"Oh, oh," cried Rodgers smiling, "so you can prove an alibi after all, Mr. Ainsleigh." "Yes," said Rupert shortly. "But I did not wish to speak, until I heard what Major Tidman had to say." Rodgers shook his head. "You have too nice a sense of honour," was his remark, "or else you are very deep." Rupert did not reply. His eyes were fixed on the Major's face, which changed to various colours. "You knew my father well Tidman?" "Yes. We were old friends--good friends," faltered the other. "Do you know how he died?" "No I do not." The Major wiped his face, "I can safely say I do not." "But you know he was murdered." The Major started. "Who told you that?" "Tung-yu, and you know Tung-yu, who might have explained the circumstances of my father's death to you." "He did not," said Tidman earnestly, "but I heard that Mr. Ainsleigh did die by violence. I don't know under what circumstances." "This is all very well gentlemen," said the detective, "but it does not help me." "It may help you, Mr. Rodgers. The murder of Miss Wharf is connected with this fan, and the Major can tell you about his Canton adventure which has to do with it also." Major Tidman turned grey and his face looked fearful, "I came to tell you, Rupert," he said trying to be calm, "but it won't help this man," he nodded towards Rodgers, "to find the assassin." "We'll see about that," replied Rodgers briskly, "let us go in and sit down. The fan is at the bottom of this business, and when I learn all about it, I may know how to act." The Major shrugged his plump shoulders and walked towards the open French window. When he passed through to the library, the detective and Ainsleigh followed. In a few minutes, they were comfortably seated. Rupert asked the two if they would have some refreshments, and receiving a reply in the affirmative, rang the bell. "Though mind you, Mr. Ainsleigh," said Rodgers, "this drinking a glass of wine doesn't stop me from arresting you, if I see fit." "You can set your mind at rest," said Rupert coldly, "I have no wish to tie you down to a bread and salt treaty. Some wine, Mrs. Petley." The housekeeper, who had entered, was as plump as ever, but her face looked yellow, and old, and haggard, and there was a terrified look in her eyes. In strange contrast to her usual volubility, she did not speak a word, but dropping a curtsey, went out. "That woman looks scared," said the detective, "She _is_ scared," assented Rupert, "we have a ghost here, Mr. Rodgers--the ghost of a monk, and Mrs. Petley thought she saw it last night." "Really," said the detective with good-humoured contempt, "she _thought_ she saw a ghost. What nonsense." "No, sir. It ain't nonsense."