“Yes; Dick and I can spend the evening with you and mother and father. Afterwards we can walk over to your house to sleep there. I shall call and tell granny—with your permission—to get a couple of beds ready for us. Only don’t you speak to Morad-Bakche, my darling; refer him to me.” Marie nodded and waved her hand as the vicar—who was rather bewildered by all this mystery—drove the pony-chaise out of the station yard. The two young men braced their muscles and started on the five miles’ tramp to Belstone in very good spirits. Alan fancied, and communicated his fancy to his friend, that the presence of Bakche augured good, since the man undoubtedly knew something, and would be willing to impart it if he shared the fortune. “But why should he?” objected Dick, lighting his pipe; “the assignment of the gems to George Inderwick puts him out of court.” “Marie wants to use some of the money to clear her uncle’s name,” explained Alan gravely, “and although I don’t like Sorley, I am willing that she should do so. It will be worth the money.” “That depends if Bakche can say anything useful,” growled Dick doubtfully. “I am certain that he can, since he hinted something of the sort to me. He knew Grison at Rotherhithe also, and knew that he had the peacock.” “No!” said Latimer, greatly surprised. “Yes, indeed,” and Alan related Marie’s daring visit to Mother Slaig, and what she had discovered regarding the movements of the Indian. “She’s a plucky girl,” said Dick, referring to Marie; “fancy her tackling that horrible old woman. Hum! So Bakche was in the swim also, was he? I wonder if he murdered the man himself?” “I don’t think so; but we can ask him, for here he is.” Fuller’s sharp eyes had seen the tall figure of the Indian almost running along the high road, and as the atmosphere was very clear he saw at some distance the brown tint of his face. Bakche met them quite breathless, and explained his haste. “I came down to see Miss Inderwick,” he said, rather short of wind. “I met her—in the carriage—with—the—the clergyman. She refers me to you—Mr.—Mr. Fuller.” “I am conducting all business on Miss Inderwick’s account,” said Alan in a quiet tone; “but why are you in such a hurry, Mr. Bakche?” “I thought that I might lose you. I stay at the village inn to-night, as I stayed last July; but I wish to see Miss Inderwick this evening, or you as her representative,” he looked hesitatingly at Latimer. “My friend knows all about the matter of the Rotherhithe crime,” said Alan quickly, “you can speak frankly before him.” “How do you know that I came down to speak of the crime?” asked Bakche in a haughty tone. “Because you know more about it than you have hitherto chosen to confess.” Bakche replied, still haughty, “I object to the word ‘confess,’ Mr. Fuller; I have no feeling of guilt in the matter.” “I don’t say that you murdered the man yourself, but you know who did.”