Over the latter a great change had come since his brother's death. He had always been a quiet and reserved man--perhaps from the very nature of his calling--one who never said more than was absolutely necessary to any person on any subject; now he seemed to have retired entirely within himself and to have but two things in this world to which his life was devoted: his Faith, and his determination to find the murderer of Douglas. "And," he said to Bertie, "I shall do it. Have no fear of that. I shall do it. I have now an idea--though an idea of so strange, so extraordinary a nature, that I hardly dare to let myself believe that it can ever take a tangible shape." "And may I, may Kate, know nothing of that idea? Remember how we both loved him." "No," Sholto replied. "No. It may come to nothing--must, it almost seems certain, come to nothing. Yet, if the secret can be unravelled, I will find the way to do it. Then, when I am sure, if ever I am, you shall know all. Nay, you will most assuredly know all." "Will you tell us--tell me--no more than this?" asked Bertie. "I will tell you nothing. It is possible I may be mistaken; more than possible. If I am not, then you will know." And with this the other had to be content, and to prepare to proceed to his new quarters outside Paris. The Jesuit's idea was, indeed, one about which he might well say that he could not believe it should ever assume a tangible shape. It was nothing else than that he believed he had seen those jewels--especially that tiara--before. He had examined them many times since they had been taken away from D'Aunay and his companion and kept in the custody of the Mayor of Amiens--had turned them over and over in his hands; scrutinised the settings to see if he could observe any mark or inscription upon them. But there was nothing--no coronet engraved inside the tiara with a name, or initials, such as might well have been looked for in such costly gewgaws--nothing! Yet the tiara forced itself upon his memory, seemed to be a thing he had seen before--worn upon a woman's head at some great ceremony. Especially he seemed to remember one diamond to the extreme left of the diadem, a yellow, light brown stone that had flashed out a different light from its fellows beneath the gleams of many-lustred candelabras. But where? Where? Where? "Almost," he whispered to himself, "I seem to see, as through a mist, the head, the face that was beneath it. Dark hair, grizzled grey; pale olive complexion; lines of care. Who was it? Who? If I could remember that."