“Very, my dear. But you must be a heroine and keep up, for your uncle’s sake. Now we must take a taxi to Victoria, and you can catch the something after six train to Lewes. There is one about this time, I know. Have you enough money to take a fly to Belstone, dear. No, don’t take a fly. On second thoughts I shall wire to my father to send his trap to meet you; that will be best.” “But the trouble, Alan,” faltered the girl as he handed her into the taxi. “It’s no trouble. Dick, will you come, or——” “I am coming of course,” said Dick, bestowing his burly form in the taxi. “I don’t want Miss Inderwick to go away with the idea that I’m a beast.” “I’m sure I never said so,” sighed Marie, “and if I was rude, Mr. Latimer, you must put it down to my being so upset.” “My dear young lady, you are right to stand up for your uncle, and I have nothing but praise for your conduct. With all my heart I trust that he will return again to face the accusation and prove his innocence.” “Thank you,” replied Marie softly, and gave him her hand. Then she sat close to her lover, and the three spoke very little until the station was reached. Here Alan sent a telegram to his father, and placed the girl in the train. He bought her a first-class ticket, and asked the guard to look after her comfort, as he did not like the idea of such an unsophisticated damsel travelling all alone. Her freak of coming to London so unexpectedly, though natural enough under the circumstances, caused him great anxiety, and he heaved a sigh of relief when the train steamed out of the station. Marie would be looked after by the guard as far as Lewes, and then the Rev. John Fuller would meet her and take the stray lamb to the vicarage, where his wife would console her. Dick laughed when he heard his worried friend sigh so thankfully. “All’s well that ends well, my son,” he said, clapping the young man on the back, “and Miss Inderwick has behaved like a heroine.” “I daresay; but I hope she won’t come to London again, as she is not used to being by herself, and may get into trouble.” “She certainly will,” said Dick grimly, “if she goes to see Mother Slaig in that Rotherhithe slum.” “Oh, I shall see to it that she does not go. Well, I am tired, Dick. Are you coming home, or have you business to attend to?” “I’m coming with you,” responded the big man, affectionately, taking out his pipe, as the presence of Marie had hitherto prevented his indulging in a smoke, and he felt the need of the soothing weed. “I have nothing to do this evening—nothing particular that is—so I may as well have a few quiet hours at home, and talk this case over with you.” “There’s nothing to talk about.” “Well, I don’t know. It seems to me that the Indian is mixed up in the business somehow. From what you describe I believe that he guessed Baldwin Grison had the peacock.” “I thought so myself, but then if he had killed the man and got the peacock he wouldn’t have sent it to Sorley.”