Rupert and Olivia shook hands warmly, and thanked him heartily. The Mandarin walked out of the room in his stately way, and they went to the window to see him drive off. At the bend of the avenue, he waved his hand graciously, and that was the last the master and mistress of Royabay saw of the man who had owned the fan.
A chuckle at the door made the couple turn from the window. There, peering in, stood Mrs. Petley, who had stuck with her husband to Rupert during his troubles. Her face was shining, and old John seemed to be years younger. Mrs. Petley, for some queer reason, threw a shoe at the pair. "Health and happiness," she said, "begging your pardons both. But to think of money and happiness, and no walking of that blessed monk, who--"
"He never walked," said Rupert smiling, "it was Hwei--"
"Begging your pardon, sir, Hwei--whosoever he is, didn't walk all the time. Abbot Raoul did appear, as I can testify, and so can John here. But now the prophecy has been fulfilled, perhaps he'll rest quiet in his grave, drat him."
"The prophecy?" said Olivia, who was holding her husband's hand.
From behind Mrs. Petley came the quavering voice of the ancient butler, declaiming the rude rhymes:--
"My curse from the tyrants will never depart,
For a sword in the hands of the angel flashes:
Till Ainsleigh poor, weds the poor maid of his heart,
And gold be brought forth from the holy ashes."
"And that's quite true," said a jovial voice, and Major Tidman, as smart and stout as ever, entered. "How do, Ainsleigh, I'm glad to see you looking so well. Yes," he added, sitting down, "you were poor Ainsleigh when you married--"