“There was no need for you to do so,” said Moon coldly; “sooner or later the truth would have become known. Grison was already suspected.” “So he told his sister,” said Bakche quickly, “and for that reason she reproached him.” “Why not say that I murdered him?” sneered the woman quivering. “You did, but not on the night you advised him to make the appointment with this gentleman.” He pointed to Sorley huddled up in his chair. “When then, if you please, liar that you are?” “I am no liar, and you know it, madam. It was on the night that the appointment was kept that you killed your brother. I determined to come on that night, so as to overhear the interview between Mr. Sorley and your brother, and I did. Mr. Sorley wanted the peacock and Grison refused to surrender it. Then Mr. Sorley left.” “And Grison was alive? Grison was alive?” cried the man in question. “Yes,” said Bakche, answering the question and a look of Moon’s. “Grison was alive. Mr. Sorley is perfectly innocent.” “Thank God! oh thank God!” wept Sorley hysterically, and sliding from his chair he knelt down covering his face with his grimy hands. Alan nodded to Dick in a somewhat triumphant way, as he had never been sure of Sorley’s guilt, and Dick nodded penitently in return, admitting silently his error. “Was Miss Grison at Rotherhithe on that night?” asked Moon rather unnecessarily, seeing that Bakche accused her of committing the crime. “Yes. I was on the watch, and I saw her coming.” “Did Mother Slaig see her?” “Not on that night, I fancy. Miss Grison always slipped into the house and out of it like a shadow,” said Bakche, after a moment’s reflection. “Sometimes Mrs. Slaig saw her and sometimes she did not. The house was always filled with people coming and going, and in that shabby dress”—Bakche referred somewhat superciliously to Miss Grison’s worn attire—“no one noticed her.” “Everyone knew that I came to comfort my brother,” said the woman sharply. “I am not denying that. But on that night you hovered round the place and saw Sorley come and go. He came at seven and went away by eight. Grison afterwards came down and got a drink, after which he retired to bed at ten o’clock as was stated at the inquest. He did not see you when he was down stairs, as you did not speak to him. But you followed him up and were with him in his room. No one but I saw you, as no one paid any attention to your brother, save I who was on the watch. After ten—I can’t state the exact time—you came out of the room and slipped away unnoticed. I followed you to the end of the slum, madam, and then returned to see if you had been urging Grison not to give me the peacock. I looked in and he was on his bed quite dead.” “Why didn’t you give the alarm?” asked Alan impatiently.