“End it then; I don’t want you. But if you will take my advice you will give the peacock to Mr. Morad-Bakche. He has sworn to have it.” “And I have sworn that he shall not have it. Do you think that I am afraid of a black man, Miss Grison? Moreover I have not got the bird.” “Oh!” She shrugged her shoulders, “I daresay Sorley has concealed it somewhere, and will tell you where to find it before he is hanged.” “He never will be hanged.” “Yes he will. He can’t escape.” “Unless it can be proved that you took the peacock to Belstone.” “I never did,” said Miss Orison coldly; “Sorley made up that story to account for its possession and to implicate me.” “Well,” said Alan rising, “I shall ask Jotty, for I verily believe he is aware of much more than he chooses to say.” “He has never told me anything,” snapped the woman; “and moreover is the most ungrateful little reptile I ever met. I gave him a good home and a new name and food and clothes and every chance of being respectable; yet he ran away, and heaven only knows where he is.” “I can’t tell you his whereabouts now, Miss Grison, but I can tell you in what direction he went on leaving the house a few days ago.” For the first time the landlady showed some curiosity. “Where did he go?” “To Belstone with a copy of your interview in his pocket to warn Sorley that——” He got no further, for Miss Grison jumped up with her hard blue eyes flashing with rage. “The traitor,” she said in an ominously calm voice. “After all I did for him, he tried to save Sorley, did he?” “For money?” “Of course. The boy is a born miser. Well, if he returns here, I shall know how to punish him. Never mind how; don’t ask; I may box his ears, or I may have him put in jail for theft.” “But since you have given him a chance of being respectable why ruin him?” “Because he has sided with my enemy.” “Why do you hate Sorley so?” questioned Fuller, bluntly. “You wish to know. Then you shall. I hate him because he ruined my brother Baldwin, because he murdered my brother Baldwin, and because he deserted me twenty years ago.” “What do you mean?” “I mean what I say, Mr. Fuller. Do you know who I am? You don’t. Well, I am Mrs. Sorley.” Alan stared. “His wife?” “His deserted wife,” corrected the woman bitterly. “Yes; Randolph married me because I was a pretty girl. But he grew tired of me, and then he wanted to make a rich lady his wife.” “Yes; I have heard that,” said Alan recalling the story of his mother, about Miss Marchmont.