In the course of his investigations Mr. Blair had examined the servants at the Moat House. From the footman he heard of the West Indian letter, and of the effect it had produced upon Mr. Marlow. Search had been made for that letter as likely to throw some light on the mystery, but without success. Evidently Mr. Marlow had thought it important enough to destroy. His secret, whatever it might have been, had gone to the grave with him. It was a strange coincidence that the man Brown should also have a correspondent in Jamaica. He it was who had stolen the key of the vault from Alan's desk. Again, Dr. Warrender--who, as his wife told Alan, had been in Jamaica--had been murdered. Between these three men, then--Marlow, Brown and Warrender--there was evidently some connecting-link. Had there not been, Warrender would not have assisted to remove the body of the millionaire, and Brown, by stealing the key, would not have helped him.
"There is no doubt in my mind that Brown was the short man seen by Gramp," Blair said to Alan. "And he was followed from Mrs. Marry's by Dr. Warrender, who was bound on the same errand."
"You mean the theft of the body?"
"I think so. Brown had the key and Gramp saw them remove the corpse."
"He saw Warrender," corrected Alan, "not Brown."
"I judge the other was Brown, from the theft of the key and the fact that Warrender called to see him, and then followed. Again, both men have disappeared--at least, one has. The other is dead."
"And who murdered him?"
"Brown," said the inspector, with conviction. "I am sure of it."
"How can you be sure?"
"Because something unforeseen happened--the murder, probably. In the ordinary course of things, I take it, Brown would have come back to fetch his luggage, and would have gone away in a manner less likely to arouse suspicion. Probably he and Warrender had a quarrel when they put the corpse in the cart. Brown killed the doctor, and then drove away."
"But, Blair," argued Alan, "you forget that the doctor's body was seen in the hut. Even if Brown had dragged it there--which, I admit, he might have done--I don't see how he could have brought it back again to the vault."
"I do, Mr. Thorold. It was Brown who had the key. Most likely he put the dead body in a place of safety, then came back the following night, to hide it away in the safest place he knew of--to wit, the vault. If you recollect, no alarm as to the loss of Marlow's body was given, or was likely to be given. Warrender's dead body would not have been searched for in the vault. It is, at least, highly improbable that the vault would have been opened."
"That is true," assented Alan. "But that Cicero by chance saw the affair, I dare say we should have remained in ignorance of the business for many a long day. No one would have gone to the vault. A very clever man, this Brown."
"Very clever. But for the accident of Cicero having slept in the churchyard, he would have got off scot-free. As it is, I don't see how we can hunt him down. His gout, his dumbness, his white hair and beard may have been assumed. The fact of the linen left at Mrs. Marry's being unmarked is proof enough that he was disguised."
"Perhaps," said Alan doubtfully. "What I can't make out is, how he knew I had the key of the vault in my desk."
"Did you mention it to any one?"
"Only to Mr. Phelps."
"Where?"
"In the churchyard after the funeral. We were all round the vault and the service was just over. Phelps locked the door with his key and asked me where mine was. I said, 'In my desk in the library.'"
"Was Brown present at the funeral?"
"Yes, I think I caught a glimpse of him."
"Was there a crowd round the vault door when it was closed?"
"There was; but I didn't notice Brown on that occasion."
Blair nodded.
"Very probably. You were too much taken up with the business in hand. Yet, I'll swear Brown was in the crowd, and heard you say where the key was. The clever scoundrel made use of the information that same afternoon."
"I believe you are right," said Alan, clenching his fist. "Oh, I do wish we could find the villain! But what object could he have had in stealing the body?"
"I can guess. Mr. Marlow was a millionaire."
"Well, in a small way, yes."
"In a way quite big enough to pay a handsome ransom, Mr. Thorold." The inspector smiled. "Depend upon it, we shall hear from this so-called Brown. He will ask a good few thousands for the return of the corpse. Oh, it is not the first time this game has been played."
"Well, if Brown writes, we'll have him arrested for the murder."
"Humph!" said Blair, shaking his head, "that is easier said than done. He has been too clever for us so far, he may prove too clever in the matter of obtaining the reward of his wickedness. Well, Mr. Thorold, the inquest takes place to-morrow, but I haven't got much evidence for the jury."
He was right. All his talk had been built up upon theory, and on the slenderest of circumstantial evidence. The fact that Brown, the mysterious, had stolen the key--and even that was not absolutely proved--did not show that he had stolen the body. Cicero could not swear to his identity, and, even presuming that he had committed the sacrilege, there was no evidence that it was he who had murdered Warrender.
And so the inquest on the body of the ill-fated doctor was held, the theft of the millionaire's corpse being merely a side-issue. Can it be wondered that the jury were puzzled? All that could be scraped together by Blair was put before them. Cicero related his midnight experience; Mrs. Warrender told how her husband went out to see a patient; Mrs. Marry how the doctor called at her house, and afterwards followed Brown. Finally, Alan and his housekeeper gave evidence as to the loss of the key, and the forged letter was produced. Out of this sparse detail little could be made, and after some deliberation, the jury brought in the only verdict possible under the circumstances:
"The deceased has been murdered by some person or persons unknown."
"Most unsatisfactory," said Blair grimly; "but there is no more to be said."
"What can you do now?" asked Alan. "Shall you give up the case?"
"That depends upon you, sir, or, rather, upon Miss Marlow."
"In what way?"
"In the money way, Mr. Thorold. I'm a poor man, and must attend to my duties. All the same, if Miss Marlow will offer a reward, I will do my utmost to find out who stole her father's body and who murdered the doctor."
"Why couple the two crimes?"
"Because, sir, in my opinion, Brown committed both. Give a reward, Mr. Thorold, and I'll do my best; otherwise, as I have other urgent matters on hand, I must drop the business. But I don't deny," continued the inspector, stroking his chin, "that if I were a moneyed man I'd work at this business for the sheer love of it. It is a kind of criminal mystery which does not happen every day."
"The reward shall be offered," said Alan. "Miss Marlow will be guided by me."
Needless to say, Sophy was guided by him. Indeed, so eager was she that the remains of her father should be recovered that, had not Alan suggested it, she would have offered a reward herself. Also, she was anxious to assist Mrs. Warrender, who in spite of her vulgarity and somewhat covetous disposition, was really a well-meaning woman.
The result of this was that two rewards were offered--one thousand for the detection of the person who had stolen the body, and a like sum for any information likely to lead to the arrest of Warrender's murderer. So here were two thousand pounds going a-begging, and hundreds of people hoped to have a chance of gaining the money. The case was so strange and mysterious that it had attracted not a little attention, and the fact that the missing body was that of a millionaire added to the interest excited by the fact of its disappearance. The London papers were full of leaders and letters suggesting solutions of the mystery. The provincial press took up the cry, and throughout the three kingdoms every one was talking of the case. It was even said that Miss Marlow, the present possessor of all this wealth, would marry the person who secured the thief and the murderer.
"I won't marry you, Alan dear, until my father's body is back in the vault," said Sophy; "but at the same time, I won't marry any one else."
"But suppose I fail to find the body, Sophy?"
"Then I must remain a spinster for the rest of my life."
"In that case you condemn me to be a crusty old bachelor."
"Never mind. We can still be friends and lovers."
"I'd rather we were man and wife," sighed Alan.
But he did not believe that she would cling to this idea of perpetual spinsterhood for any length of time. As for Miss Vicky, she thought Sophy mad to have thought of such a thing, and took her roundly to task.
"A woman ought to marry," she said, breaking through the barriers of her ordinary primness. "Do you think, if my darling had lived, I should now be a wretched old maid? No, indeed! It would have been my delight to have been an obedient and loving wife to Edward."
"I'm sure I wish he had lived!" cried Sophy, embracing her; "and I won't have you call yourself crabbed. You are the sweetest, dearest woman in the world!"
"So poor Edward thought," sighed Miss Vicky, fingering the precious brooch which always decorated some portion of her small person. "Alas the day! How often he told me so! But he died for his country on the field of glory," she cried, with a thrill of pride; "and in spite of my lonely old age, I don't grudge his precious blood. Noble--noble Edward!" and she wept.
"Don't cry any more, Vicky."
"It's your obstinacy I'm crying at, Sophia. If your poor dear pa's remains are not found within a certain time, marry Mr. Thorold and be happy."
"I can't--I won't. How can I be happy knowing poor father isn't at rest?"
"His soul is at rest--the earthly tabernacle is nothing. Come, Sophia, don't break with your life's happiness!"
"Alan and I understand one another, Vicky. I dare say we shall marry some day. But the body must be found."
"Lord grant it!" ejaculated Miss Vicky piously, and said no more. For she found that the more she argued the more obstinate Sophy grew.
Amongst those who had hopes of gaining the reward was Cicero. He had come out of the ordeal of a public examination unscathed, and was now in the possession of his well-earned fifty pounds. Being anxious to remain in Heathton for the purpose of prosecuting his inquiries, he magnanimously forgave Mrs. Timber, and took up his quarters at the Good Samaritan. Now that he had money and paid his bill regularly, the good lady considered it politic to treat him with more civility, although, after the manner of women, she felt constrained to remind him, every now and again, of his former poverty. But these remarks did not affect Mr. Gramp in the least. He regarded her no more than if she had been a fly, and sailed about the village in a suit of new broadcloth and the best of tall hats, airing his eloquence. He became an attraction at the inn, and discoursed there every evening in fine style.
Mrs. Warrender was much averse to his staying on at Heathton. She lived in constant dread lest the relationship between them should be discovered. But Cicero never mentioned it--nor did he ever mention her. Still, she felt doubtful, and one evening, on the plea that she wished to hear more of what he knew about her husband's murder, she sent for him. He arrived to find her in a low evening dress, glittering with diamonds, and looking very handsome--so handsome, indeed, that even he could not refrain from giving vent to his admiration.
"Upon my word, you are a Juno, Clara Maria!" he said, when they were alone. "There is money in you yet!"
"I know what you mean, Billy," replied the doctor's widow coldly, "but I'm not going on the stage again in burlesque or anything else."
"How are you going to live?" he asked with brutal candor.
"That's my business," retorted Mrs. Warrender. "I have enough to live on, even without selling my jewels. Perhaps I shall marry again."
"I'm sure you will, Clara Maria. You always were a determined woman."
"Hold your tongue, and tell me how much longer do you intend to disgrace me here?"
"How can I tell you, if I am to hold my tongue?" said Cicero coolly. "As to staying here, I'm not disgracing you that I know of. No one knows you are my ungrateful sister."
"Billy, if I wasn't a lady, I'd---- Ungrateful, indeed, you brute! Go away at once!"
"No, Clara Maria, not till I find out who killed my brother-in-law. I never knew him," said Cicero, wiping away a tear; "but as his nearest relative, I must avenge him."
"That won't do, Billy," said his sister sourly; "you only want the reward."
"Both rewards, Clara Maria. With two thousand pounds I could be a gentleman for the rest of my life."
"That you will never be."
"I would do nothing----"
"You never have, you lazy vagabond!"
"Don't interrupt and insult me, Clara Maria, but work with me."
"Work with you?" gasped Mrs. Warrender. "At what?"
"At this case, Clara Maria. I believe that the secret of this mystery is to be found in the island of Jamaica--in the past life of Mr. Marlow. Now, your husband knew the late lamented millionaire in Jamaica, and he might have left some papers relative to the acquaintance. If so, let me see them, and I'll get on the track of the assassin. We will share the reward."
"My husband did leave papers," Mrs. Warrender said thoughtfully, "but I won't show them to you, Billy. You'd take all the money. No, I'll read his papers myself, and if I can find anything likely to reveal the name of the person who stole the body and murdered Julian, I shall tell Mr. Thorold."
"You won't get the reward!" cried Cicero in an agony.
"Oh yes, I will; I'm as clever as you are, Billy. Thank you for the idea!"
"You won't work with me?"
"No," said she firmly, "I won't; I know you of old, and I want you to keep out of my way. Leave this village and I'll give you twenty pounds."
"What! when there is a chance to make two thousand! No, Clara Maria."
"Then earn the reward yourself. There's Joe Brill, he might tell you what you want to know," mocked Mrs. Warrender. "My husband said he was with Marlow for thirty years."
"I wish I could ask Joe Brill," said Cicero gloomily. "Ever since he tipped me the sovereign I have suspected Joe Brill; but he's gone!"
"Gone! Gone where?"
"I don't know. I only heard the news to-night. He's gone away without a word, and vanished!" And Cicero groaned.
That Joe Brill had disappeared from Heathton was perfectly true. So far Cicero was correct; but in stating that the man had vanished without a sign he was wrong. News--to be precise, gossip--travels more quickly in a village than in a town; it also gets more quickly distorted. For the intimacy of villagers is such that they are readier than less acquainted folk to take away from, or add to, any talk about those whose everyday life they know so well.
Joe Brill had left a letter for Sophy, who, in much alarm, consulted Miss Parsh. The consultation was overheard by the footman, who told the servants, without mentioning the letter, about which he was not very clear himself, having caught only scraps of the conversation. The kitchen discussed the news, and retailed it to the baker, who, with the assistance of his wife, a noted gossip, spread it broadcast over the village. Thus, in the evening, it came to Cicero's greedy ears; and so it was that he came to tell his sister that Joe Brill had disappeared without a sign. Sophy knew better.
"Isn't it dreadful?" she said to Miss Vicky. "Joe is very cruel to leave me like this in my trouble. He knows that I look upon him as one of my best friends. To be thirty years with father, and then to leave me! Oh, dear Vicky, what does it mean?"
For answer, Miss Vicky read the letter aloud. It was badly written, and badly spelt; but it was short and to the point. Amended it ran as follows:
"Honored Miss,
"I am called away on business which may turn out well for you. When I'll come back, miss, I don't know; but wait in hope. Stand by and nail your colors to the mast. Don't trust no one but Mr. Thorold. Your prayers, honored miss, are requested for your humble servant,
"Joseph Brill."
"Most extraordinary!" said Miss Vicky, and laid down the letter to gaze blankly at Sophy.
"I shall go mad with all this worry!" cried the poor girl, taking the letter. "Oh, dear Vicky, everything has gone wrong since father died."
"Hush! Don't talk of it, Sophia. Your pa's remains have gone, but his soul is above. Dr. Warrender has been buried, and the verdict of twelve intelligent men has been given. We must think no more of these matters. But Joseph's letter----"
"Is more of a mystery than all the rest put together," finished Sophy. "Just listen to the nonsense Joe writes: 'I'm called away on business.' What business, Vicky?--and how can it turn out well for me? He doesn't know when he'll come back; that means he won't come back at all. 'Wait in hope.' Hope of what, for goodness' sake, Vicky? And Alan--of course, I'll trust no one but Alan. How absurd to put that in! Then he finishes by asking my prayers, just as though he were going to die. Vicky, is Joe mad?"
"No; Joseph is too clear-headed a man to lose his wits. It's my opinion, Sophia, that he's gone to search for your poor papa's remains."
This was Alan's opinion also when he read the letter, and heard of Joe's disappearance. He questioned the servants, but they could give no details. The page, who slept in the same room, declared that he woke at six o'clock to find Joe's bed empty; but this did not alarm him, as Joe was always the first in the house to be up. So Alan went to the railway-station, and learnt there that the old sailor, carrying some things tied up in a handkerchief, had taken the 6.30 train to the junction. A wire to the junction station-master, who knew Joe, elicited the reply that he had gone on to London by the express. Beyond this it was hopeless to attempt to trace him; for at Waterloo Station Joe had vanished into the crowd, and was lost. Alan told the lamenting Sophy that nothing could now be done but wait for his return.
"But will he return?" demanded the girl tearfully.
"I think so. I agree with Miss Vicky: Joe has gone to search for your father's body."
"But he has no idea where it is. If he did, he would surely have told me or you, Alan, knowing how anxious we are!"
"He may have a clue, and may want to follow it up himself. And I believe, Sophy, that Joe knows more about the matter than we think. Do you remember that he gave Cicero a sovereign to leave the Moat House?"
"What of that?"
"Only that a sovereign was a large sum for a servant like Joe to give. He thought, no doubt, that Cicero knew too much, and he wanted to get him away before he could be questioned. It was his guilty conscience which made him so generous."
"Guilty conscience, Alan? What had Joe done?"
"Nothing, so far as I know," replied Thorold readily. "But I am convinced there is something in your father's past life, Sophy, which would account for the violation of the vault. Joe knows it, but for some reason he won't tell. I questioned him about the ridiculous sum he gave to Cicero, but I could get no satisfactory explanation out of him--nor could Blair."
"You don't think he was the short man with Dr. Warrender on that night, Alan?" asked the girl somewhat tremulously.
"No, I do not; I asked the boy who sleeps in the same room. He said that Joe went to bed as usual, and that he never heard him go out. Besides, Sophy, I am certain the accomplice of Warrender was Brown."
"The Quiet Gentleman?"
"Yes; he had the key of the vault. And also, by the evidence of the stamp, he had something to do with Jamaica. Perhaps he knew your father there."
"Perhaps he did. Joe would know."
"Joe will not speak, and, at all events, he has gone. We must wait until he comes back."
"Are you not going to make any more search for the body, Alan?"
"My dearest, I have not the slightest idea where to begin. The case has baffled the police, and it baffles me. I have made inquiries all round the country, and I can find no one who saw Brown with your father's dead body, or, indeed, anything else which might have aroused suspicion. There is only one hope that we may get it back."
"The reward?"
"No; although Blair, and, I believe, Cicero, intend to work for that. The hope lies in the chance that Brown, whoever he is, may have taken away the body for blackmail. In that case we may get a letter demanding money--probably a large sum. We must pay it, and have your father's remains brought back."
"And the murder, Alan?"
"Ah! that is a difficult part. When Brown stole the body he did not intend to commit murder; that came about in some unforeseen way. The danger that he may be arrested for the murder may keep Brown from applying for blackmail, always supposing, Sophy, that such is his object."
"In that case we may never recover poor father."
"I am afraid not. However, we must live in hope."
This conversation ended in the usual unsatisfactory way. On the face of it there was nothing to be done, for Alan could obtain no clue. Brown, if Brown were indeed the guilty person, had managed so cleverly that he had completely cut his trail. Even the offer of the reward brought forth no fresh information. The mystery was more a mystery than ever.
In his capacity of trustee, Alan had looked through the papers of the dead man. He found no documents or letters whatever relating to his life in Jamaica, yet there were plenty dealing with his doings in South Africa. Twenty years before he had left Kingston with the child Sophy. He brought her to England, and placed her in the Hampstead convent. Then he sailed for the Cape, and had made his fortune there. Fifteen years after he returned, to buy the Moat House, and settled. Sophy came to live with him, and he had passed a quiet, peaceful time until his sudden death. So far all was clear; but the Jamaica life still remained a mystery. When he died he was over sixty. What had he done with himself during the forty years he had lived in the West Indies? Joe could have told; but Joe, as mysterious as his master, had disappeared, and even if he had remained, Alan could have got nothing out of him. The old sailor, as had been proved both by Thorold and the inspector, was as dumb as an oyster.
"Did Marlow ever mention Jamaica?" Alan asked Mr. Phelps, when next they met.
"Once or twice, in a casual sort of way. He said he had sailed a good deal amongst the islands."
"And Joe was a sailor. I wonder if Marlow went in for trading there?"
"It's not impossible," said the Rector; "but that fact, even if we knew it to be true, could throw no light on the disappearance of his body."
"I don't know. I have a good mind to go to Jamaica--to Kingston--to make inquiries. The West Indian Island area is not so very large. If Marlow had been a trader there twenty years ago, he would still be remembered amongst them. I might come across some one who knew of his past life."
"You might," assented Phelps, with an amount of sarcasm surprising in so mild a man, "if Marlow were his real name."
The two were sitting over their wine in the twilight amid the glimmer of shaded candles. This last remark of the Rector's so surprised Alan, that he turned suddenly, and knocked his glass off the table. After he had apologized for the accident, and after the débris had been collected by the scandalized butler, the Squire asked Mr. Phelps what he meant.
"It is hard to say what I mean." The Rector sipped his port meditatively. "Marlow was always a mystery to me. Undeniably a millionaire and a gentleman, Alan, and while here a man of clean life. And I have met people in London"--the worthy parson dabbled a little in shares--"who knew him in South Africa. He was highly respected there, and he made his millions honestly, so far as millions can be made honestly in these gambling days. But I always felt that there was some mystery about the man. It was Warrender who gave me the clue."
"Ah! Warrender came with Marlow to Heathton."
"Yes, but there was no mystery about that. Warrender told me that he had met Marlow at Kingston, Jamaica. Afterwards the doctor settled in New Orleans. There he met his wife, who was on the stage. He did not do very well, so Mrs. Warrender urged him to return to England. He did so, and met Marlow by chance in London, where they renewed their acquaintance. Sorry to see that Warrender was so unfortunate, Marlow brought him down here, where he did very well."
"I don't think he did well enough to have supplied Mrs. Warrender with her diamonds, sir."
"Alan, don't speak evil of the dead. She did not get the diamonds from Marlow, but legitimately, my dear boy, from her husband."
"And where did he get them? His practice must have brought him in little enough."
"No, I won't say that. The fact, I think, is that there was some understanding between the two men, and that Marlow gave Warrender money."
"He must have given him a good deal, then. Those jewels represent a lot. Seems like a kind of blackmail, sir."
"On that point, Alan, I would prefer not to give an opinion."
"And Warrender helped to steal the body of his patron," mused Alan. "Strange. But about this idea of a false name."
"Well, it was at dinner one evening. The ladies had retired, and I was alone with Marlow and Warrender, talking over our wine, just as you and I might be now, Alan. The doctor had taken a little too much, and on one occasion he addressed the other man as Beauchamp. Marlow flashed one fierce glance at him, which sobered him at once. I made no remark on the incident at the time, but it stuck in my memory."
"Then you think that Mr. Marlow was called Beauchamp in Jamaica?"
"Warrender's slip gave me that impression," said the Rector cautiously.
"How very strange!" murmured Alan, toying with his glass. "Do you know the will? Of course, I am trustee."
"Sophy's trustee--why, yes. All the money goes to her, doesn't it?"
"Most of it. There are legacies to myself, Joe Brill, and Miss Parsh. Sophy gets the rest, on conditions."
"What conditions?"
"One is that she marries me, the other that she pays two thousand a year to a man called Herbert Beauchamp."
It was the Rector's turn to be startled.
"Bless me, the same name!"
"It would appear so. Perhaps this Herbert Beauchamp is a relative of the so-called Marlow. The money is to be paid into the Occidental Bank of London for transmission to him."
"Where is he?"
"I don't know. But now that you have told me so much, I shall take the first instalment myself to the Occidental Bank and make inquiries about the man. The manager may be able in some measure to account for all this."
"I hope so, I hope so," cried the bewildered Rector, "for the mysteries seem to me to deepen."
"Meanwhile," went on Alan calmly, "I shall see Mrs. Warrender. She may know something that will be useful to us."
"I don't think so," the Rector said doubtfully. "Bless me, why should she? It was long afterwards that she met the doctor in New Orleans."
"Well, he might have told her about Marlow. At all events, I'll see her. You know," added Alan, curling his lip, "Mrs. Warrender is fond of money, and amenable to bribery."
Thorold was usually correct in his forecasts of what would happen, but this time he was quite wrong. The widow received him kindly, and told him absolutely nothing. Acting on the advice given her by Cicero, she had been searching through the papers of her late husband. She had not found what she sought, but she had found quite enough to show that there was a mystery in Mr. Marlow's past life--a mystery which was sufficiently important to be worth money. It was the intention of this astute woman to play her own game, a game which had for stake a goodly portion of Sophy's millions, and she had no desire for a partner. To Cicero and to his wish to join her she soon gave the go-by. And when Alan came upon the scene, she gave him to understand that she knew nothing. Her intention was to prepare her bombshell alone, and when it was ready, to explode it in Sophy's presence. That her knowledge would be profitable to her from a financial point of view she felt pretty secure, for the same blood ran in the veins of Clara Maria Warrender and of Cicero Gramp.
"I wish I could help you, Mr. Thorold," she said; "but I knew nothing of Mr. Marlow. My husband never spoke to me about his life in Jamaica."
"Did he leave any papers?"
"Lots of rubbish, but nothing that could enlighten us as to Mr. Marlow's past."
"Can I see them?"
"Oh, I am so sorry, but I burnt them."
He did not believe her, and went away with the conviction that she was playing a deep game. Meanwhile a new personage had come upon the scene--a man who told an astonishing story, and who made a no less astonishing claim--a slight, dark, bright-eyed man, accurately dressed, but foreign looking. He presented his card at the Moat House, with a request to see Miss Marlow.
"Captain Lestrange!" exclaimed Sophy. "Who is he, Thomas?"
"Looks like a foreigner, miss. Shall I show him in?"
"Yes," she said; and the visitor was announced almost immediately.
He started theatrically when he saw the girl. Sophy, annoyed by his manner, drew back.
"Captain Lestrange?" she queried coldly.
"Captain Lestrange," was the reply, "and your father."
Sophy neither screamed nor fainted at this extraordinary announcement; indeed, it appeared to her so very ridiculous that she felt more inclined to laugh. However, she controlled her feelings, and spoke very quietly--so quietly that the visitor was somewhat disconcerted.
"Why do you make this strange assertion?" she asked, looking again at his card.
"Because it is true."
"What proof can you give me of its truth?"
"Three proofs, Sophy, if I may call----"
"You may not!" interrupted the girl, flushing. "I am Miss Marlow."
"For the present," assented the man, with an ironical smile. "Soon you will be Miss Lestrange. Three proofs, then, I have. Firstly, I can tell you the story of how I lost you; secondly, there is the resemblance between us; and, thirdly, I have the certificate of your birth. Oh, it is easily proved, I can assure you."
She shivered. He spoke very positively. What if his claim could be substantiated? She looked at him; she glanced into a near mirror, and she saw with dismay that therewasa strong resemblance. Like herself, Lestrange, as he called himself, was slight in build, small in stature. He also had dark hair and brilliant eyes; the contour of his face, the chiseling of his features, resembled her own. Finally, he had that Spanish look which she knew she herself possessed. So far as outward appearances went, she might well have been the daughter of this rakish-looking stranger. He smiled. From her furtive glance into the mirror he guessed her thoughts.
"You see the glass proclaims the truth," said he. "Think of your supposed father, Richard Marlow--tall, fair, blue-eyed, Saxon in looks! Like myself, you have the Spanish look and possess all the grace and color of Andalusia. I always thought you would grow up beautiful. Your dear mother was the loveliest woman in Jamaica."
She did not answer, but the color ebbed from her cheeks, the courage from her heart. It was true enough that she in no way resembled Mr. Marlow. This man might be her father, after all. Yet he repelled her; the glance of his glittering eyes gave her a feeling of repulsion. He was a bad man, of that she felt certain. But her father? She fought against her doubts, and with a courage born of despair she prepared to defend herself until help arrived. Her thoughts flew to Alan; he was the champion she desired.
"I expect my guardian, Mr. Thorold, in a quarter of an hour," she said in a hard voice. "You will be good enough to relate your story to him. I prefer to hear it when he is present."
"You don't believe me?"
"No, I do not. Mr. Marlow treated me as his daughter, and I feel myself to be his daughter. Do you expect me to believe you, to rush into your arms without proof?"
"I have shown you one proof."
"A chance resemblance counts for nothing. What about the certificate?"
He produced a pocketbook, and took out a piece of paper.
"This is a copy of the entry in the register of the Church of St. Thomas at Kingston, You will find it all correct, Marie."
"Marie! What do you mean?"
"That paper will inform you," said Lestrange coolly.
Sophy read the certificate. Truly, it seemed regular enough. It stated that on the 24th of June, 18--, was born at Kingston, in the island of Jamaica, Marie Annette Celestine Lestrange. The names of the parents were Achille Lestrange and Zelia, his wife. Sophy could not suppress a start. The 24th of June was her birthday; the date of the year was also correct. She was twenty-one years of age now. She turned to him.
"You are Achille Lestrange?"
"Your father--yes."
"I don't admit that, monsieur."
"Why do you call me 'monsieur'?"
"You are French, are you not?"
"French by descent, if you will, but I am a British subject. Also, I am a Roman Catholic. You are of the same faith?"
"Yes, I am of the true Faith."
"I am glad of that," said Lestrange indolently; he was as indolent as graceful, and reminded Sophy of a full-fed tiger. "I am pleased to hear that Marlow allowed you to retain your faith since he took from you your father and your name."
"Do you know that my father is dead?"
"Pardon me, he is alive, and sitting before you."
Sophy ignored his remark.
"Do you know that Mr. Marlow is dead?" she asked again.
"Ah! now you speak as you should. Yes, I heard something about his death. The fact is, I have only just landed from a Royal Mail steamer at Southampton--two days ago, in fact--so I know very little. But I have heard of the disappearance of his body. It is town talk in London. One cannot open a newspaper without coming across theories of how it happened."
"And the murder of Dr. Warrender? Do you know of that also?"
"Of course. The two things go together, as I understand. Marlow's body is lost; Warrender was stabbed. How unfortunate that two people I knew should be out of the way when I come to claim you!"
"Did you know Dr. Warrender?" asked Sophy quickly.
"As I know myself," was the answer. "Twenty years ago, when you were a child, a mere infant, he practised in the town of Falmouth, Jamaica. He left after certain events which happened there, and, I believe, practised again in New Orleans. He married there, too, it was said."
"Yes; his wife lives at Heathton."
"Ah! I shall be glad to see her. Has the man who murdered her husband been discovered?"
"No; he cannot be found."
"Nor ever will be, I suspect," said Captain Lestrange coolly. "From what I read, the whole criminal business was conducted in the most skilful manner. I wonder why they stole poor Dick's body."
"Poor Dick!" retorted the girl indignantly. "Are you speaking of my father?"
"Of the man who passed as your father--yes, Marie, I am."
"Pray don't call me Marie! I am Sophia Marlow."
"As you please. Temper again! Oh, how you remind me of Zelia!"
She was confounded at the cool assurance of the man. Nothing seemed to ruffle his temper or banish his eternal smile. He was more hateful to her than ever. Never would she acknowledge herself his daughter, even should he prove his claim! She was of age, and her own mistress. The will of Richard Marlow left the money, not to "my daughter," but to "Sophia Marlow," so there was no possibility of the money being taken from her. Then she thought of Alan. He would stand between her and this man. And even as this thought came into her mind, the door opened, and Thorold came forward eagerly to meet her; but, on perceiving the stranger, he stopped short. Lestrange rose and bowed in a foreign fashion.
"Oh, Alan!" cried Sophy, "I am so glad you have come! I was waiting for you."
"And I also," remarked Lestrange.
"Who is this gentleman, Sophy?" demanded Alan.
"He calls himself Captain Lestrange. Here is his card."
"Captain in the army of the Peruvian Republic," said the man, "and this young lady's father!"
"Confound you!--what--what----!"
"Oh yes, Alan. He says he is my father--that my true father stole me from him. Here is the certificate of my birth, he says."
"And here"--Lestrange pointed to Sophy--"here is my second self. Can you deny the resemblance? By the way, who are you?"
The inquiry was made with graceful insolence, and was meant to provoke the young man into losing his temper. But in this it failed.
"I am Alan Thorold," he said quietly, "the Squire of Heathton, and I am engaged to marry Miss Marlow----"
"Pardon--Mademoiselle Lestrange," interpolated the Captain, and resumed his seat. "I claim this young lady as my daughter."
"Good," said Thorold coldly. "Your proofs?"
"The resemblance between us, the certificate of her birth, and the story of how I lost my dear Marie twenty years ago."
"The resemblance I admit, but that goes for nothing. As to the certificate, it is that of Marie Lestrange, and not of Sophy Marlow."
"Is not the birthday of Miss Marlow, as you will call her, on the 24th of June----"
"Yes," said Sophy, before Alan could stop her. "The day and the year are both correct. I am twenty-one, and I was born on the 24th of June, 18--."
"Very good; and at Kingston?"
"At Kingston," admitted the girl; "but, for all that, I am not your daughter."
"I agree with Miss Marlow," said Mr. Thorold. "Let us hear your story. That it will convince me I do not promise."
"Ah!" cried the foreigner, with an ironical smile. "None so blind as those who won't see. What a pity that Marlow and Warrender are both dead!"
"Oh, you know that?"
"As I had the honor of telling Miss Marlow"--Lestrange put so sneering an accent on the name that Alan felt inclined to kick him--"I know that. I landed in England from Jamaica only two days ago. But, as you know, every one is talking of the mystery, and by this time I know the case as well as you do."
Alan winced, and Sophy glanced at him apprehensively. Would her champion fail her? Would this man prove his claim? She was in deadly terror lest he should. But Alan had no intention of yielding.
"Go on," he said again. "Miss Marlow and I will hear your story."
"Very good. I am glad to see that you have the British instinct of fair play. I will be as brief as possible, and you can ask me any questions you wish. My name is Achille Lestrange, the man who is mentioned in that certificate. I am--or, rather, I was--a Captain in the Peruvian Army. I retired after the war between that country and Chili. However, I have ample means to live on, and I retain my military rank, out of sheer vanity, if you will."
"All this," said Alan, "is beside the point."
"It is necessary to explain my position. More than twenty years ago I was married at Kingston to Zelia Durand. We had one child--a little girl--the same who now sits beside you."
"I won't hear of it!" cried Sophy angrily.
"We shall see," he went on cheerfully. "You may change your mind when I have got to the end of my story. I regret to say that Mrs. Lestrange--I do not call her Madame," explained the Captain, "because I am truly English in speech and manner--well, Mrs. Lestrange had a bad temper. We did not get on well together. And, besides, I was jealous"--his eyes flashed fire--"yes, I was jealous of Herbert Beauchamp."
"Herbert Beauchamp!" Alan thought of Marlow's will and of the legacy. How did this man come to know the name?