en with regard to the death of his aunt, he fancied she
might not be the same woman."

"What an ass he must be," said Hurd, contemptuously.

"I don't think he has much brain," confessed Paul, shrugging his
shoulders; "but he asked me if I thought Mrs. Krill was the same as the
landlady of 'The Red Pig,' and I denied that she was. I don't like
telling lies, but in this case I hope the departure from truth will be
pardoned."

"You did very right," said the detective. "The fewer people know about
these matters the better--especially a chatterbox like this young fool."

"Do you know him?"

"Yes, under the name of the Count de la Tour. But I know of him in
another way, which I'll reveal later. Hay is still fleecing him?"

"He is. But Lord George seems to be growing suspicious of Hay," and Paul
related the conversation he had with the young man.

Hurd grunted. "I'm sorry," he said. "I want to catch Hay red-handed, and
if Lord George grows too clever I may not be able to do so."

"Well," said Paul, rather impatiently, "never mind about that fellow
just now, but tell me what you have discovered."

"Oh, a lot of interesting things. When I got your letter, of course I at
once connected the opal serpent with Aaron Norman, and his change of
name with the murder. I knew that Norman came to Gwynne Street over
twenty years ago--that came out in the evidence connected with his
death. Therefore, putting two and two together, I searched in the
newspapers of that period and found what I wanted."

"A report of the case?"

"Precisely. And after that I hunted up the records at Scotland Yard for
further details that were not made public. So I got the whole story
together, and I am pretty certain that Aaron Norman, or as he then was,
Lemuel Krill, murdered Lady Rachel for the sake of that precious
brooch."

"Ah," said Paul, drawing a breath, "now I understand why he fainted when
he saw it again. No wonder, considering it was connected in his mind
with the death of Lady Rachel."

"Quite so. And no wonder the man kept looking over his shoulder in the
expectation of being tapped on the shoulder by a policeman. I don't
wonder also that he locked up the house and kept his one eye on the
ground, and went to church secretly to pray. What a life he must have
led. Upon my soul, bad as the man was, I'm sorry for him."

"So am I," said Paul. "And after all, he is Sylvia's father."

"Poor girl, to have a murderer for a father!"

Beecot