“Something like the sister. Small and fair-haired, with blue eyes. Of course, owing to the black smoke, he was a wreck morally and physically and mentally, according to Mother Slaig, and the boys used to throw stones at him in the streets. However, to make a long story short, nothing could be found to show how the poor wretch had come by his death, so an open verdict was brought in—the sole thing which could be done. To-morrow his sister, who seems to have loved him in spite of his degradation, is taking away the corpse for burial.” “Where is it to be buried?” Latimer looked up slowly. “In the churchyard of Belstone, Sussex,” he said. Alan sat up very straight and his manner expressed his unbounded astonishment. “That’s my father’s parish,” he gasped. “Yes. And the churchyard is attached to the building your father preaches in, my son,” said Latimer dryly, “odd coincidence, isn’t it?” “But—but—what has this murdered man to do with Belstone?” asked Fuller in a bewildered manner. “That’s what I want to find out, Alan. Can’t you remember the name?” “Never heard of it. And yet the name Baldwin Grison is not a common one. I should certainly have remembered it had it been mentioned to me. It is odd certainly, as Belstone isn’t exactly the hub of the universe. Grison! Baldwin Grison.” Fuller shook his head. “No, I can’t recall it. To be sure he may have been in the village twenty years ago, since you say that he has lived since that time in Rotherhithe. I was only seven years of age then, so I can remember nothing. But my father may know. I’ll ask him when I go down this week-end.” “There’s another thing I wish you to ask him.” “What is that?” “The romantic thing which lifts this case out of the commonplace. Only Inspector Moon knows what I am about to tell you and he informed me with a recommendation not to make it public.” “Then why do you tell me?” said Fuller quickly. “Is it wise?” “Quite wise,” responded his friend imperturbably, “because I asked Moon’s permission to take you into our confidence.” Fuller looked puzzled. “Why?” Again Dicky replied indirectly. “It seems that Grison, unlucky beggar, had one friend, a street-arab brat called Jotty.” “Jotty what—or is Jotty a surname?” “It’s the only name the boy has. He’s a clever little Cockney of fourteen, and wise beyond his years, picking up a living as best he can. Grison used to give him food occasionally, and sometimes money. Jotty ran errands for the man, and was the sole person admitted to his room.” “Well! well! well!” said Alan impatiently. “I’m coming to it, if you don’t hurry me,” said Latimer coolly. “Jotty on one occasion entered the room, and found Grison nursing between his hands—what do you think?” “How the deuce should I know?” “A peacock of jewels!” Alan stared, and cast a swift glance at the photograph of the pretty girl on the mantelpiece. “A peacock of jewels!” he repeated under his breath.