Captain Lestrange recovered from his momentary emotion, and raised his eyebrows at Alan's involuntary exclamation.
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Thorold."
"Nothing," said the other hastily. "I fancied the name was familiar."
"Ah! You may have heard Marlow mention it."
"No. He never spoke of his past life."
"He had good reason to be reticent, as you shall hear."
But here Sophy burst out: "Be good enough to continue your story without vilifying my father."
"Your father!" sneered the Captain.
"The story--the story!" cried Alan.
"I continue," said Lestrange, with a nod. "As I say, I was jealous of Beauchamp, for before our marriage he had been an admirer of my Zelia's. And, as a matter of fact, she was a singularly attractive woman. You might guess as much," added he blandly, "seeing that her grace and beauty are reproduced in her daughter. But to continue: Zelia had many admirers, three of whom she distinguished above the others--myself, Herbert Beauchamp, and my cousin, Jean Lestrange. I was the lucky man who won her. Jean ceased to pay any attention to her after the marriage, but Beauchamp was persistent. I remonstrated with him--we nearly had a duel--but to no purpose; and I am sorry to say that Zelia encouraged him."
"Proceed with your story, and leave my mother alone," cried Sophy.
Alan started, for he remembered with a pang that Sophy had told him her mother's name was Zelia; but he kept silent, and a terrible dread came over him that this man would prove his statements after all.
Meanwhile the narrator went on pleasantly.
"Beauchamp," he said, fingering his mustache, "was a sugar-planter--at least, he was supposed to be one. He had a plantation some miles from the town of Falmouth, which is on the other side of Jamaica. It was there that Dr. Warrender practised. He was a bachelor in those days, and he was considered rather a wild fellow. Probably for that reason he was a bosom friend of Beauchamp's."
"Do you mean to infer that Beauchamp was wild?"
"Well, not exactly. I must be honest. He was adventuresome rather than wild. He was fond of yachting, and had a smart sailing boat in which he used to cruise amongst the islands. Warrender frequently went with him. Beauchamp was a very handsome man, and extremely popular with women. I know that to my cost," he added bitterly, "when he set his affections on Zelia. She was my wife--she was the mother of my child--yet she eloped with him."
"I--I--don't believe it," said Sophy in a suffocating voice.
"If it were not true, my child, you would not be sitting there under the false name of Sophia Marlow."
"One moment," put in Alan, clasping the girl's hand, "you have yet to prove that Miss Marlow is Marie Lestrange."
"If you would not interrupt so often, I could do so," said the man insolently. "As I say, Zelia ran away with Beauchamp. He brought his yacht to Kingston when I was absent, and sailed off with her. She carried with her my child--my adorable Marie." Here Lestrange fixed an affectionate look on Sophy. "I returned to find my home dishonored," he went on, "my life wrecked. Jean came to console me. He also had heard of Beauchamp's treachery, and that the boat had sailed for Falmouth. We followed----"
Here Lestrange broke down. Whether his emotion was genuine or not, Alan could not say. He looked at Sophy, and she at him. Having fought down his emotion, the Captain resumed his seat and his story:
"Jean and I arrived at Falmouth. There we heard that Zelia was very ill, and that Beauchamp had taken her to his plantation. Dr. Warrender, our informant said, was in attendance. The whole town knew that she was my wife, that she had dishonored me, and that I was on my may to settle accounts with the man who had wrecked my happiness. My cousin and I rode out to Beauchamp's plantation, for it was within a few miles of Falmouth, as I said. The night was dark and stormy--we arrived in pouring rain, and by the wailing of the negroes we knew that death was in the house. Yes"--he grew dramatic--"Zelia was dead; torture, remorse, sorrow, had brought about her punishment!"
"You are very ready to condemn her," said Alan.
"She had dishonored me!" cried the man, waxing melodramatic. "It was well that she should die. I rushed away to her room, where she lay calm in death, and Jean remained to arrange matters with Beauchamp. I challenged him to a duel. Jean was my second. But Beauchamp refused to fight, and--he murdered Jean."
"Murdered your cousin?" queried Alan skeptically.
"Yes. I was praying beside my wife's bed. I heard cries for help, and when I came out I found Jean dead, stabbed to the heart by Beauchamp. The scoundrel had fled--he had taken my child with him."
"Why should he have encumbered himself with the child?"
"To wring my heart!" replied Lestrange savagely. "He knew that I loved my little Marie. He carried her away. I would have followed, but all my troubles and the shock of Zelia's death brought on an attack of fever. I rose from my bed weeks later to hear that Beauchamp had vanished. On the night he committed the double crimes of murder and kidnapping he went on board his yacht at Falmouth, and was never heard of again. I searched for him everywhere, but without success."
"What about his estate?" asked Alan.
"There he has been cunning. It seemed that he had long since planned to elope with Zelia, and that some weeks before he had sold his land. He took the money with him, and the child. Had Zelia been alive she would have gone too. As months and years went by, I gave up hope, and I believed that the yacht had foundered."
Suddenly Sophy got up, much agitated.
"I can listen to this no longer," she said. "You are telling lies."
"Her mother's temper," muttered Lestrange. "Zelia's masterly way of crushing argument."
"Don't call her my mother!" cried Sophy. "I won't have it. I am not the child that was taken away by Beauchamp. I never knew any one of that name."
"Probably not," replied Lestrange smoothly. "There were reasons for its being kept from you. But Mr. Thorold----"
"Mr. Thorold is waiting to hear the end of the story," said that gentleman coolly. "I have yet to hear who Beauchamp is and how you traced him."
"This is mere evasion." The Captain was losing his temper somewhat. "You know who the man is as well as I do."
"I am waiting to hear how you connect the two."
"What two?" asked Miss Marlow.
But in her own heart she knew the answer. Yet, like a loyal soul, she kept true to the memory of the dead.
Lestrange took no notice of her.
"You are either very dull or very cunning," he said addressing Alan pointedly. "The latter, I think. How did I find Beauchamp again? In a curious way. I saw an illustrated paper in Jamaica, which gave a portrait of the famous South African millionaire, Richard Marlow. The face had on its right cheek a jagged scar. Jean gave that scar to Beauchamp with his diamond ring. No doubt it was the drawing of blood which led to the murder."
"Then you assert that Marlow was none other than Herbert Beauchamp?"
"I do. Also that Sophia Marlow is my child whom he carried away. I have mourned her for twenty years. By the accident of the illustrated paper I have traced her. At Southampton I heard of Marlow's death, so I knew that he had escaped punishment on earth. But at least I have found my dear child Marie."
"I am not your child!" she cried. "I will never acknowledge you as my father."
"In that case"--Lestrange rose to his feet and looked very stern--"I must appeal to the law."
Alan laughed.
"The law can't help you," he said. "Sophy is over age and her own mistress. Even if you can prove your case, you cannot force her to go with you."
"Natural affection----"
"Don't talk to me about natural affection!" cried the girl. "I know nothing about you. Nothing in the world will make me go with you!"
"But if I tell my story to the world?" cried Lestrange, hinting a threat.
"Tell it, by all means," said Thorold, putting his arm round Sophy. "You can hurt only the memory of the dead. Even if Marlow, as you assert, killed your cousin, he is dead, and beyond your reach."
"Are you so sure he is dead?" sneered the man.
"Of course we are sure," cried Sophy indignantly. "Didn't I see him dead in his coffin?"
"Well," said Lestrange, preparing to go, "it is most extraordinary to me that he should have died so suddenly and so conveniently. His body, too, has been stolen. That also is convenient."
"Do you mean that he is alive?"
"Yes. He feigned death to escape me."
"How could he have known that you were coming?"
"I don't know," was the answer, "but I shall find out. It shall be my business to search for the body of Richard Marlow."
"Do," said Thorold calmly. "And when you find it you will gain the reward of a thousand pounds."
"I shall gain more than that, Mr. Thorold. My daughter----"
"Never! Never! Leave this house, sir, and don't come near me again!"
The man moved towards the door. He had picked up the certificate and put it in his pocket.
"You turn your own father out into the street," he said. "Very good. I shall take my own means of punishing you for your want of filial respect. It is to the bad influence of Mr. Thorold that I owe this reception. Be assured, Mr. Thorold, that I shall not forget it. To revert to the tongue of my progenitors, I shall sayAu revoirbut not 'Adieu.' We shall meet again."
And clapping on his hat with a jaunty air, Captain Lestrange walked out of the room.
When the door had closed after him, Sophy turned to Alan.
"Do you think this story is true?" she asked.
"I must admit that there appears to be some truth in it," was the reply. "The certificate is correct as to your age, your birthday, and your birthplace, and the name of your mother also is correct."
"Then, am I that man's daughter?"
"Not necessarily. He may have assumed the name. He may--oh, I don't know what to think! But even if he proves his case, you won't go with him?"
"Never! never! How can we find out the truth?"
"Joe might know. I wish he would come back. I wonder if, after all, your father can be alive--Marlow, I mean."
"How can that be? We both saw him dead. Dr. Warrender gave a certificate of the death. Why do you ask?"
"Well, it is strange. In his will a sum of two thousand a year is left to be paid to a man called Herbert Beauchamp, through the Occidental Bank."
"And he says that my father was Herbert Beauchamp."
"I know. Can your father have feigned death to avoid him?"
"Impossible. He did not know Captain Lestrange was coming."
"Well," said Alan slowly, "there was that West Indian letter which agitated him so much. It might have been a warning. However, it is no use theorizing. I'll go to the Occidental Bank, and find out Herbert Beauchamp."
"You won't find that he is my own father, Alan; I am sure of that. He may be a relative. No, no! He is not a murderer! He is dead--quite dead! I don't believe a word of the story."
Alan sighed.
"Time alone can prove its truth or falsehood, Sophy," he said.
That same evening the Rector was coming in to dine with Alan. The young man was glad that he had asked him, for he was anxious to consult his old friend about the strange tale he had heard, and about the steps which should be taken to prove its truth or falsity. He stayed with Sophy till it was nearly six o'clock. Miss Parsh had not been called into counsel. She was too timid, they thought, and too likely to lose her head. Moreover, Alan felt that she would give the girl overmuch sympathy and make her nervous. So he did all the bracing he could, advised her not to take the old lady into her confidence, and rode home to the Abbey Farm in the cool twilight.
As he passed the Good Samaritan, Mrs. Timber came flying out in a flutter of excitement.
"Sir! sir! Mr. Thorold!" she called. And then, as he checked his horse: "Is the gentleman all right? He's a furriner, and I never did hold as they could pay honest."
"What are you talking about, Mrs. Timber?" asked the young man, utterly bewildered.
"Why, of the gentleman you sent to me, sir."
"I sent no gentleman. Stay! Do you mean Captain Lestrange?"
"Yes, sir, that's his name--a nasty French name. He said you recommended my house. I'm sure I'm very much obliged, Mr. Thorold." Here Mrs. Timber dropped her best curtsy and smiled a sour smile. "But I arsk again, sir, is he good pay?"
Alan was amazed at the Captain's impudence in making him stand sponsor for his respectability.
"I don't know anything about the gentleman, Mrs. Timber," he said, giving his horse the spur. "He is a stranger to me."
"Oh, is he?" muttered the landlady to herself as Alan galloped off. "Well, he don't get nothing out of me till I sees the color of his money. The idea of giving Mr. Thorold's name when he had no right to! Ah! I doubt he's a robber of the widder and the orphan. But I'll show him!"
And Mrs. Timber, full of wrath, went into her hotel to have it out with her new lodger.
Alan rode fast and hard in the waning light, between the flowering hedgerows--rode to get away from his thoughts. The advent of Lestrange with his cut-and-dried story, with his accusation of the dead, and his claim to be Sophy's father, was ominous of evil. Alan had his own uncomfortable feelings, but of these he decided to tell no one, not even Phelps, although Phelps was his very good friend. In taking this resolution, Alan made a very serious mistake--a mistake which he found out when it was too late to remedy his injudicious silence.
He had just time to dress for dinner before his guest arrived. Knowing that Mr. Phelps was dainty in his eating, Mrs. Hester had prepared a meal such as the good Rector loved. Alan's wine was of the best, and he did not stint it, so Mr. Phelps addressed himself to the solemn business of dinner, with the conviction that he would enjoy himself; and Alan kept his news to himself until they were in the smoking-room. Then, when his guest was sipping aromatic black coffee and inhaling the fragrance of an excellent cigar, the young Squire felt compelled to speak, and exploded his bombshell without further notice.
"Mr. Phelps, I have unpleasant news," he said, filling his pipe.
The clergyman looked piteously at the excellent cigar, and took another sip of the coffee.
"Oh, Alan, my boy, must you?"
"You can judge for yourself," replied Alan, unable to suppress a smile. "Sophy had a visitor to-day."
"Indeed! Any one connected with these mysteries which so perplex us?"
"In one way, yes; in another, no. He is a Captain Lestrange."
"Lestrange! Lestrange!" repeated the Rector. "I don't know the name. Who is he?"
"Sophy's father!" said Alan simply, and lighted up, while Mr. Phelps remonstrated:
"My dear Alan, if this is a jest----"
"It is no jest, sir, but, I fear, a grim reality. This man comes from Jamaica."
"Dear me! Marlow came from Jamaica. Does he know----"
"He knows all Marlow's past life."
"The dev--ahem! God forgive me for swearing. And who was Marlow?"
"According to Lestrange, a murderer."
Phelps dropped his cigar and stared at his old pupil.
"Alan, are you mad?"
"No. At the present moment I am particularly sane. This man says that Marlow was a murderer, and he himself claims to be Sophy's father. Take some green Chartreuse, Mr. Phelps, and I'll tell you all about it."
The Rector's nerves had received such a shock at the abrupt way in which Alan had told his news that he very willingly poured himself out a liqueur. Then he relighted his cigar, and signed to the young man to proceed.
"If I must hear it!" sighed he. "Such a pity, too, when I was so comfortable. Ah! Man is born to trouble. Go on, my dear lad!"
"You will find it really interesting," said Thorold encouragingly, and told his story in as concise a way as he could. The narrative was interrupted frequently by the Rector. When it was ended he was too much astonished to make any remark, and the other had to stir up his intelligence. "What do you think of it, sir?"
"Really--bless me!--I hardly know. Do you believe it, Alan?"
"There are so many things in it which I know to be true, that I can't help thinking the man is honest, in so far as his story goes," said Alan gloomily. "Whether Sophy is really his child I can't say. She is certainly very like him, and the certificate appears to be genuine. Again, Mr. Phelps, you heard Warrender call Marlow 'Beauchamp,' and, as I told you, a sum of two thousand a year is by Marlow's will to be paid to a Herbert Beauchamp. What if he should be Marlow himself?"
"I can't--I won't believe it!" cried the Rector, rubbing his bald head. "The man is as dead as a doornail--you saw the corpse yourself, Alan. The body was put in a leaden casing, hermetically sealed, and that in a tightly-screwed-down oaken coffin. Even if Marlow had been in a trance--if that is what you mean--he could not have survived that! He would have died of suffocation--he would have been asphyxiated. Bless my soul! I don't believe it for one moment."
"But how do you account for the income left to Herbert Beauchamp?"
"He must be a relative," said the Rector.
"But the same Christian name, Mr. Phelps? Still, of course, that is not impossible--he might be a relative. I will see the manager of the bank, and insist upon knowing the address of this man."
"Supposing he won't give it?"
"Then I shall call in the police. I must get to the bottom of this affair. Why should that body have been stolen?"
"Perhaps Lestrange can tell you, Alan." The little parson jumped up in a state of wild excitement. "What if he should be the Quiet Gentleman--Brown?"
"Impossible--he landed at Southampton only two days ago."
"Oh! so he says, but you must find out if it is true."
"I will examine the passenger-list of the last steamer."
"It is strange," said the Rector--"strange that Marlow--let us call him Marlow--should have died so opportunely. If you remember, he was much worried by a West Indian letter he received a week before his death."
"Yes; I believe that was written to warn him against Lestrange. To escape being arrested on a charge of murder, he--he--well, what did he do."
"He didn't feign death, at all events," said Mr. Phelps. "Bless me, Alan! I know the feel and the look of a corpse. I've seen dozens! Besides, you studied for medicine--your knowledge must tell you----"
"Yes, I could have sworn he was, as you say, dead as a doornail. Of course"--Alan cast about in his mind for some hypothesis--"that is--the shock of impending danger hinted at in that letter might have killed him. He died in a fit, sir, and died very suddenly."
"Humph! You didn't attend him?"
"I--a layman! My dear sir, Warrender attended him."
"And Warrender was his bosom friend in Jamaica. Alan, Warrender must have recognized him as Beauchamp--must have known Sophy was not his daughter--must have known that he had been accused of murder in Jamaica."
"Quite so," said Alan composedly, "and so Mrs. Warrender's diamonds are accounted for. He blackmailed Marlow. I can see it plainly."
"Then the murder of--of Warrender?" whispered the Rector, with a look of terror.
"Ah! we are still in the dark about that. Marlow, being dead, could not have killed him. Humph! I wonder if Lestrange is the Quiet Gentleman after all!"
"Alan!" said Phelps suddenly. "Joe Brill!"
"What about him?"
"Do you think he is guilty? He was devoted to his master. Warrender possessed his master's secret, and Joe might have killed him, and have run away to escape arrest."
Alan shook his head.
"There was no suspicion against Joe," he said. "Why should he have run away?"
"His guilty conscience, perhaps."
"A man who had nerve enough to commit such a murder and take the corpse of his victim back to the vault wouldn't have any conscience to speak of. Besides, the boy who slept in Joe's room says he was not out on that night."
"No, no--of course not," said the Rector. "Then it can't be Joe. Well, I give it up!"
"I don't," said Alan grimly. "I go to London to-morrow to solve the mystery."
This he did. He left next morning and was away for three days, leaving Mr. Phelps to console and protect Sophy from any annoyance on the part of Lestrange, who remained in the village. The Captain propitiated Mrs. Timber by the payment of a week's board and lodging in advance, and this was enough to convince the landlady that he was a most estimable person.
Naturally enough, he and Cicero Gramp came into contact, and, equally naturally, Cicero did his best to find out what business the Captain had in Heathton. But this was no easy task, for Lestrange was guarded in speech, and did not at first encourage his advances, judging very truly that Mr. Gramp was a scoundrel, and could be dangerous. But finally he decided that the gentleman in broadcloth, if properly handled, could be converted into a useful tool, and he determined to make use of him in that capacity. The intimacy began one night when Cicero, having taken more than was good for him, allowed his tongue to wag more freely than usual. Lestrange thus became aware that it could dispense useful knowledge.
"I tell you what it is, my noble Captain," said Cicero, with drunken gravity, "you are a clever man--I am another. Why shouldn't we get that reward by working together?"
"Really, my friend, I hardly see what I can do. I am a stranger here."
"That's why we ought to work together. You are not in these parts for nothing. The gossip of servants--ah!" Gramp looked significantly at Lestrange. "Oh, I heard how you were turned out of the Moat House."
"What do you mean, my dear friend?" asked the Captain, in silky tones.
"Oh! that you've got some game on--so have I. Let us work together."
"Pooh! pooh! You are talking nonsense."
"Nonsense which may mean money. See here, I know that you were kicked out of the Moat House. Ah! the gossip of menials."
"Pardon me, but I was not kicked out."
"You were. Young Thorold did it. He wants all the money, and he'll get it by marrying that girl--if I let him."
"If you let him? What do you mean?"
"Mean? Why, that I hate young Thorold, and that I want a few thousands!"
"Oh! and how do you intend to get them?"
"Never you mind. If we work together--but, then, we don't.Cedant arma togæ--which means, you're a soldier, I'm a lawyer--so that's all right. Goo'night."
And he staggered off, leaving Lestrange with much food for meditation.
The outcome of this was that next morning the Captain met Cicero halfway, and later in the day Sophy received a note from Lestrange asking to see her. If she would not consent, he added, Mr. Thorold would be placed in a position of great danger.
After some reflection Sophy sent for Mr. Phelps, and they decided to see the scamp. So on a Saturday morning Captain Lestrange was received in the library of the Rectory.
"Well, sir," said Phelps, "and what have you to say about Mr. Thorold?"
"Only this," was the reply: "that he is a scoundrel!"
"Indeed!" the Rector stopped Sophy's exclamations. "On what grounds?"
"On the grounds that it was he who stole the body of Richard Marlow!"
The Rector and Sophy looked at one another, and then at Lestrange, smiling and confident. They knew Alan too well to credit so monstrous an accusation for one moment. Indeed, the idea appeared so ridiculous to Sophy that she laughed outright.
Lestrange frowned.
"You laugh now," he said. "You will weep later. What I say is true. Thorold stole the body of your father--your supposed father!" he sneered, "for, say what you like, you are my child."
"I don't acknowledge the relationship," retorted the girl with spirit, "and I never will. Mr. Marlow was my father. I shall always think of him as such. As to your accusation of Mr. Thorold, it is merely another trick to cause me trouble. I suppose you will say next that he murdered Dr. Warrender?"
"I say nothing of the sort," replied the Captain, nettled by her open contempt, "yet he may have done so, for all I know. But I state only what I can prove."
"You cannot prove this ridiculous charge?" cried the Rector. "Mr. Thorold is incapable of such a crime."
"Ah!" drawled the other coolly, "you see, Mr. Thorold is scientific, and does not look upon his deed as a crime."
"What do you mean by that?" asked Mr. Phelps sharply.
"I mean that Mr. Thorold was once a medical student--at least, I have been told as much."
"It is true, quite true," said Sophy, opening her eyes, for in her innocence she did not see what the man meant. But the Rector did, and winced. He anticipated the accuser.
"You mean that Mr. Thorold stole the body for scientific purposes?"
"For dissection--yes. Mr. Thorold is, I understand, an enthusiast in surgery. Marlow--or, rather, I should say, Beauchamp--died of an obscure disease, and Warrender and Thorold removed the body to hold a post-mortem on it. They were the men seen by Cicero Gramp--you see, I know all about it. They probably carried the body to the moor hut to dissect it. Whether they quarreled or not, I do not know, nor do I know if it was Thorold who killed the doctor. All I say is, that those two stole the body."
"Oh, indeed!" remarked Mr. Phelps ironically, "and Thorold put the remains of Dr. Warrender back in the vault, I suppose? And what did he do with Marlow's body?"
"I don't know. Buried it on the moor, very likely."
"Mr. Thorold had not the key of the vault," cried Sophy indignantly. "It had been stolen by the Quiet Gentleman."
"So I understand," retorted Lestrange sharply. "And who says so? Mr. Thorold himself. Believe me, sir," he turned to the Rector, "that key was never stolen. Thorold had it in his pocket. He lied about that for his own safety."
"I don't believe it," said Mr. Phelps decisively. "Thorold was at Bournemouth on the night the crime was committed."
"I know he was!" cried Sophy, with emphasis. "He was with me and Miss Parsh."
"You are wrong, both of you. He came back to Heathton on that night, and returned to Bournemouth before dawn. I understand it is only an hour's journey from here."
"It is not true," insisted Sophy uneasily. "I saw Mr. Thorold at eight o'clock that night at the Soudan Hotel."
"I dare say. But at ten o'clock he was at Heathton."
"How can you prove that?"
"If you will permit me," said Lestrange, and rising, he left the room.
Before Mr. Phelps and Sophy could exchange a remark, he was back again with a man who had evidently been waiting.
"Jarks!" cried the Rector, much annoyed. "And what has Jarks to do with this preposterous story?"
"If you ask him he will tell you," said Lestrange politely, and resumed his seat.
The Rector looked indignantly at his sexton, who, as minor official in the church, should have quailed before his superior. But there was no quailing or cringing about Jarks. The old fellow was as malicious as a magpie, and as garrulous. Looking more rusty than ever, he stood twisting his greasy old hat, and shifting from one leg to the other.
"Oh, I seed Muster Alan; yes, I seed un. On the night o' the funeral I were in the yard, a lookin' at 'em as I'd tucked away, an' I clapped eyes on Muster Alan. He wor' lookin' at the vault where I'd put away the last of 'em, he wor."
"About what time was that?" asked Mr. Phelps, with severity.
"Well, it might be about ten, Muster Phelps, sir."
"And what were you doing out of bed at that hour?"
"Lookin' at 'em," retorted Jarks, wiping his mouth. "Lor' bless you, Muster Phelps, all in the yard's m'own handiwork save some of the old uns. I like to see 'em all quiet an' humble in their narrow homes. Ay, an' I seed Muster Alan, an' he sez, 'I've come to look round, Jarks, an' you needn't say as I've bin about. Here's money for ye.' Ay, he did say that, an' guv me money. Course I said nothin' as there isn't no law agin folk walkin' round to see how them as has passed away is gettin' along."
"How long was Mr. Thorold with you?"
"It might be about five minutes, sir. He went to ketch a train at the half-hour to go back to Miss Sophy--hopin' I sees you well, miss!" with a pull of his forelock to the girl, who was standing pale and trembling at this disastrous confirmation.
"Why didn't you tell me this, Jarks?"
"Lor' bless you, Miss Sophy, 'twas little use vexin' you. 'Sides, when I found Muster Marlow was gone, arter bein' put away comfortable-like in the vault, I did say to Muster Alan arterwards as it wasn't friendly-like of him to upset my handiwork. But Muster Alan he says as he had nowt to do with the takin' of him, an' how he got out of the vault, being screwed and soldered down, was more than he knew. So he being the squire, Miss Sophy, it wasn't my place to say nothin'. I knows the station of life I've bin called to."
"It was your duty to come to me," said the Rector severely.
"Naw, naw!" Jarks shook his head. "'Tain't no good makin' bad blood, Muster Phelps. Muster Alan wor in the yard, but he didn't take the last of 'em away."
"I say he did!" put in Lestrange, with emphasis.
"Ay, ay! You thinks you knows a lot. But I tell you, you don't. If it wasn't that I let slip to that fat un while mazed wi' drink, as I seed Muster Alan, you'd niver have know'd naught. Naw! But when the wine's in Jarks he talks foolish-like. Ay, he babbles as a babe does Jarks!"
"Who is this fat man he speaks of?" asked Sophy.
"My other witness," replied Lestrange promptly. "You can go, Jarks. Send in Cicero."
The sexton nodded, wiped his mouth, and backed to the door with a final excuse.
"As I wor sayin', Muster Phelps, 'twouldn't be right to blame Jarks for holdin' the tongue o' he, Muster Alan wantin' it so. But the red wine--which is to say, beer an' such like--maketh the heart of Jarks glad, as sez Holy Scripture. An' I'll go now, wishin' you an' Miss Sophy happiness an' long life."
After which apologetic speech the old sinner creaked out of the room pulling his forelock.
"You see," said Lestrange, with a triumphant look at the other two, "Thorold was in Heathton, and in the churchyard on that night."
"It would seem so; but that does not prove he took away the body," put in Sophy.
"My second witness can prove that. Come in, Cicero."
The fat man, resplendent in new clothes, rolled into the room.
"Pax vobiscum," said he.
The Rector turned an angry glance on him.
"This is not the time for playing the fool," he said cuttingly. "You are a cunning rogue, but some day you will overreach yourself. Now, then, out with your lie."
"Lie! I scorn to pervert the truth, reverend sir. I shall tell the truthin puris naturalibus."
"I hope not," threw in the Rector, laughing, in spite of himself, at this abuse of quotation.
"Which means, reverend sir," went on the old scoundrel coolly, "that in the hut on the heath I found the corpse of Dr. Warrender."
"But not the body of my father," said Sophy.
"No, but I saw that taken away from the vault. Undoubtedly, Miss Marlow, the body was carried to the hut for the purpose of dissection by Mr. Thorold. He was foolish enough to leave behind him evidence of his iniquitous purposes. Behold!" and Cicero produced a lancet in his most dramatic manner. "Nota bene," said he grandly.
Phelps bent forward and took the instrument in his hand. It had an ivory handle, on which were carved two letters, "A. T."
"You found this in the hut?" he asked.
"I did, reverend sir. It must have been dropped by Mr. Thorold. If not, how did it come there? I pause for a reply."
"Why did you not tell Mr. Thorold about this?" demanded Sophy.
"I bided my time----"
"To blackmail him!" she cried, with scorn.
"A harsh word, Miss Sophia. Certainly I would have demanded a small payment from Mr. Thorold, had I shown him that. But Mr. Thorold insulted me, it matters not how.Nemo me impune lacessit, Miss Sophia, and I determined to punish the young man. My military friend was good enough to enter into partnership with me for the purpose of clearing up this matter, hence I told him of my discovery. There is no more to be said."
"Save this," put in Lestrange, who appeared to be getting somewhat weary of Cicero's cumbersome diction, "that here is the proof that it was Thorold who carried off the body. Do you believe now in his guilt?"
"I reserve my opinion," said the Rector, who could not but acknowledge to himself that things looked black for Alan.
"I don't!" cried Sophy, rising. "If fifty men, with fifty lancets, came to tell me this story, I would not believe a word against Mr. Thorold. He can explain. I believe in him firmly, and, to prove my belief, I shall marry him as soon as I can."
"You'll do nothing of the sort!" cried Lestrange, losing his temper. "I am your father, and I command you to come with me."
"And I am my own mistress, and I refuse," she said quietly. "You can't frighten me. I don't believe your stories."
"Nor do I," said the Rector. "When Mr. Thorold comes back, he will, no doubt, be able to explain his presence in Heathton on that night, and also the loss of his lancet."
"He shall explain it to the police!" cried Lestrange, in a threatening manner.
"No, no," said Cicero, apprehensive at this mention of his natural enemies; "let us take counsel together. Cannot this matter be adjusted, so that Mr. Thorold may escape the reward of his iniquitous proceedings?"
Sophy looked at him with a satirical smile. Then she turned to address Lestrange as the senior partner in this firm of scoundrels.
"How much do you want?" she asked.
The Captain winced. He did not like the question to be put quite so crudely.
"I do not understand," he said.
"I think you do. How much do you require to hold your tongue?"
"Say five thousand," whispered Mr. Gramp.
But Lestrange shook him off, and marched to the door very upright and indignant.
"I will let you know my price----"
"Ah!" said Sophy scornfully.
"When I have seen the police," finished he, and marched out.
Cicero had to follow, but he turned at the door and winked.
"He will not go to the police," said he, in a hurried voice. "Might I suggest five----"
"Be off, you scoundrel!" cried the Rector indignantly, and thrust him out.
Then he resumed his seat, and looked at Sophy.
"Well?" said he.
"Alan can explain," said she decisively.
"But if Lestrange goes to the police?"
"He won't," she said. "Cicero will stop that. Meanwhile I wait for Alan."
They talked on for a long time, but could come to no conclusion. Undoubtedly Alan had been near the vault on that night, had been in the hut, and had said nothing of these things to any one. It certainly looked suspicious, but Sophy insisted that her lover could and would explain. In spite of appearances, she had faith in Alan's honesty and in Alan's honor.
That same evening she dined with the Rector, without even Miss Vicky in attendance.
Towards the end of the meal, Alan walked in unexpectedly. He looked somewhat downcast, but there was no sign of fear in his bearing. After greetings had been exchanged he sat down with them. Neither the Rector nor Sophy was anxious to inform him of the accusation which had been brought against him.
"How went the business?" asked Mr. Phelps.
"Badly--for us," was the reply. "Lestrange certainly arrived by the boat he said he came by. I saw his name, Achille Lestrange, on the passenger-list of theNegress."
"Ah! the devil speaks true sometimes!" said the Rector. "And what about Beauchamp?"
"Yes, yes!" cried Sophy. "Did you find him? Did you see him?"
"No," replied Alan quietly, "but I heard of him. Beauchamp is dead!"
"Dead!" repeated Sophy, after a pause. "Then was this Mr. Beauchamp really my father or a relative?"
"I think he was Mr. Marlow, dear," said her lover gravely. "No doubt your father intended to feign death to escape Lestrange, but it would seem that he overdid it, and really died. I saw the manager of the Occidental Bank. He informed me that he had received a letter telling him that Beauchamp was dead."
"How long ago was this?"
"A little over a week."
"Who wrote the letter?"
"That he refused to tell me."
"Had he seen this Mr. Beauchamp, to whom the money was to be paid?"
"Never. Your father had informed him that he had left an income to Beauchamp, and that drafts for the money were to be sent to a certain place--where, I don't know. The manager sent a draft, but it was returned to him with a letter stating that the man was dead. For my own part, I believe that Mr. Marlow was Beauchamp. His plan to hide himself from Lestrange has succeeded only too well."
Mr. Phelps now joined in.
"Then I understand, Alan, that you think Marlow is really dead?"
"I do. If he had only feigned death, then Beauchamp would be receiving his income. In my opinion, the two men are one and the same. I believe Lestrange's story so far."
"Humph!" said the Rector, who was really of the same opinion. "But let us leave this question for the moment and talk of the other. You say that Lestrange arrived on the day and by the boat he asserted that he did?"
"I saw the passenger-list myself. If he had not been on board, his name would not have been there. Even he could not falsify a passenger-list."
"Then our idea that Lestrange was the Quiet Gentleman is false?"
"It must be, sir. The man--Lestrange I mean--was not in England when the Quiet Gentleman lived in this village. I believe Brown had to do with the stealing of the body and the murder. But, then, Brown is not Lestrange. Who he is I don't know!"
"Alan!" cried Sophy--for if what Lestrange stated was true, this hypocrisy was detestable--"you are not straightforward with me!"
"Indeed I am," he said, with a stare of astonishment. "I have told you of my discoveries. Why should I deceive you?"
"Why, indeed!" said the girl bitterly. "You know how much I love you, yet you keep me in the dark about matters which concern us both--matters which I, if any one, have a right to know."
He might have had some inkling of what she meant, for his face turned a dark red. Nevertheless, he held himself well in hand, and looked inquiringly at the Rector.
"What does she mean, sir?"
"I think you can guess," said Phelps, more coldly than he had ever before spoken to Alan.
"No; upon my word, I----"
Sophy rose from her chair and closed his mouth with her hand.
"Don't! don't!" she cried despairingly.
"I can't bear it. Captain Lestrange----" She hesitated.
"Ah!" said Alan fiercely. "I might have guessed he had been making mischief. Well, and what does he say?"
"That you stole my father's body, Alan!"
"I--I--stole the body?"
"Yes!" chimed in the Rector. "And he further says that you took it to the hut on the heath, where Warrender's corpse was found."
"Oh, indeed!" cried the young man derisively. "And did I murder Warrender, too?"
"Alan! Alan! Oh, don't jest! If you love me, Alan, tell me the truth."
"Sophy! What do you mean?" He pushed away his plate and rose. "Do you believe this man's tale for one moment? Am I the man to violate a grave--to drag the remains of a man I respected and honored to the light of day? You must be mad to think of such a thing! How dare he bring forward such a terrible--such a dastardly accusation? For what reason does he say that I did it?"
"Out of revenge, I expect," said Phelps. "He dislikes you, Alan. He says you took poor Marlow's body to dissect it."
"And bases his lie upon some gossip of my having been a medical student, I suppose?" cried the young man, now thoroughly angry. "I'll thrash the scoundrel within an inch of his life!"
"Oh, Alan, I am so glad--so thankful! I said so, didn't I, Mr. Phelps? You didn't do it!"
"Do it--of course I didn't do it! Why should I? Phelps,"--Alan forgot his respect for the Rector in his rage--"do you believe this lying story?"
"Knowing you as I do, I don't believe it. But I must say that Lestrange--he is a very dangerous man--makes out a strong case against you."
"Oh! Let me hear on what grounds."
"Alan!" Sophy came forward and took him by the lapels of his coat, "before we tell you anything, confess if you have kept anything from us."
He looked at her in a puzzled manner. Then a light seemed to dawn upon him. He glanced at the Rector.
"Now I understand, Mr. Phelps. Jarks has told you."
"Told me what?" asked the Rector, with well-feigned ignorance.
"I see! I see!" Alan sat down again. "It's all right, Sophy. I kept that from you only that you should not be worried. So Lestrange found out--from Jarks, I suppose--that I was at Heathton on the night of the funeral?"
"Yes, yes. Oh, Alan, is it true?"
"True--of course it is. Why should it not be true? Does the fact of my having been here corroborate this cock-and-bull story? You ought to know me better, Sophy, and you too, Phelps."
"I couldn't believe it--I didn't," cried the girl.
"Nor I. We both told him that he lied. But I must admit that things looked bad for you, as he put it. Why didn't you tell us you were at Heathton on that night? Why did you come? Was there any serious reason for such secrecy?"
"No reason whatsoever," replied the young man frankly, "save the trifling one that I did not want to bother Sophy with my suspicions. Yes, I came by the 8.30 train from Bournemouth, and I returned at half-past eleven. I had to go to another station to keep my secret, you know. Jarks saw me in the graveyard about ten, and as I wished to keep my visit quiet, for the reason I have told you, I gave him something to hold his tongue. It appears that he did not. I suppose Lestrange bribed him?"
"Well, no," said the Rector, "not exactly. Jarks, in his cups, told that scoundrel Gramp, and he told Lestrange."
"Oh! So there are two of them in league to make trouble. A proper pair of scoundrels!"
"But," said Sophy, more composedly, "you have not told us why you came."
"I came," said her lover, determined now to make a clean breast of it, "to look at the vault--to see that all was safe."
The Rector uttered an exclamation of astonishment.
"Did you expect, then, that there would be some foul play?"
"Well, I hardly know, sir. It was this way: After Mr. Marlow received that letter from the West Indies--which doubtless warned him that Lestrange was on his track--he was much worried. He would not tell me the reason, but kept speaking of some shock he had had which might cause his death. 'And I don't know if the scoundrel will let my body rest in its grave,' he said in a fit of passion. I asked to whom he alluded, but he would say no more. When he died so unexpectedly, his words came back to me. I wondered if he had enemies who might disturb his remains, and all that day after the funeral I felt so bothered about it that I could not rest without coming back to see if all was well."
"And you found nothing wrong?"
"Nothing, sir. I was in the churchyard for about a quarter of an hour. I examined the door of the vault, and saw everything was right. As I came away I met Jarks; the rest you know."
"You saw no signs of that tramp in the churchyard?"
"None! I expect he was sleeping when I was there. According to his story, it was after midnight when the vault was opened."
"Alan," said Sophy, much relieved, "how is it they did not know at Heathton Station that you were here?"
"I did not go to Heathton Station. I stopped at Murbury, and walked from there across the heath. I went back the same way. I did so simply to keep the tongues of gossips quiet. I did not want you to be worried, Sophy; and after all," he said, after a pause, "beyond the chance words of your father I had no reason to think that anything was wrong. Ah! if I had only stayed in the churchyard all night, I should have prevented this trouble. The vault would never have been broken into, and poor Warrender would still be alive."
The Rector nodded approval of this speech, and poured himself out a glass of wine, which, poor man, he sadly needed. Lestrange's accusation had been disproved; still, there remained the evidence of Cicero. Sophy put the question which was in the Rector's mind.
"Captain Lestrange brought Cicero here, Alan," she said abruptly, "and he--Cicero, I mean--declared that you were in the hut on the moor that night."
"I was not!" cried young Thorold hotly. "I was never near the hut. Why should I have been? Ask yourself, as I had to walk to and from Murbury, and spend a quarter of an hour in the churchyard, had I time to cross the moor all the distance to the hut?"
"Of course, you know I don't believe it. But Cicero----"
"Well, and how can he prove I was there?" he said impatiently.
"He found something there which belonged to you."
"What?"
"A lancet."
"A lancet! And why mine? Warrender was a doctor; he took away the body--why should the lancet not belong to him? If he had intended to dissect the body--which he might have, for all I know--he would want one."
"No doubt," Mr. Phelps said dryly. "But this lancet had your initials on the ivory handle. It is your lancet, Alan, and it is now in Cicero's possession."
"H'm! that's queer. Initials?--yes, it might be mine. But how did it get there?"
"Did you ever lend a lancet to Dr. Warrender?"
"No, not that I can remember."
"Then there was the other man, his accomplice, Brown the----"
"Ha!" cried Alan, starting up and pacing the room. "I see, I see!"
"See what?" cried Sophy eagerly.
"How the lancet came to be found in the hut. The Quiet Gentleman stole it."
"Stole it?"
"Of course. Did he not steal the key of the vault from my desk? There was a case of lancets in the same drawer; he took one. Ha! this proves to me that Brown stole the body and murdered Warrender. A clever scoundrel! He stole my lancet to throw suspicion on me." Alan clenched his hands and looked upward. "In God's name, what does this roguery mean?"
It was indeed a perplexing case. They were all in the dark, and such gleams of light as came served only to confuse them the more. Lestrange could not be the Quiet Gentleman, for, as had been proved by Alan, he had landed in England only the week before. Brown was thedeus ex machinawho could put matters right, and Brown had vanished. He could reappear only at the risk of being charged with murder.
Why had the body been removed? If it were a case of blackmailing, the claim would have been made long since. The police were apparently as much at a loss as Alan himself. And Blair----
"Does Blair know of this accusation?" asked Mr. Thorold suddenly.
"I am certain he does not," answered the Rector emphatically. "In the first place, it was only made to-day. Lestrange, I am sure, wants money, and would come to us before going to the police."
"If he does not want money, Cicero does," put in Sophy scornfully.
"In the second place," resumed Mr. Phelps, "Blair is away."
"Where has he gone?"
"I can't say, but he will be back in a fortnight."
"Well," said Alan moodily, "I don't know if he will be much good when he does come. I shall see this firm of scoundrels at the Good Samaritan, and threaten them with the police, unless they tell all they know. Lestrange is as bad as Cicero, and I knowhimto be a scoundrel. What's that?"
This exclamation was drawn from him by the violent ringing of the door-bell. Before the sounds had ceased, Miss Vicky, red, hot and agitated, rushed in a most unladylike manner into the room.
"Oh, Sophy! Mr. Phelps! Mr. Alan! I really never! Joseph Brill--oh, that Joseph Brill! He's back again!"