"Miss Eleanor? Ah, that I did; but she was a proud young lady, and didn't care to play with me, even as a child, because I was the daughter of the steward. They were all proud, the Fellengers, except Sir Francis." "That was Sir Gregory's father?" "Yes. There was Sir Francis, the eldest and the merry one; Mr. Michael, the father of the present Baronet, Sir Louis, he was proud, too; and then Miss Eleanor, who married Mr. Garth. But I liked Sir Francis the best of all," concluded the old lady, with a sigh. There was a look in her eyes as she said this, which made Fanks think that she had been in love with the gay baronet, in the old days. "He was a bonny man, Sir Francis Fellenger," she resumed. "Never a maid but what he had a smile for, and many a kiss did he take without the asking," laughed Mrs. Prisom. "Oh, he was a merry blade. But all sailors have those ways." "Was Sir Francis a sailor?" asked Fanks, suddenly. "He was a Captain in the Navy before he came into the title," said Mrs. Prisom, "then he settled down and married Miss Darmer, a Shropshire lady. But she died, poor soul, when Sir Gregory was born, and it was five weeks after her death, that Sir Francis was killed by being thrown from his dog-cart." "Sir Francis was a sailor?" asked Fanks, abruptly. "I suppose when he went to sea and came home a middy, he had anchors, and ships, and true lovers' knots, and such like things tattooed upon his skin." "He just had," replied Mrs. Prisom, laughing. "He had quite a fancy for that sort of thing. He told me he learnt how to do it in Japan." "He learnt how to do it," echoed Fanks, leaning forward in his excitement. "Yes, yes; and very clever he was at drawing such pictures on the skin. I shall never forget how angered my mother was when Sir Francis--Master Francis he was then--insisted on pricking those blue marks on my arm." "Did he do that?" demanded the detective, little expecting what would follow. "He did, sir; the mark of it remains to this day," and Mrs. Prisom drew up the sleeve of her left arm. Fanks bent forward, and saw tattooed thereon--a cross. Was he then about to unravel the mystery of the tattooed cross which had puzzled him for so long? CHAPTER XXVII. MRS. PRISOM'S STORY.--CONTINUED. Fanks restrained his joy at this important discovery; he was afraid lest Mrs. Prisom should cease to speak should she think that the revelation was of consequence to him. That she should have the same symbol as that possessed by Hersham, as that attempted on Sir Gregory, appeared to hint at its owning a certain significance. What that significance might be he now set himself to discover. "Why did Sir Francis choose a cross to tattoo on your arm, Mrs. Prisom," he asked, as the old lady pulled down her sleeve. "I cannot say, Mr. Fanks. I fancy it was because he could draw a cross better than anything else. You see it is St. Catherine's cross, with four arms and a wheel--at least, that is what Sir Francis called it."