The Marquis Lo-Keong came forward with his kind smile. "Before I wish you good-bye and all happiness," he said, holding out the famous fan, "will you take this?"

"No," said Olivia, preventing Rupert from accepting it, "I hate the very sight of the thing. It has blood on it."

"I think you are right, Mrs. Ainsleigh," said the Chinaman gravely, "and, as it has done its duty, it may as well go the way of the packet which now is ashes," and advancing to the fire, he flung the fan on the burning coals. It burst into a blaze, and in a few minutes all had vanished save the slivers of jade and the beads. The housemaid collected these next morning and gave them to Olivia, who threw them off the Marport pier. So that was the end of the Mandarin's fan.

"And now," said Lo-Keong, bowing, "good-bye, and great happiness to you both."

Rupert and Olivia shook hands warmly, and thanked him heartily. The Mandarin walked out of the room in his stately way, and they went to the window to see him drive off. At the bend of the avenue, he waved his hand graciously, and that was the last the master and mistress of Royabay saw of the man who had owned the fan.

A chuckle at the door made the couple turn from the window. There, peering in, stood Mrs. Petley, who had stuck with her husband to Rupert during his troubles. Her face was shining, and old John seemed to be years younger. Mrs. Petley, for some queer reason, threw a shoe at the pair. "Health and happiness," she said, "begging your pardons both. But to think of money and happiness, and no walking of that blessed monk, who--"

"He never walked," said Rupert smiling, "it was Hwei--"

"Begging your pardon, sir, Hwei--whosoever he is, didn't walk _all_ the time. Abbot Raoul did appear, as I can testify, and so can John here.

But now the prophecy has been fulfilled, perhaps he'll rest quiet in his grave, drat him."

"The prophecy?" said Olivia, who was holding her husband's hand.

From behind Mrs. Petley came the quavering voice of the ancient butler, declaiming the rude rhymes:--

"My curse from the tyrants will never depart, For a sword in the hands of the angel flashes: Till Ainsleigh poor, weds the poor maid of his heart, And gold be brought forth from the holy ashes."

"And that's quite true," said a jovial voice, and Major Tidman, as smart and stout as ever, entered. "How do, Ainsleigh, I'm glad to see you looking so well. Yes," he added, sitting down, "you _were_ poor Ainsleigh when you married--"

"And I was poor also," cried Olivia.

"Very good, the third line is fulfilled and the fourth--"

"Was gold brought forth from the holy ashes?" asked Rupert.

"Yes, Master Rupert," said old John, "you picked up the fan in the place where the ashes were, and out of the fan has come gold. The prophecy is fulfilled, sure enough, and I hope Abbot Raoul will stop walking for ever."

"Of course he will," cried Mrs. Petley, dragging her husband outside, "there's no more trouble for you, Master Rupert and Miss Olivia."

"Mr. and Mrs. Ainsleigh, of Royabay," said Tidman, laughing, "give them their proper t.i.tles, Mrs. Petley. And I think the present occasion deserves a bottle of port."

The ancient butler went away with his wife, to bring forth one of the last bottles of that priceless vintage. Major Tidman, gloating in antic.i.p.ation, sat still, and smiled with a bland face. But Rupert drew Olivia to the sofa, and they sat down where they had often mourned on many a weary day. "Dearest," said Ainsleigh, kissing her.

"We can be happy now," said Olivia putting her arms round his neck, "for we are rich. We shall take again our proper place in the county."

"We are rich and we are happy," echoed the master of Royabay.

"Ha! ha! You have one hundred thousand pounds, Ainsleigh," said Tidman.

"I have something better."

"What's that?"

"My own dear wife, Olivia Ainsleigh."

THE END