully, and tried to arrive at some conclusion regarding his apparently frank speech. By the time he reached the vicarage he came to one resolution at least, and that was to say nothing for the present to Mr. Sorley about the peacock. The young man could scarcely decide himself what made him refrain from speaking, save that the old gentleman’s manner and vague speech communicated to him a sort of uneasy feeling, which hinted that reticence was wise for the time being. It might have been some sixth sense which induced the decision, for Fuller certainly could not argue out the matter logically. However, he determined to obey the intuition, and to avoid making a confidant of the uncle, while speaking freely of his errand to the niece. There was no feeling in his mind against discussing with Marie the theft of the peacock as the possible motive for the murder of the man her relative seemed to detest so thoroughly.

As usual the young man received the warmest of welcomes from his parents, who adored their only son and thought him the most wonderful person in the world. The vicar assuredly did not worship the marvellous boy so devotedly as did Mrs. Fuller; nevertheless he took a great pride in Alan’s handsome looks and clever brains and general good conduct. He was a bright-eyed, rosy-faced little man, who scarcely came up to his tall son’s shoulder, with a kindly nature, which was always being imposed upon. His wife, a sweet-faced old lady, tall, grey-haired, and singularly graceful, was more practical in many ways than her husband. She checked the vicar’s too generous way of dealing with those who took advantage of his lavish kindness, and was the true ruling power in the house. Her weak point was Alan, and she often sighed to think that he would never find a woman worthy to be his wife. A dozen of the best women in the world rolled into one perfect creature would never have come up to the standard she had set up in her own mind which the future Mrs. Alan Fuller was to reach.

Alan always enjoyed his home visits, not only because he loved his parents with a tenderness and respect rare in these modern days of revolt against domestic authority, but also on account of the quiet and well-ordered life which made the vicarage so uncommonly pleasant. Mrs. Fuller was a famous housewife, and managed her establishment with such rare tact that she kept her servants for years. Her husband’s income was not a large one, but no one would have guessed this, seeing the perfectly appointed dinner-table and the dainty meal prepared. The vicar’s wife had brought to her husband by way of dowry a quantity of valuable old furniture, so that every room looked graciously beautiful. And as the house was quaint and old, and kept in perfect repair and order, those not in the secret of the income believed that the Fullers had ample means. But everything grateful to the eye and the touch and the palate was due to the “vicaress,” as her husband jocularly called her. The worst-tempered person in the world would have succumbed to the soothing influences which permeated the place.

“Home, home, sweet, sweet home,” hummed Alan, when the trio sat in the fragrant old drawing-room after an admirable dinner. “Mother darling, you have no idea how restful this is, after the noise and bustle of London.”

Mrs. Fuller smiled from her favorite chair, and went on with her tatting, busy as a bee, for she was rarely idle. In her silver-grey dress with a lace cap of dainty gossamer resting on her white hair, worn cast back after the style of Marie Antoinette, and her old-fashioned set of amethyst ornaments, she looked singularly charming. In the subdued light which came through the pink lampshades she looked like some gentle ghost of early Victorian days, soothingly womanly and motherly. She had grown old gracefully, and as the diamonds flashed from her rings while she tatted diligently Alan thought what a delightful gentlewoman she looked, placid, dignified and gracious.

It was the vicar who answered his son’s question, although Alan had scarcely put his remark as such. “Ah, my boy, you’d soon grow weary of this drowsy place, and would long for the crowded hour of glorious life. It is the contrast that makes you appreciate our Eden.”

Mrs. Fuller nodded her approval. “White always shows up best against black.”

“Well, you have had some London black down here lately, mother.” And when she looked at him inquiringly, Alan continued, “I mean the funeral.”

The vicar’s face grew sad. “Yes! yes! That was indeed an unpleasant reminder of what lies beyond our quiet hills. Poor Grison and poor Louisa tool I do not know which I am most sorry for.”

“For Louisa?” said Mrs. Fuller, raising her quiet eyes. “You need not be sorry for her, John. She did her duty and more than her duty by that poor creature who has gone to his account, so she has nothing to reproach herself with. I am glad she is staying for a few days, as I wish to have a talk with her.”

“Is Miss Grison staying here then?” asked Alan, wondering if it would be worth while to look her up.

“At Mrs. Millington’s, the dressmaker, my dear. She and Louisa were close friends twenty years and more ago.”

“That was when Grison was secretary to Mr. Sorley.”

“Yes,” chimed in the vicar. “But who told you about that, my boy?”

“Miss Grison spoke about it at the inquest and also to Dick and Inspector Moon, father. Then I met Mr. Sorley on my way here and he told me that he had employed the man, but had to get rid of him for drink, and——”

“I don’t think that is true,” interrupted Mrs. Fuller with some indignation in her usually gentle voice. “Poor Baldwin—we called him so when he was a young man—did not drink to excess, although he certainly took more than was good for him at times.”

“Then why was he discharged?”

“I cannot say, Alan, nor can anyone else. Louisa knows, but she would never tell me. But Mr. Sorley was much to blame in throwing Baldwin on the world without a character, since he was too weak to stand by himself. Louisa did what she could, but he fell from bad to worse until—alas! alas! Tell me, Alan, has anything been discovered as to who killed him?”

“Not yet, mother. You have read the papers.”

“Oh yes. Louisa sent all the reports down to your father and to me, knowing that we took a deep interest in Baldwin. Don’t you remember him, Alan? You were a little boy of six or seven then.”

Alan shook his head. “I have a faint recollection only, mother. A little man, wasn’t he, with fair hair and blue eyes? But there, I may have got that impression from Dick’s description. He saw the corpse.”

“Don’t talk about such things, Alan,” said the vicar hastily. “It worries your mother: she is very impressionable. Let us be thankful that the poor creature has been brought back to lie in our quiet churchyard. As to the person who murdered him, he will suffer for his sin in God’s good time.”

“I doubt if the truth will ever be discovered,” said Alan with a shrug. “By the way, father, do you remember that peacock of jewels which was the fetish or luck of the Inderwicks?”

Not knowing what connection there was between the murder of Grison and the ornament in question, the vicar thought that the apparently irrelevant inquiry was made by his son in obedience to his request that the crime should not be discussed in the presence of Mrs. Fuller. “Everyone in the village, if not in the county, knows about the peacock,” he said with an approving smile, “but as to its bringing luck, I do not believe in such superstitions, my boy.”

“Perhaps not,” said his wife quietly, “but you must confess, John, that since what the Inderwicks call their luck has been missing nothing has gone well with them—that is with Marie, who alone represents the family.”

“Nonsense, my dear. Marie is young, healthy, pretty, and happy enough in her own way, as Sorley is kindness itself to her. There’s no bad luck haunting the girl so far as I can see.”

“No, of course not. But I allude rather to her poverty. The Inderwicks used to be rich, and Mrs. Inderwick was left comparatively well off. Then she lost her money when Marie was born, and afterwards died.”

“Inderwick—Marie’s father, that is—should not have made Sorley trustee, for he is, and always was a bad business man. He acted honestly enough, I daresay, but even with his sister’s consent he should never have speculated as he did. No wonder the money was lost.”

“What were the speculations?” asked Alan.

“Land in Australia—in Melbourne chiefly, I believe. There was a big land boom there, over twenty years ago. Then everything failed and bank after bank went smash. Before Sorley could get a letter or even a telegram out, everything was gone. However, Marie has The Monastery and the park and sufficient to keep her in food and dress, so she can’t grumble.”

“Marie never does grumble,” said Mrs. Fuller decidedly, “she is the brightest person I know. But it’s a dull life for a young girl at The Monastery. She ought to have a season in London and be presented at Court and have an opportunity,” here she stole a shy glance at Alan’s expressive face, “of making a good match. With Marie’s blood and looks she should secure a title.”

“Well, perhaps she will, when the peacock returns to bring back the luck,” said Alan, refusing to be drawn into an argument with his mother over Marie.

“It will never be found,” said the vicar positively. “How was it lost, father?”

“I can’t tell you. But it has been missing twenty years and is not likely to reappear. Marie can do very well without it. Such superstition is ridiculous. And now we must have prayers,” ended Mr. Fuller inconsequently. His wife looked up amused, since she knew that he acted thus because he had no patience with her belief in the peacock as a fetish.

And while prayers were being said Alan wondered if the peacock would ever reappear, in spite of his father’s doubts, to influence Marie’s destiny.

CHAPTER III
A STORY OF THE PAST

The ancient village of Belstone, hidden in a fold of low-lying, undulating hills, is inhabited chiefly by agricultural laborers. One irregular street, four or five narrow lanes, and a few behind-the-time shops, together with many small cottages, constitute this sequestered hamlet. There are a great number of farms and several country seats in the district, but those who own them usually buy the necessaries of life at Lewes, so Belstone cannot depend upon trade for its support. The villagers, however, do not mind this neglect, as they are sleepy-headed and indifferent to all, so long as they earn sufficient for bed and board. The sole houses of any note are the vicarage at one end of the village, and the great mansion of the Inderwicks at the other. Formerly the owners of The Monastery—as the place is called—were Lords of the Manor, but, as their property has dwindled to a few acres, the title has passed to a modern and more prosperous family. The Inderwicks, formerly so rich and powerful, are now of small account amongst the gentry of the county.

The Rev. John Fuller always maintained that the prehistoric name of the village was Baalstone, and that it was so termed after an altar or stone to Baal or Bel, a deity whom the Ph[oe]nicians had introduced into Britain. But it is more than questionable whether these sea-rovers ever traded so far as Sussex, and Mr. Fuller’s assumption can be taken for what it is worth, although he held stoutly to his opinion. But be this as it may undoubtedly there was a Druidical temple where the big house now stands, later a shrine to Diana, and afterwards an altar to Woden, until early Christian missionaries built on the same spot a primitive flint and mortar church. Finally came a Benedictine monastery, which lasted until the reign of that arch-iconoclast, Henry VIII. From the expelled monks it had passed into the possession of Nicholas Inderwick, one of Cromwell’s favorite gentlemen, and had been owned by his descendants ever since. The spot had therefore always been a holy one, until secularised in the days of the great Tudor monarch, and perhaps for this reason had never brought good fortune to the Inderwicks, who had built up what prosperity they had attained to on the ruin of sacred things and the misfortunes of sacred people. Certainly evil luck had followed them for generations: they had lost land, money, position and authority, and their family tree had been cut down root and branch, until only one feeble twig sprouted from the mouldering trunk. Marie Inderwick was the last descendant of the ancient line, and dwelt in the house of her ancestors on a penurious income which barely sufficed to keep her in food and fire and clothes. And when she married, or died, it was to be expected that the family name would vanish from the land.

All these things Alan knew very well, as all his life they had been talked about in the village and at the vicarage. There was also a prophecy of an expelled monk dating over three hundred years ago, which promised renewed prosperity to the Inderwicks when their fortunes were lowest. The young man could not think how much lower the fortunes could sink, and wondered as he strolled towards the monastery, if now was the appointed time for the fulfilment of the ancient saying:—

“When most is lost and most are dead,
The spoilers then shall raise their head.
Jewels and gold from over-seas,
Will bring them peace and joy and ease.”

Of course Alan in his reading of the prophecy modernized the antique diction. There was much more of it, but only Marie knew the whole of Fate’s decree, and was accustomed to repeat it hopefully when she felt down-hearted. She always insisted that sooner or later the curse pronounced on the Inderwicks by the monk would be removed.

As there was no money to keep things in order, the place was woefully neglected. The great iron gates which swung from pillars surmounted by the Inderwick escutcheon in the grip of tall dragons had not been opened for many years, and access to the park was gained through a small side entrance set in the mouldering brick wall which encircled the domain. The park itself was so overgrown and wild and tangled and savage that it might have been that very wood which shut in the enchanted palace of the Sleeping Beauty. Alan dreamed that it might be so, and that he might be the fairy prince destined to awaken Marie to a new life. And indeed since she loved him, and he adored her, he had succeeded so far; but how her fortunes were to be mended at the present juncture he could not see. Yet had he been gifted with psychic powers he would have known more or less positively that he was on the eve of entering a new lane down which he would lead the girl towards happiness and prosperity.

A short brisk walk up the neglected avenue brought Fuller into the wide open space wherein was placed the great mansion. Some portions of the original monastery remained, but during hundreds of years it had been so altered that the monks would have had some difficulty in recognizing their former habitation. Parts of the building had been pulled down and other parts built up, that had been altered and this had been permitted to remain in its original state, so that the old house presented an incongruous appearance which could be ascribed to no particular epoch of architecture. With its walls of grey flint, brown stone, red brick, and here and there blocks of white marble somewhat soiled by wind and rain and sunshine, it looked singularly picturesque. And the whole was overgrown with ivy, dank and green and wonderfully luxuriant, since it was never trimmed and never cut. The big building looked as though it were bound to the soil by the tough tendrils and what with the rank coarse grasses and the trees which grew right up to the walls, it might have been part and parcel of the earth itself, so swathed was it in greenery. There was something noble and austere about the dwelling befitting perhaps the Benedictines who had dwelt in it at one time, but it looked altogether too sombre and unwholesome to shelter the fair head of Marie Inderwick, who was all smiles and sunshine. And as Alan advanced towards the huge porch which was supported on twisted pillars, she unexpectedly made her appearance like a gleam of light shooting across a thunderous sky. It was Alan the lover, and not Fuller the lawyer, who made this poetic comparison.

“Darling! darling!” cried Marie, running down the broken steps with outstretched hands. “I knew you would come. But how late you are! I saw you in the church this morning, and have been expecting you all the afternoon. It is now three o’clock and only at this moment do you put in an appearance. No, I won’t be kissed. Uncle may be at the window and would make trouble, as he always does. Besides you don’t deserve a kiss, when you neglect me so.”

“I shall take one for all that,” said Alan, suiting the action to the word, “and in spite of possible dragon eyes at the window.”

“But your neglect,” pouted Marie, playing with his necktie, arranging it and rearranging it after the manner of women whose fingers must always be busy.

“Dearest, I stayed for the midday communion, and when I came out you had gone home with your uncle.”

“He hurried me away, Alan. He’s always very particular to keep an eye on me when you come down.”

“Undoubtedly. He wants you to marry a title.”

Marie shrugged her shoulders in a French fashion which she had acquired from a Parisian school friend at the Brighton seminary. “As if anyone would marry a pauper like me.’

“I think any man who has an eye for the beautiful would only be too glad to marry such a lovely pauper.”

“That’s nice. Say it again and slowly.”

“A lovely pauper, an adorable pauper, an angelic———”

“Stop! stop! You flatter too much. You don’t mean what you say.”

“Not a word,” confessed Alan candidly.

Marie grew red and her eyes flashed. “Then how dare you say such things!”

“You expect me to and you shouldn’t fish.”

“In shallow water? Certainly not! Alan Eric Reginald Fuller,” she gave him his complete name and pinched his arm, “you are a bear.”

“Bears hug,” said the lover, taking her in his arms.

“Oh, my gracious, you will get me into trouble,” cried Marie, extricating herself with some difficulty and flying across the lawn, followed hot-footed by Alan. “Come and hide out of sight of those horrid windows. Uncle Ran is sure to see us otherwise, and will order me indoors. Come! come,” she sang like a siren and fled after the fashion of Atalanta into the woods.

The trees were bare of leaves, but here and there a fir stood up green and sombre, while the undergrowth of brambles and grass and ferns and various weeds had not yet lost their autumnal tints so that the park did not as yet look entirely wintry. The day was warm too for late November, and pale sunshine irradiated the grey depths of the sky, so that the birds had plucked up heart to sing, perhaps in the hope of averting coming snows. At top-speed Marie flew down a side path which twisted and straightened at intervals for a considerable distance until it ended In a kind of sunken dell in the centre of which was a circle of cemented stones rising slightly above the fading herbage. Over this was a wooden canopy of ancient appearance with a tiled red roof weather-worn and mellow, and beneath, a deep hole which seemed to penetrate into the bowels of the earth. This was St. Peter’s Dell and St. Peter’s Well since the monastery had been dedicated to the chief of the Apostles. Marie loved the spot, and haunted it in summer for the sake of its coolness. Now she came because she knew that her philanderings with the forbidden lover would not be seen by anyone.

“And Uncle Ran is asleep,” she explained as she perched herself on the ragged rim of stones. “He always sleeps for an hour in the afternoon, because he says that it keeps him alive.”

“I wish it didn’t,” growled Alan, placing himself beside the girl, and putting an arm round her, probably to prevent her from falling into the depths. “I don’t like your Uncle Ran, dear.”

“Since he won’t let you make love to me, I can quite understand that,” said Marie rather pertly; “but he’s all the relative I have so I must make the best of him, Alan. But you haven’t told me how I am looking.”

“Why, I’ve used at least a dozen adjectives. But I shall examine you carefully, darling, and give you my honest opinion.”

Taking her chin in his hand, he turned her face upward, and looked into the happy blue eyes. Marie was indeed a very pretty girl, although not perhaps so superlatively lovely as Alan imagined. Her face would never have launched a thousand ships, or set fire to Troy Town. But her complexion was transparent and as delicately tinted as a rose, with the dewy look, so to speak, of that flower at dawn. Her hair was golden and waved over her white forehead in rebellious little curls. Then she had sapphire eyes and a straight little Greek nose, and two fresh red lips, which seemed to invite the kiss Alan now bestowed. As her figure was wrapped up in a heavy fur cloak of great antiquity, it could not be seen at the moment, but Alan, who was well acquainted with its suave contours, knew that it was the most perfect figure in the three kingdoms, as her hands and feet were the smallest and most well-shaped. But what really drew his heart to Marie was her sweet expression and candid looks. Some women—few, of course—might have possessed Marie’s items of beauty in the shape of form and coloring, but no one, and Alan said this aloud with great decision, ever owned such heavenly smiles or could give such tender glances. Marie sighed and approved of the praise and nestled her head against his rough frieze overcoat.

“You always tell the truth, darling,” she said, after he had assured her that she was something higher than an angel.

“Always!” Alan kissed her again for the tenth time. “And now I want you to tell me the truth, Marie.”

She looked up somewhat puzzled. “About what?”

“About the peacock of jewels, which———”

The girl drew away from his encircling arm and slipped to the ground. “Why do you want to speak about that?” she asked, standing before him and looking as charming as the Queen of Sheba when she visited Solomon; “it was lost before I was born, and no one ever speaks of it. Except Uncle Ran,” she added with an afterthought, “he loves jewels, as you know, and always regrets the loss, although the peacock belongs to me and not to him.”

“Marie,” said Alan again and gravely, “come and sit down, as I have something important to tell you which you must not repeat to your uncle until I give you leave.”

“I shall sit here,” said Miss Inderwick, sinking on to the trunk of a fallen tree which was a few feet away, “and I wish you wouldn’t look so solemn or talk about such things. You make me nervous.”

“There is nothing to be nervous about, my dear.”

“Then why am I not to repeat what you say to Uncle Ran?” demanded Marie in an inconsequent manner.

“Because I think if Mr. Sorley got that peacock he would be greedy enough to keep it to himself.”

“He couldn’t. It’s mine.”

“He would, because he looks upon your property as his own.”

“The peacock was left to me by my father’s will, along with the park and the house,” insisted Marie folding her hands pensively. “It was particularly mentioned because of the good fortune it will bring—that is when the secret is discovered.”

“The secret. What secret?” Alan spoke almost sharply.

“That connected with the golden peacock. You know the story?”

“Only that there is such a fetish, which is supposed to be the luck of the Inderwicks.”

“And has been for one hundred years and more. But the secret———”

“I have heard nothing about that.”

“Now I come to think of it, I daresay you haven’t. I only became acquainted with the real meaning of the peacock of jewels a year ago. I read all about it in a manuscript which I found in the library. When was the battle of Plassey, Alan?”

“In 1757,” answered Fuller, who had a good memory for dates.

“It was won by Lord Clive, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. But what has that to do with the peacock?”

“A great deal, as you shall hear.”

“One moment, Marie. Is this peacock of Indian workmanship?”

“No. It was made by a man called Simon Ferrier, who was the servant of my great great great—I don’t know how many greats—grandfather.”

“Let us say the grandfather who lived about the time of Plassey. What was his name?”

“George Inderwick. He went to India to———” Here Marie broke off and looked at her lover searchingly. “But why do you ask about the peacock?”

“I’ll explain that when I have heard the legend.”

“It isn’t a legend, but a true story, and you are very mysterious,” said the girl somewhat incoherently. “Well then, George Inderwick went out to India long before the battle of Plassey in the hope of restoring the family fortunes. He was only a younger brother and left The Monastery in possession of Julian Inderwick. Things were very bad with the family then and they have been worse since. Now”—Marie sighed—“everything is lost unless the treasure is discovered.”

“The treasure?” Alan looked excited. “Is there a treasure?”

“Of course, you stupid thing. That is the secret of the peacock.”

Alan became exasperated by the way in which he had to drag things out of her and frowned. “I wish you would tell me the story clearly,” he said tartly.

“I shall do so if you won’t interrupt so often,” retorted Marie. Then looking round the quiet dell, as if for inspiration, and finally finding it in the eager look in her lover’s eyes, she began the tale. “George went to India along with his servant, Simon Ferrier, who was his foster-brother———”

“Wait a bit,” interrupted Fuller again. “Who wrote this manuscript?”

“Simon Ferrier, and I won’t tell you anything if you keep asking questions, Alan. How can I speak when you talk?”

“I am dumb, my dearest virago. Go on.”

“I’m not a virago, you horrid boy. Well then, George went to Madras as a clerk of the East India Company, and was lent to some rajah to drill his army. He learned soldiering from Lord Clive, although he wasn’t Lord Clive at the time. Simon went with George to some hill fort and palace and the two became quite friendly with the rajah. Then some enemy of the native prince they served stormed the palace or town or whatever it was, and killed the lot of them.”

“Even George and Simon?” asked Alan, noting the loose way in which she was telling the tale, and privately deciding to ask for the manuscript, so that he might read it himself.

“No, you silly. They were taken prisoners. But before the place was captured, the Begum—that’s the rajah’s wife—gave all her jewels to Mr. Inderwick, because he saved her life, and the life of her son. Simon hid them when he and his master were captured by the other king, or rajah, or———”

“Never mind; say captured by the enemy.”

“Oh, very well,” said Marie obediently, “when they were captured by the enemy. They were a long time in captivity, and George was forced to drill the native troops, while Simon was made to work as a jeweller.”

“Why as a jeweller?”

“Oh, it seems that he had been brought up in England as a watchmaker, and having mended some clock belonging to the enemy, he was set to work in a shop to make ornaments for the enemy’s wives. He learned how to make Indian ornaments and became very clever—at least he says so himself, but perhaps he was bragging.”

“I don’t think so, if the stories about the beauty of the peacock he made are to be believed,” said Fuller thoughtfully, and recalling certain stories related by old village women who had set eyes on the ornament in question before it had disappeared. “Go on, dear. This is interesting.”

“The most interesting part is to come,” replied Marie, nodding her small head with a wise air. “Simon managed to get away, and went back to where he had hidden the jewels. He dug them up and came to England———”

“Leaving his master in captivity. How shabby of him.”

“He only did what his master told him,” said Marie quickly. “He was to take the jewels to England and give them to Julian Inderwick so that the fortunes of the family might be restored. But Simon did not like Julian and found out that he was a spendthrift and a gambler. If he had given him the jewels they would have been wasted, and the Inderwicks would have been none the better for them. Simon therefore said nothing about his mission, but he hid the jewels and then returned to India to rejoin his master, who was now free and was fighting beside Lord Clive.”

“Well, and what happened then?”

“When the battle of Plassey was being fought, and before Simon could return to his master, he was taken prisoner by those who had before held him captive. They had come to know about the jewels, and insisted that he should tell where they were. Simon was even tortured to make him tell, but he refused to speak, so they grew tired and set him to work again, as a jeweller. It was then that he made the peacock.”

“Why the peacock particularly?”

“Because he wished to let George Inderwick know where the jewels of the Begum were hidden in England, and could only do so by indicating the place through this golden peacock.”

“But in what way?”

“I don’t know. I can’t find out. Simon feared lest the secret should be discovered by the Indians and lest they should send someone to England to get back the gems. He therefore, as I say, made the peacock, and contrived to have it taken to George Inderwick through a native who was friendly to him. He then died, after writing the manuscript, telling his master that the secret was hidden in the peacock. He was murdered, I believe, as he says at the end of his manuscript that he expected to be put to death.”

“But what was the use of sending the secret to George when it could not be guessed?”

“It was stupid,” admitted Marie thoughtfully, “since George never managed to find out from the peacock where the jewels were. In his anxiety to keep the secret from everyone but his master, Simon over-reached himself, and entirely forgot that George would find it as hard to learn the truth as anyone else into whose hands the peacock fell. However, he died, and the ornament with the manuscript came to George. After the battle of Plassey George returned home with some money, and tried hard to learn the whereabouts of the jewels from the peacock. Julian by this time had died, so the younger brother succeeded to the estate—what there was left of it. He—George, I mean—was poor all his life, as he brought back very little from India, and all he could do was to keep what Julian had left.”

“Well?” asked Alan, seeing that she said no more.

“That is all. George left a will saying that the jewels were to be found if the secret of the peacock was discovered. But Simon, in his desire to keep them safe, had hidden the truth too securely. Everyone has tried to find the truth, even Uncle Ran, for I asked him, but all have failed.”

“How much are the jewels worth?” asked Fuller after a pause.

“Oh,” Marie jumped up and spread her hands, “thousands and thousands of pounds, dear! One hundred thousand, two hundred thousand, I don’t know how much. There are rubies and emeralds and opals and diamonds and—and——” she stopped for want of breath. “Isn’t it wonderful, Alan?”

“Wonderful indeed,” admitted the young man.

“So there is one or two hundred thousand pounds attached to the possession of the peacock of jewels if its secret can only be discovered. Hum! It’s worth risking one’s neck for.”

Marie ran up and shook him by the arm. “How can you say such horrid things?”

“I am not talking of my own neck, Marie, but of that belonging to the man who murdered Baldwin Grison.”

“Oh.” The girl stared. “I know that the poor man was murdered. Mrs. Millington—she’s the village dressmaker, and a friend of mine—told me about that crime. Louisa Grison was Mrs. Millington’s bridesmaid, and they are very much attached, and—and—but, Alan, what has the peacock to do with this horrid murder?”

“Much. Baldwin Grison was murdered, as I truly believe, so that his assassin might obtain it. Now listen, dear, and be sure you don’t repeat what I say to your uncle.”

“No, I won’t. Though I don’t see why you want to keep things secret from him. Go on. What is it?”

Fuller quickly and concisely told her all that he had learned from Dick Latimer and Inspector Moon relative to the Rotherhithe murder, and laid great stress on the fact that Jotty the street-arab had seen the peacock of jewels. Marie listened with open mouth.

“But you can’t be sure that the poor man was murdered because of the peacock,” she said when he ended. “Besides, how could he have it?”

“Oh, that last is easy. Grison was your uncle’s secretary and may have taken the peacock out of revenge, knowing that Mr. Sorley was fond of jewels. On the other hand, Grison may have read the very same manuscript about which you have been telling me and might have tried to learn the secret.”

“Then he could not have,” cried the girl positively, “else he would not have remained in that horrid slum. Who has the peacock now?”

“The assassin.”

“Who is he?”

“No one knows, and no one can find out.”

“But are you sure Mr. Grison was murdered because of the peacock?” asked Marie again, and doubtfully.