Marie was glad she had heard this mark of identification was to be found on the haughty dark gentleman who had visited Grison. She was certain that the man in question was Bakche in search of the peacock, but it was just as well that Mother Slaig could identify him by means of the tattooed snake. “Was he here on the night of the murder?” asked Marie anxiously. “Ah, now you ’as me,” said Mother Slaig in an expansive fashion, “me, on th’ night as he was done fur, bein’ ’appy.” “Happy?” Marie did not know what was meant. “Gin,” explained Mother Slaig rocking to and fro. “White satin as some call it, tho’ blue ruin is my naime fur it. I got half a quid fro’ that Sorley chap, es he come in or wen’ out—I dunno which. ’Laid it all out in gin wiff frien’s o’ mine, and we did ’ave a time t’ dream of. Never thort I cud ha’ swallered such oachings o’ gin; but I did, an’ the thust as was on me nex’ mornin’, dearie, you’d never believe.” “But isn’t it bad to drink so much,” asked Marie, rising timidly. “Fur sich es you es is a flower it is,” agreed Mother Slaig, rolling out of the chair and getting on her feet with an effort, since she was so stout, “but not fur me, es ’as a ’ard time, dearie. You’ve fun’ me sober thro’ me not ’aving—where’s that there quid y’ promised?” she demanded suddenly. “There,” said Marie, taking the money from her pocket, “but don’t drink it away, Mrs. Slaig. It’s a pity such a nice woman as you should drink gin.” “Well, I don’t git no shampin down ’ere, dearie,” said Mrs. Slaig crossly, and, like Jotty, biting the gold to make sure it was genuine. “We taikes what we can. Wan’t t’ know anythin’ else, lovey dovey?” “No,” answered Marie, walking into the passage, for the smell and closeness of the place was making her feel faint. “But you needn’t tell anyone what I asked you about.” “Sha’n’t nohow,” said Mother Slaig firmly. “Y’ve browt back daiys when I was a pretty girl and ’ad all the men arter me, furious-like. You’re a breath o’ fresh air an’ a smell of country roses, an’ a sight o’ green fields, t’ yours truly, dearie. An, never a word shell I say, save as you’re a visitor with tracts—tho’ you ain’t guv me one, but summit better.” Mother Slaig felt for her sovereign as she spoke. “But if there’s police, dearie, an’ I ’as t’ saive m’ bacon, I mus’ speak.” “There will be no trouble with the police,” Marie assured her in a low and hurried voice, for her friendly constable was just at the end of the passage. “Good-bye, Mrs. Slaig.” “Go’bye, dearie,” she attempted a curtsey, but failed for want of breath. “’An bless y’ fur an angil o’ delight wiff stars roun’ yer ’ead.” Marie laughed and hurried away in the shadow of the policeman, who refused to accept a tip. Again she was passed from one constable to another, until she regained the station, and every one of her temporary guides declined money.