“The peacock was left to me by my father’s will, along with the park and the house,” insisted Marie folding her hands pensively. “It was particularly mentioned because of the good fortune it will bring—that is when the secret is discovered.” “The secret. What secret?” Alan spoke almost sharply. “That connected with the golden peacock. You know the story?” “Only that there is such a fetish, which is supposed to be the luck of the Inderwicks.” “And has been for one hundred years and more. But the secret———” “I have heard nothing about that.” “Now I come to think of it, I daresay you haven’t. I only became acquainted with the real meaning of the peacock of jewels a year ago. I read all about it in a manuscript which I found in the library. When was the battle of Plassey, Alan?” “In 1757,” answered Fuller, who had a good memory for dates. “It was won by Lord Clive, wasn’t it?” “Yes. But what has that to do with the peacock?” “A great deal, as you shall hear.” “One moment, Marie. Is this peacock of Indian workmanship?” “No. It was made by a man called Simon Ferrier, who was the servant of my great great great—I don’t know how many greats—grandfather.” “Let us say the grandfather who lived about the time of Plassey. What was his name?” “George Inderwick. He went to India to———” Here Marie broke off and looked at her lover searchingly. “But why do you ask about the peacock?” “I’ll explain that when I have heard the legend.” “It isn’t a legend, but a true story, and you are very mysterious,” said the girl somewhat incoherently. “Well then, George Inderwick went out to India long before the battle of Plassey in the hope of restoring the family fortunes. He was only a younger brother and left The Monastery in possession of Julian Inderwick. Things were very bad with the family then and they have been worse since. Now”—Marie sighed—“everything is lost unless the treasure is discovered.” “The treasure?” Alan looked excited. “Is there a treasure?” “Of course, you stupid thing. That is the secret of the peacock.” Alan became exasperated by the way in which he had to drag things out of her and frowned. “I wish you would tell me the story clearly,” he said tartly. “I shall do so if you won’t interrupt so often,” retorted Marie. Then looking round the quiet dell, as if for inspiration, and finally finding it in the eager look in her lover’s eyes, she began the tale. “George went to India along with his servant, Simon Ferrier, who was his foster-brother———” “Wait a bit,” interrupted Fuller again. “Who wrote this manuscript?” “Simon Ferrier, and I won’t tell you anything if you keep asking questions, Alan. How can I speak when you talk?” “I am dumb, my dearest virago. Go on.”