“There is nothing interesting about it,” said Sorley abruptly once more; “some scoundrel of a sailor murdered the poor devil.”
“But the motive?” asked Fuller, wondering if his host hinted at the dead man’s possession of the peacock.
Sorley shrugged his shoulders. “Have those sort of people ever any motive, Alan,” he asked skeptically.
“Certainly. A man doesn’t put his head in a noose for nothing.”
“A noose.” Mr. Sorley shivered and put his hand to his throat with an uncomfortable look, “no I suppose a man would keep clear of the gallows if he could. But—but—well never mind, Alan, let us change this disagreeable subject. I promised to show you my own private collection of gems.”
“Yes, I shall be pleased to look at them,” answered the young man, who saw that his last remark had greatly affected his host, a fact which again aroused his suspicions, and made him shrink from the dapper gentleman.
Mr. Sorley made no reply, but went to a panel marked with a cross cut in its wood, which formed a portion of the inside wall of the library. He fumbled at some spring for a moment and then the panel slid into a groove to display a cupboard with many shelves upon which were ranged trays of jewels. One by one the man brought them to the central table, and his eyes glittered with fanatic joy as he pointed out their various beauties. And certainly throughout many years he had succeeded in gathering together a number of precious stones.
“Little by little I have collected for over thirty years,” explained Mr. Sorley, mounting his hobby-horse, “buying here and there whenever I had the chance, and sometimes selling at a bargain what I had bought, so as to get some particular gem. There are quite six thousand pounds worth of jewels here, Alan, and only my poverty has prevented my buying more.”
Fuller did not hint, as he might have done, that the collector had used his ward’s income as well as his own to indulge his expensive taste, and had also sold furniture to which he had no claim for the same reason. Under the circumstances it was foolish to quarrel with Sorley on this point. Until the mystery of the murder and the peacock was solved Alan wished to keep on good terms with the man, who evidently had to do with both. He therefore examined the gems and listened patiently to Sorley’s explanations. And the jewels were certainly well worth looking at. There were diamonds cut and uncut, rubies colored like port wine, and some of the true pigeon blood hue; emeralds displayed their verdant tints, and there were sapphires the color of a summer sky. Pearls were conspicuous by their absence, as if kept in a collection and not worn, Sorley explained this—they became discolored; but beryl stones, amethysts, carbuncles, and opals, many-hued as a rainbow were displayed on the black velvet of the shallow trays. The collection was not of extraordinary value, but Sorley gloated over his darlings, streaming the stones between his fingers, holding them up to the light, and pointing out to Fuller the particular excellence of each.
“It’s an expensive hobby,” said Alan, after an hour had been passed in this way, for Sorley talked on with the merciless zeal of a collector.