“No. It was made by a man called Simon Ferrier, who was the servant of my great great great—I don’t know how many greats—grandfather.”
“Let us say the grandfather who lived about the time of Plassey. What was his name?”
“George Inderwick. He went to India to———” Here Marie broke off and looked at her lover searchingly. “But why do you ask about the peacock?”
“I’ll explain that when I have heard the legend.”
“It isn’t a legend, but a true story, and you are very mysterious,” said the girl somewhat incoherently. “Well then, George Inderwick went out to India long before the battle of Plassey in the hope of restoring the family fortunes. He was only a younger brother and left The Monastery in possession of Julian Inderwick. Things were very bad with the family then and they have been worse since. Now”—Marie sighed—“everything is lost unless the treasure is discovered.”
“The treasure?” Alan looked excited. “Is there a treasure?”
“Of course, you stupid thing. That is the secret of the peacock.”
Alan became exasperated by the way in which he had to drag things out of her and frowned. “I wish you would tell me the story clearly,” he said tartly.
“I shall do so if you won’t interrupt so often,” retorted Marie. Then looking round the quiet dell, as if for inspiration, and finally finding it in the eager look in her lover’s eyes, she began the tale. “George went to India along with his servant, Simon Ferrier, who was his foster-brother———”
“Wait a bit,” interrupted Fuller again. “Who wrote this manuscript?”