“Carn’t keep count, miss, me not ’aving a ’ead fur figures, tho’ me sister was grand at them, dearie. But he comes times an’ again. Oh, yuss,” she went on as the memory returned to her, “he was stan’orf fur a nigger. ’Thort he was a lascar at fust, but he wasn’t, tho’ he did live on rice and water like them sweeps. Dress’d like one of them stokers tho’—if y’ know what a seedee boy is, miss, which of course y’ wudn’t, bein’ a lady. I sawr as he was a cut above them, I did. He wore a snake?”
“Wore a snake,” repeated Marie bewildered.
“On his right arm, below th’ elber,” explained Mother Slaig, “’tattooted it was, as them sailors ’ave a fancy fur; twistin’ round’ an’ roun’ till it made me giddy t’ look at it.”
Marie was glad she had heard this mark of identification was to be found on the haughty dark gentleman who had visited Grison. She was certain that the man in question was Bakche in search of the peacock, but it was just as well that Mother Slaig could identify him by means of the tattooed snake. “Was he here on the night of the murder?” asked Marie anxiously.
“Ah, now you ’as me,” said Mother Slaig in an expansive fashion, “me, on th’ night as he was done fur, bein’ ’appy.”
“Happy?” Marie did not know what was meant.
“Gin,” explained Mother Slaig rocking to and fro. “White satin as some call it, tho’ blue ruin is my naime fur it. I got half a quid fro’ that Sorley chap, es he come in or wen’ out—I dunno which. ’Laid it all out in gin wiff frien’s o’ mine, and we did ’ave a time t’ dream of. Never thort I cud ha’ swallered such oachings o’ gin; but I did, an’ the thust as was on me nex’ mornin’, dearie, you’d never believe.”
“But isn’t it bad to drink so much,” asked Marie, rising timidly.
“Fur sich es you es is a flower it is,” agreed Mother Slaig, rolling out of the chair and getting on her feet with an effort, since she was so stout, “but not fur me, es ’as a ’ard time, dearie. You’ve fun’ me sober thro’ me not ’aving—where’s that there quid y’ promised?” she demanded suddenly.
“There,” said Marie, taking the money from her pocket, “but don’t drink it away, Mrs. Slaig. It’s a pity such a nice woman as you should drink gin.”