“I wouldn’t have sacrificed him to you,” retorted Miss Grison, dropping back again into her seat and taking out her handkerchief. “Perhaps if I tell my story,” said Bakche appealing to the inspector, “you may be convinced of the truth.” “Go on,” said Moon curtly, and took out his pocket-book. “She killed him——” “I never did, I never did,” wept Miss Grison, “you did it yourself.” “I did it! How dare you say that!” “Because it is true. You admit having been at Rotherhithe on the night and about the time poor Baldwin was murdered. You wanted the peacock, you know you did, and told me so. When I said Baldwin had it——” “I went to try and get it from him,” finished Bakche, “that is quite correct, madam. I did, and I tried hard to get him to part with it. But he refused and you urged him not to give it to me, even for money. When you visited your brother——” “I never visited him,” snapped Miss Grison, whose strength was coming back, and whose eyes were again beginning to flash ominously. “You did,” retorted the Indian, “you went frequently, I disguised myself as a lascar and followed you. I overheard your conversations with him many a time, madam.” “Ah!” she flashed out, “you were eavesdropping.” “Yes,” admitted the man candidly. “I had too much at stake not to take all the means in my power to safeguard my interests. And a few days before the murder you urged your brother to write to Mr. Sorley and make an appointment for the thirteenth of November.” “Ah!” murmured Moon, making a note, “the night of the death.” “Yes! yes! yes!” cried Sorley, his voice growing stronger; “I got that letter, and wrote an answer saying that I would come.” “Jotty found the answer,” put in Alan quickly, “and sold it to me for two pounds. Mr. Latimer passed it on to you, Mr. Inspector.” Moon nodded. “I have it at my office. Go on, sir.” “Miss Grison—as I overheard—urged her brother to make this appointment with Mr. Sorley, and then tell him that the peacock was to be given to me.” “Ah!” cried the woman sarcastically, “and yet you say that I urged my brother not to give it you. You contradict yourself.” “I am not responsible for your frequent changes of mind,” said Bakche in chilly tones, “sometimes you told your brother to make terms with me so that Mr. Sorley—whom you seemed to hate—might be disappointed, and then you tried to prevent him even seeing me, let alone handing over the peacock. But you got him to make the appointment for the night of the murder with Mr. Sorley, that I’ll swear to. There was another thing that I overheard. Your brother confessed with tears and terror that he had murdered that gentleman to rob him outside Chin Chow’s opium den.” “What if he did?” said Miss Grison boldly. “You blamed him for the shame he was bringing on your name.” “I did, but that does not say that I should have denounced him.”