“Are you sure that Mr. Grison didn’t give the peacock to someone, say a day or so before he met with his death?”
“Him give it away,” cried Jotty with supreme contempt, “why sir, he es wos good t’ me, ses t’ me es he’d rather die nor give up thet shiny thing. An’ die he did, when it wos took.”
“Who took it, boy?” demanded Dick suddenly.
“Him es slipped the knife int’ th’ pore cove.”
“Are you sure that Grison had the peacock on the night he died?” asked Alan, fighting against hope for Marie’s sake.
“I’d swear t’ it anywhere, sir,” said Jotty confidently. “I liked t’ hev a look et that there shiny thing, and him es wos good t’ me, he shows it t’ me most every night, saying wot lots of swell things it cud buy. Every night he showed it t’ me,” repeated Jotty with emphasis, “and afore he went t’bed that night he let me ’ave a squint.”
“On the night he was murdered.”
“On the night he was done for,” said Jotty in his own simple way.
“That seems conclusive, Alan,” put in Latimer.
“Yes,” said the lawyer with a sigh, then added under his breath. “Poor Marie, what a shock for her. Jotty, you liked Mr. Grison, didn’t you?”