For a moment the three gazed in silence and amazement at the old maid. She stood before them, all tousled and red with haste, a figure of fun she would not have recognized for herself. Her buckram demeanor had for once given way to the real woman. Alan was the first to speak, and he jumped up from the table with a shout of joy. From an unexpected quarter, in the most unexpected manner, help had come, and at the moment when it was most needed.
"Joe Brill!" cried Mr. Thorold. "He is the very man I want. Where is he, Miss Vicky?"
"At the Moat House. I went to the kitchen for a moment; he was there--he had just come in. I thought he was a ghost," declared the little lady solemnly; "indeed I did until he convinced me that he was flesh and blood."
"What explanation did he make?" asked Sophy anxiously.
"None--to me. He said he was ready to explain his absence to Mr. Thorold."
"Did he? Then he shall have the chance. Go back to the Moat House, Miss Parsh, and send on Joe to the Good Samaritan."
"Why there of all places?" asked the Rector.
"Because I am going to see Lestrange, and force the truth out of him. There shall be an end to all this devilment. He accuses me, does he!" cried Thorold, with an ugly look. "Let him have a care lest I accuse him, and prove my accusation, too, with the help of Joe Brill."
"Joseph!" cried Miss Parsh, quite at sea. "What can he do?"
"He can prove if Lestrange's story is true or false."
"Story, Mr. Alan! What story?"
"Never mind, Vicky," put in Sophy, catching Miss Parsh's arm. She saw that Alan was growing impatient. "Come back home, and we will send Joe on to the inn. Come, you look quite upset."
"And I am upset," wailed the poor woman. "I ran all the way to tell you that Joseph had returned--like a thief in the night," she added. "Oh, dear me! and I'm so hot and untidy. I don't like these dreadful things!" Miss Vicky suddenly caught sight of herself in an adjacent mirror, and made a hasty attempt to arrange her disordered dress. "Oh, what a spectacle for a genteel gentlewoman to present! A glass of wine, Mr. Phelps, I beg of you."
The Rector poured out the wine in silence, then turned to Alan.
"Shall I come with you!"
"No, sir. Joe and I are quite able to deal with this brace of blackguards."
"Remember that Lestrange is a dangerous man, Alan."
"So am I," retorted the other grimly. "If I happen to find a whip handy, I don't know what I might be tempted to do."
"But if Joe declares that Lestrange is Sophy's father?"
"He is not my father!" cried Sophy. "His story is a lie! I am the daughter of Richard Marlow."
"Sophia! This man--your father!" wailed Miss Vicky. "Oh dear, what is all this?"
"I'll tell you when we get home," said the girl. "Alan, I will send Joe to the inn at once."
And she led the weeping Vicky from the room.
"Let me come, Alan. You will want a witness."
"Joe will be witness enough," said the young man decisively. "No, sir; better let me see him alone; there may be rough work. Your cloth----"
"Deuce take my cloth!" cried the Rector. "Bless me, may I be forgiven! My cloth might keep the peace."
"I don't want the peace kept," retorted Thorold. "Unless that Creole Frenchman apologizes I'll thrash him!"
The Rector stared, and well he might. All the well-bred composure had gone from Alan's face and manner, the veneer of civilization was stripped off, and man, primeval man, showed naked and unashamed. He stared back at the clergyman, and for quite a minute the two looked at one another. Then the younger man turned and left the room, and Mr. Phelps made no attempt to stay him. He knew that he might as well have tried to chain a whirlwind. He bowed to circumstances and sat down again to his wine.
"I hope to Heaven he'll keep himself in hand," he muttered, without his usual self-apology for swearing. "Lestrange is dangerous; but Alan, in his present mood, is more so. I should not care to be the man to meet him with that look on his face. Dear! dear!" The little man sighed. "I wish all these mysteries were over and done with, and we could resume the quiet tenor of our way."
Meantime, Alan was making for the inn. It was just on nine o'clock, and the night had turned out wet. As he had no overcoat, the rain was soaking him. But he did not care for that. His blood was on fire to meet this man and force the truth out of him. He was certain that Lestrange could explain much if he chose; and whether he chose or not, Alan intended that he should speak out. He was determined that an end should be put to these troubles.
The rain whipped his face and drenched him, but he walked on steadily. There was no gas in Heathton, which was so far uncivilized, and the roads were dark and miry. Not until he got into the principal street did he leave the mud and the darkness behind him. Then before him glimmered the feeble lantern over the door, with which Mrs. Timber illuminated the entrance to her premises. Alan could hear the drowsy voices of the villagers sitting over their ale in the taproom;--heard above the rest the pompous speech of Cicero, who was evidently playing his favorite part of Sir Oracle.
In the hall Mr. Thorold was found by the landlady. The woman pervaded the house like a fly, and was always to be discovered where she was least expected. She recognized Alan, curtsied and awaited instructions.
"Take me," he said abruptly, "to Captain Lestrange."
"Lor', sir!" Mrs. Timber, in her amazement, overstepped the bounds of class. "You said he was no friend of yours, sir."
"Nor is he. Come, show me his room. He is in, I suppose?"
"Catch him wetting himself!" she said, leading the way, with a sour smile. "He's a furrin' Jack-o-dandy, that he is. Not but what he don't pay reg'lar. But I see the color of his money afore my meat goes down his throat. This is the door, sir."
"Very good. And, Mrs. Timber, should Joe Brill come, show him in here."
"Joe Brill!" yelped the landlady, throwing up her hands. "You don't mean to say as he's back, Mr. Alan! Well, I never did! And I thought he'd run away because of the murder."
"You think too much, Mrs. Timber. Some day you will get yourself into trouble. Now go, and don't forget my orders."
Chilled by the severity of his tone, Mrs. Timber crept away, somewhat ashamed. Alan knocked at the door, heard the thin voice of Lestrange call out "Entrez," and went in. The man was lying on the sofa, reading a French novel by the light of a petroleum lamp, and smoking a cigarette. When Alan appeared, he rose quickly into a sitting position, and stared at his visitor. Of all men, the last he had expected to see was the one he had so basely accused. The thought flashed into his mind that Thorold had come to have it out with him. But Lestrange, whatever his faults, was not wanting in a certain viperish courage. He rose to greet his enemy with a smile which cloaked many things.
"Good-evening, Mr. Thorold," he said, with a wary glance; "to what am I indebted for this visit?"
"You shall know that before long," replied Alan, closing the door. He was now considerably cooler, and had made up his mind that more was to be got out of this man by diplomacy than by blind rage. "Have I your permission to sit down?" he asked, with studied politeness.
"Certainly, my dear sir. Will you smoke?"
"No, thank you."
"Have some refreshment, then?"
"No, thank you."
"Ah!" sneered Lestrange, throwing himself again on the couch, "your visit is not so amiable as I fancied. You come as my enemy."
"Considering your behavior, it would be strange if I came as anything else."
"My behavior?"
"I refer to your interview with Mr. Phelps and Miss Marlow."
"Mademoiselle Lestrange, if you please."
"Ah, that is for you to prove!"
"I shall prove it," said the other, quite unmoved, "in open court."
"That will be a harder task than you imagine," retorted Alan quickly. "But I am not here to discuss Miss Marlow's parentage. My errand is to ask you why you have accused me of taking away the body of her father."
"Richard Marlow was not her father," replied the man with heat.
"So you say--we can pass that point, as I told you before. I speak of the charge you have thought fit to bring against me."
"It is a true one. I am willing to take it into court."
"You may be brought into court sooner than you expect," remarked Alan dryly; and from the sudden start the man gave he saw that the shot had gone home. "On what grounds do you base this charge?"
"If Mr. Phelps reported the interview correctly, you must know," said he sullenly.
"To save time," retorted Alan, "I may as well admit that I do know. Jarks and Cicero speak the truth."
Lestrange looked surprised.
"Then you admit your guilt?"
"No; that is quite another thing. I admit that I was in Heathton on that night when Jarks saw me. What I came for does not concern you, Captain Lestrange; but I can prove also that I was back in Bournemouth before twelve o'clock. You will observe that I can establish an alibi."
"Upon my word, I really believed you guilty!" cried the Captain with sincerity.
"No doubt," was the scornful reply. "The wish is father to the thought. I will thank you not to accuse me falsely again."
"You have to explain away the finding of the lancet."
"That was stolen from my desk, with the key of the vault, by a man called Brown, whom I believe to have been guilty of a crime. You need not try to fasten the guilt upon me! I can defend myself--to use your favorite phrase--in open court, if necessary."
"Your word is enough," protested Lestrange. "I was wrong to accuse you!"
"Very wrong. You did it out of spite----"
"No, no! I really believed----"
"What you wished yourself to believe," interrupted Alan in his turn. "It was my intention to have given you a thrashing, Captain Lestrange----"
"Sir!" the man started up white with rage.
"But I have changed my mind," pursued Alan, without noticing the interruption. "I now intend to take another course. If you do not at once leave Heathton, I shall bring a charge against you of defamation of character."
"Oh!" Lestrange shrugged his shoulders. "You are a true English shop-keeper. A man should protect himself by more honorable means."
"I know very well what I am about, sir. I wish to bring you into contact with the law. For that reason--unless you go--I shall bring the action."
"And what can the law do to me?" he asked defiantly. "I have committed no wrong."
"You intend to. Oh! I know that you are innocent of taking Marlow's body, and of murdering Warrender. But you are here to blackmail Miss Marlow on the threat of proclaiming her dead father a murderer."
"I am here to claim my daughter!" shouted Lestrange fiercely. "Sophia Marlow I know nothing of; but Marie Lestrange is the daughter of Achille Lestrange, and I"--the Captain struck his breast--"I am he!"
While he was still posing in a very effective attitude, the door opened, and Mrs. Timber ushered in Joe Brill. Hardly had it closed, when Brill took a step forward, staring at Lestrange as though he had seen a vision. Lestrange turned white, this time not with rage but with fear. In the silence which ensued Alan looked from one to the other, wondering what revelation was about to be made. Joe was the first to speak.
"You swab!" cried Joe. "D----d if it ain't Captain Jean!"
Joe was not in the least changed. Wherever he had been, in whatever nefarious transactions he had been engaged, he was still the mahogany-colored, tough old sailor whom nothing could surprise or alarm. After having greeted Lestrange he hitched up his trousers in true nautical style and touched his forehead.
"You wished to see me, sir," he said to Alan, and took a sidelong glance at the Captain. That polished scoundrel had, for once, lost his coolness, and, colorless with rage, was glaring at the seaman like a devil.
"Joe," said the squire, as soon as he could take in the situation, "you are making a mistake."
"Not me, sir! I knows a shark when I sees one."
"But this is Captain Achille Lestrange."
"Curse me if he is!" cried Joe vigorously. "Achille weren't no captain. This one's a captain right enough, and a blazing fine lobster he is! Jean's his name, sir, but he ain't a Scotch girl, for all that. No, it's the French lingo for John."
"I am Achille Lestrange," persisted the Captain, very shrill and very short of breath. "This man is a liar!"
"Say that again, and I'll knock the teeth down your throat!" growled Joe, like an angry mastiff. "Achille be blowed! I know'd you twenty year ago in the islands, I did, and a bad lot you were then. Jean Lestrange--why, there never was a wuss lot! I never did think much of Achille, for all his money; but you----"
Joe spat to show his disgust.
"Then this man is not Sophy's father?" gasped Alan.
"Oh, he sez that, does he, the lubber? Missy's father! Why, he ain't fit to be her shoeblack!"
"Achille was the girl's father," said Lestrange sullenly. He saw that it was useless to lie in face of Joe's positive knowledge. "And if I'm not her father, I'm her uncle."
"That's a d----d lie!" put in Joe. "You weren't no more nor Achille's cousin. What you are to missy, I don't know. But she won't have nothing to do with you, you landshark!"
"Joe, do you mean to say your late master is not Sophy's father?"
"I do, sir. It's got to come out somehow, if only to put a stop to that devil's pranks. She's the daughter of Achille Lestrange."
"Who was murdered by Marlow!" finished the Captain savagely. "Ah, my friends, I have still some cards left."
"You'll have no teeth left!" growled Joe, making a step forward. "You're a liar, Captain Jean--you always was! Mr. Marlow----"
"Beauchamp," corrected Lestrange, with a glance at Alan.
"Beauchamp it is," continued Brill coolly. "Oh, you needn't be afeared that I'm going to lie! But Mr. Beauchamp never stabbed Munseer Achille, and you know it, you lubber! Let me get at him, Mr. Thorold!"
"No, no, Joe!" Alan kept the irate seaman back. "We'll deal with this gentleman in a better fashion. Sit down, Joe, while we talk it over."
Joe nodded, and sat down on a chair, which he placed directly before the door.
With a glare that showed he noticed and resented this action, Lestrange resumed his seat. He was too clever a man not to recognize that Joe's cunning would dislocate his plans. But he was evidently determined to fight to the last. At present he held his tongue, for he wanted to hear what Joe would say. He preferred, for the moment, to remain strictly on the defensive.
It was with a thankful heart that Alan Thorold realized the value of Joe as an ally. At one time he had really believed that Lestrange was truly Sophy's father, and although she would never have admitted the relationship, still it was satisfactory to know that the man had no claim on her obedience. The knowledge of Lestrange's falsehood cleared the air somewhat. For one thing, it proved conclusively that the Captain had come to blackmail the girl. His claim to be her father was doubtless made in the hope that she would accompany him back to Jamaica, and would give him control of her money. Failing this--and Lestrange had long since realized that there was no doing anything with Sophy in a paternal way--there remained the chance that, to preserve Marlow's memory from stain, she might buy his silence.
Thus Lestrange argued, and Alan, with his eyes on the man's expressive face, guessed his thoughts and answered them.
"No, Lestrange," he said, with decision, "you won't get one penny."
"We shall see about that," was the rejoinder.
"Of course. We are going to see about it now. You will be brought to your bearings, sir. Joe, you say that this man is Jean Lestrange?"
"Yes, sir. But may I ask, Mr. Thorold, how you know about the shark?"
"I have heard the story from his own lips, Joe. He claimed to be Achille Lestrange and Miss Sophy's father."
"Did he, now, the swab! and you know, sir, how Mrs. Lestrange ran away to Mr. Beauchamp from the way her husband treated her?"
"I know----"
"Achille treated Zelia well," interrupted the Captain; "only too well."
"That's another lie!" retorted Joe. "He was fond-like of her the first year they were married, but it was you, Captain Jean, who made a mess of them. You made him jealous of Mr. Beauchamp, and he treated her crool. No wonder she ran away, poor lass!"
"Did the way Achille treated Zelia give Beauchamp any right to murder him?"
"He didn't murder him. You know he didn't."
"He did, I say. Achille was found stabbed to the heart on the veranda of Beauchamp's house. Zelia was dead, and your master took the child away to his yacht at Falmouth. You were on board."
"Yes," said Joe coolly, "I wos; and it wos well for you, Captain Jean, that I wasn't near the house that same evening. I'd ha' wrung your neck, I would! Anyhow, master didn't kill Munseer Achille."
"There was a warrant out for his arrest, however."
"I know that, Captain Jean, and it was you who got it out. And I know as you came over here after master from seeing his picter in the papers. We both knowed you were coming, Captain Jean."
Alan interposed:
"Was that the West Indian letter, Joe?"
"Yes, sir, it was. Master got a letter from a friend of his in Jamaica telling him this swab was after him to say as he'd murdered Munseer Achille, which," added Joe, deliberately eyeing Lestrange, "is a d----d lie!"
"Then who killed Achille?" sneered the Captain, quivering with rage.
"I dunno rightly," replied Mr. Brill stolidly. "I wasn't in the house that night, or I'd ha' found out. But master ran away, because he knew you'd accuse him out of spite. But Mr. Barkham, of Falmouth, believed master was innocent, and know'd where he was, and what was his new name. 'Twas he wrote the letter saying as Captain Jean was on his way to England to make trouble."
"Barkham!" muttered Lestrange. "Ah! he was always my enemy."
"A shark like you, Captain Jean, ain't got no friends," remarked Joe sententiously.
"Do you think that Barkham's letter caused Mr. Marlow's death?" asked Alan.
"Do I think it, sir? Why, I knows it! After twenty years of hearing nothing, the shock, as you might say, killed my master."
"Then he was guilty, and my accusation was a righteous one to make," chimed in Lestrange. "A clean conscience fears nothing."
"Mr. Beauchamp's conscience was a darned sight cleaner nor yourn, Captain Jean, but you had the whip-hand of him, as all those in Jamaica thought he'd murdered Munseer Achille, from them quarreling about him coming after his wife. But master didn't do it--I swear he didn't! More like you did it yourself," added Joe, with a look of contempt, "though I dare say you ain't man enough to stick a knife into any one."
Alan thought for a few minutes, then turned to Lestrange.
"I think you must see that you have failed all round," he said quietly. "Your plot to pass as Miss Marlow's father is of no use now. The accusation against me is not worth considering, as I have shown. If necessary, I can defend myself. On the whole, Captain Lestrange, you had better go back to Jamaica."
"Not without my price," said the adventurer.
"Ah, blackmail! Well, I always thought that was at the bottom of it all. A man with clean hands and honorable intentions would not have joined hands with a confessed rogue like Cicero Gramp. But may I ask on what grounds you demand money?"
"I can prove that Beauchamp killed my cousin."
"What good will that do? Beauchamp is dead, and beyond your malice."
"Ay, that he is," said Joe approvingly. "He's gone where you won't get him. I reckon you'll go the other way when your time comes, you blasted swab!"
Lestrange, writhing under these insults, jumped up and poured out a volley of abuse, which the seaman bore quite unmoved.
"I'll not go without my money," he raged, "and a good sum, too, otherwise I shall see the girl----"
"If you annoy Miss Marlow again, I'll have you arrested," said Alan sharply. "We don't permit this sort of thing in England."
"I shall put the story of Beauchamp's wickedness in all the papers."
"As you please. It cannot harm the dead."
"And will that girl stand by and see her father's memory disgraced?"
"You seem to forget," said Thorold, with quiet irony, "that he was not Miss Marlow's father. Well, there is no more to be said. If you make yourself a nuisance, the law shall deal with you."
"And I'll deal with him myself," said Joe. "I'll make them eyes of yours blacker than they are by nature."
"Leave him alone, Joe. He'll go now."
"I won't go!" cried the man. "I'll have my price."
Alan shrugged his shoulders.
"I shall have to give you that thrashing, after all."
"Let me do it, sir," put in Mr. Brill, who was simply spoiling for a row, and he stepped towards Lestrange.
The man's courage, genuine enough of its kind, suddenly gave way before the ferocity of the sailor. He sprang up, ran into an inner room and bolted the door.
Joe uttered the roar of a baffled tiger.
"Never mind, Joe; we're quit of him now. He will leave Heathton."
"I'll wait for him at the station," muttered Joe, following the young Squire out of doors. "'Tain't right that the swab should get off scot-free."
Outside the rain had ceased. Alan looked at his watch, and finding that it was late, turned his face towards home. Suddenly he recollected that Joe had not explained his absence.
"Well, Joe, where have you been?" he asked sharply.
"After him." Joe pointed his thumb over his shoulder. "When master's body was carried away, I thought that shark might have done it. I know'd he was coming from Jamaica, so I went to Southampton to see when he arrived."
"You did not see him?"
"No," was the gloomy reply. "But I seed the list of passengers in one of them boats, and his name wos on it. He couldn't have done it!"
"I found that out myself. No; Lestrange is innocent."
"If I'd know'd he wos on his way here to make trouble with missy, I'd have waited," said the sailor; "but I thought if I dropped across him I'd keep him off."
"He stole a march on you, Joe. And you have been at Southampton all this time?"
"I have, sir--there and in London. But it's all right now, Mr. Alan. He won't worry Miss Sophy any more. But now you know, sir, why I gave a sov. to that tramp. He talked about one as sent him, and I thought he wos talking of Captain Jean, so I hurried him away as soon as I could, lest Miss Sophy should hear."
"I understand, Joe. But Cicero knew nothing at that time."
"Ah!" Joe clenched his fist. "He's another as needs a beating. Beg pardon, sir, but I suppose you ain't found out who killed the doctor?"
"No; I believe myself it was that man Brown, who was called the Quiet Gentleman. Do you know who he was, Joe?"
"No, sir, I do not," replied Joe doggedly. "Good-night, Mr. Alan," and he walked off in great haste.
The young Squire pursued his way to the Abbey Farm, and all the way wondered if Joe's sudden departure hinted at an unwillingness to talk of Brown.
"I'll ask him about the man to-morrow," muttered Alan.
But on the morrow he had other matters to attend to. While he was at breakfast a card was brought to him and he jumped up with a joyful cry.
"Inspector Blair!" he said, throwing down the card. "Show him up, Mrs. Hester. Ah! I wonder what he has found out."
"I Am glad to see you, Blair. Sit down and have some breakfast."
"Aha!" The inspector rubbed his hands as he looked at the well-spread table. "I never say no to a good offer. Thank you, Mr. Thorold, I will peck a bit."
"You are looking well, Blair."
"Never felt better in my life, Mr. Thorold. I have good cause to look jolly."
"Enjoyed your holiday, no doubt," said Alan, as he assisted the officer liberally to ham and eggs. "Where did you spend it?"
"In Brighton--pleasant place, Brighton."
Blair looked so jocular, and chuckled in so pleasant a manner that the Squire guessed he had good news. However, he resolved to let Blair tell his story in his own way.
"What took you to Brighton of all places?" he asked tentatively.
"Well, you might guess. Joe Brill took me."
"Joe Brill?"
The inspector nodded.
"I followed him there."
"But I have seen Joe. He tells me he was at Southampton and in London."
"No doubt--a clever fellow Joe. He knows how to hold his tongue. Well, Mr. Thorold, I hope your troubles about this matter of the lost body will soon be at an end."
"Blair!" Alan bent forward in a state of great excitement. "You have found out something about it?"
"Yes, enough to gain me a thousand pounds."
"Not enough to gain you two thousand pounds?"
"No." Blair's face fell. "But I intend to get that also. However, I have learned all about the theft of Mr. Marlow's body--how it was removed, and why it was removed."
"By Jove! How did you find out?"
"Through Joe Brill. Somehow I suspected Joe from the first. That sovereign he gave Cicero Gramp, you know--I always fancied there was something behind his anxiety to get that man away. So I had him watched, and applied for leave of absence. When he left Heathton I followed as a tourist," chuckled Blair. "Oh, I assure you, Mr. Thorold, I make a very good tourist."
"And he went to Brighton?"
"Yes, direct to Brighton. I went there and found out all about it."
"You don't mean to say that he stole the body!"
"Ay, but I do and with the best intentions, too."
"Was he the short man Cicero Gramp saw with Warrender?"
"He was the short man," replied Blair, finishing his coffee.
"Then, why did he not tell me?" Alan burst out angrily. "I saw him last night, yet he said nothing. He knew how anxious Miss Marlow is about the loss of her father's body."
"Not her father," corrected the inspector. "Achille Lestrange was her father."
"What!" Alan started from his seat. "You know that?"
"I know all--the elopement in Jamaica; the kidnapping of Marie Lestrange, whom we know as Sophy Marlow; the coming of Jean Lestrange to blackmail the girl, and--and--all the rest of it. You see, Mr. Thorold, I interviewed Joe Brill this morning, and he told me all about your conversation with that rascal. I am posted up to date, sir."
"Joe Brill had no business to keep me in the dark," said the squire angrily. "He should have relieved my mind and Miss Marlow's.
"Miss Lestrange," hinted Blair.
"No, sir--Sophia Marlow she is, and Sophia Marlow she will remain until she changes her name for mine. Her father is dead, and Jean Lestrange has no claim on her. Sophia Marlow, Mr. Inspector, if you please."
"Well, well--as you please. We shan't quarrel about a name. Have you anything to smoke, Mr. Thorold?"
Alan got him an excellent cigar, and returned to the point.
"Why did Joe keep me and Miss Marlow in the dark?" he asked.
"Acted under orders, Mr. Thorold."
"Whose orders?"
"Mr. Marlow's, or rather, I should say Mr. Beauchamp's."
"Blair!"
Alan gasped out the name. His face was white and he was appalled at the news. For the moment he believed the inspector must have taken leave of his senses.
"Oh, I dare say your astonishment is natural," said the inspector, lighting his cigar. "I was astonished myself to find the dead man alive and kicking. Yet I should not have been, for I suspected the truth."
Alan had not yet recovered from his amazement.
"You suspected that Mr. Marlow was alive!" he said faintly. "On what evidence?"
"On circumstantial evidence," said Blair smartly. "When I examined the coffin with Mr. Phelps I noticed what he did not. At the sides small holes were bored in inconspicuous places, and the shell of the leaden case was pierced. Only one inference could be drawn from this--that the man had designedly been buried alive. The design must have been carried out by Warrender and the short man. I suspected Joe, from the fact of his having given that sovereign to Cicero, and I watched him. Presuming my belief to be correct, I made certain that sooner or later he would rejoin his master. As I say, he went to Brighton. I followed close on his heels to a boarding-house in Lansdowne Place. There I saw Mr. Marlow."
"Did he recognize you?"
"Of course. While he was living at Heathton I had seen Mr. Marlow several times on business. He made no attempt when I saw him at Brighton to disguise himself--not thinking, I suppose, that his clever scheme to frustrate Lestrange would come to light in this way."
"But, Blair, you did not know about Lestrange then!"
"True enough; but I soon heard the whole story. Mr. Marlow told it to me himself. As you may guess, he was in a great way about my having discovered him, and seeing no means of evading the truth, he told it. I insisted upon it, in fact; and now I know all."
"And how did it come about?"
Blair held up his hand.
"No, Mr. Thorold," said he, "I shall leave Mr. Marlow--I think we had better continue to call him so--to tell his own history. He can do it better than I. Besides," added the inspector, rising briskly, "I have business to do."
"What sort of business?"
"You can judge for yourself. I want you to come with me."
"Where--what to do?"
"To see Mrs. Warrender. You see, it was her husband who carried out this scheme of feigned death to deceive Lestrange. Marlow, accused of having murdered Achille in Jamaica, was afraid that this Captain Jean would have him arrested. Now, Warrender was in Beauchamp's house at Falmouth, Jamaica, when Mrs. Lestrange died, and he knew all about it. It is my belief," added the inspector slowly, "that Beauchamp is innocent, as he asserts himself to be, and that Warrender knew as much."
"But, my dear Blair," protested Alan, "in that case Warrender could have told Marlow the truth, and could have stopped Jean Lestrange from making mischief."
"I dare say he could, but he did not. Warrender, my dear Mr. Thorold, was a blackmailing scoundrel, who assumed the mask of friendship to bamboozle Marlow. I had considerable difficulty in impressing this view on Marlow, for, strange to say, he believed in the doctor. Joe did not, however, and Joe told me a few facts about Warrender's practice in Jamaica, which showed me that the doctor was not the disinterested person he pretended to be. No, I am sure Warrender knew Beauchamp to be innocent, and kept the fact quiet so as to retain a hold on the man, and get money out of him. Now, do you understand why I want to see his widow?"
"No," replied Alan, not following the inspector's hypothesis, "I do not. If Warrender kept the truth from Marlow, he would most certainly have kept it from his wife. The woman would have babbled, even against her own interests, as women always do. Mrs. Warrender can tell you nothing--I feel sure of that."
"You forget that the doctor may have left a confession of his knowledge."
"Would he have done that?" said Alan doubtfully. "It would have been a foolish thing."
"And when do criminals do other than foolish things?" was Blair's response. "The murderer usually returns to the scene of his crime--as often as not sets out its details in writing. It is impossible to account for the actions of human beings, Mr. Thorold. It would not surprise me in the least to hear that Warrender had written out the whole story in a diary. If so, his wife must have found it amongst his papers, and she will be disposed to sell it--at a long price."
"If she had found such a document, she would have shown it to me or to Sophy before now."
"By no means. If she knew that Marlow were alive, then, of course, she would realize that the document was valuable. But she believes him to be dead."
"Humph!" said Alan. "You seem very certain that such a document exists."
"Perhaps I am too sanguine," admitted Blair; "but Mr. Marlow gave me a full account of what happened on the night Achille was murdered. Moreover, he swore that he was innocent, and I believe him. As to Warrender, he was a scoundrel, and I am sure that, like all scoundrels, he has left a record of his villainies in black and white. If this is so, I can prove Marlow's innocence, and he can defy Lestrange."
By this time Alan and the inspector were walking along the road which led to Heathton. It was a bright, sunny morning, and Alan was in high spirits. How happy Blair's news would make Sophy!
"And Warrender, what about his death?" he asked. "Does Marlow know who killed him?"
"Strange as it may seem, he does not, Mr. Thorold. He is as ignorant as you or I. That death is a mystery still."
"But if Warrender was killed on the heath----"
"I can't explain, Mr. Thorold. Hear Marlow's story, and you will be as much in the dark as I am. But I suspect Lestrange."
"So did I," replied Alan, speaking in the past tense. "But I learned for certain that Lestrange was not in England on the night of the murder."
"I proved that, too," said Blair thoughtfully; "yet I can't help thinking there is some trickery. Lestrange is at the Good Samaritan?"
"Yes, dancing on Miss Marlow's doorstep in the hope of getting money."
"Does he receive any letters?"
"I don't know. Why?"
"Merely an idea of mine. I'll tell you later on what I think."
"You are keeping me very much in the dark, Blair," said Alan, somewhat piqued.
"I don't care to show incomplete work," replied the inspector bluntly. "I believe I can unravel the whole of this mystery, but I don't want to show you the raw material. Let me work it out my own way, Mr. Thorold, and judge me by the result."
"As you please. So long as you do it, I don't care how you go about it."
"I am working for two thousand pounds," said Blair, "and I don't intend to let any one else have it. That blackguard tramp would like to be the man."
Alan laughed.
"He has already made a clutch at it by accusing me of the theft of Mr. Marlow's body."
The inspector nodded and smiled grimly.
"The two are working in unison," said he, rubbing his hands; "but I'll catch them."
"By the way," said Thorold, "is Mr. Marlow coming back here?"
"To be caught by Lestrange? No, I think not. He is not such a fool. If you want to see him, you must go to Brighton."
"I shall go to-morrow, Blair. I am most anxious to hear the story of that night."
"A strange story--more like fiction than truth."
"Truth is always stranger than fiction."
Blair assented. They walked on through a steep lane, which led into the High Street of the village. As they breasted this, Mrs. Marry, with a basket on her arm, met them. She was evidently excited.
"Well, Mrs. Marry," said Alan kindly, "what is it?"
"The poor dear isn't dead, after all," cried the panting woman. "I declare, Mr. Thorold, you could ha' knocked me down wi' a feather when I saw him."
"Saw who?"
"Why, Mr. Brown, sir--the Quiet Gentleman. He has come back!"
Mrs. Marry delivered her startling piece of news with an air of triumph. She did not guess for one moment how very important it was, or in what peril it placed the Quiet Gentleman.
"He came back last night," she continued, "and he told me with his fingers how he had been lying ill in London town. Poor dear! he took it into his head to go for a jaunt, he says, and went by the night train. He meant to have come back to me next morning, but a nasty influenza took him and kept him away. I'm that glad he's come back I can't tell!" cried Mrs. Marry joyfully, "for he do pay most reg'lar, and gives not a bit of trouble, innocent babe that he is!" and having imparted her news, she hurried on down the lane.
The two men stood looking at one another.
"Brown back again!" said Alan. "Now we shall know the truth."
"If he knows it," said Blair dryly--he was less excited than his companion--"but I doubt if we shall learn much from him, Mr. Thorold. If he had anything to do with the murder, he would not have come back."
"But he must have something to do with it, man! Have you forgotten that it was he who stole the key of the vault from my desk?"
"No," said Blair pointedly, "nor have I forgotten that he did not use the key. It was Joe Brill who opened the vault."
"Indeed! And where did Joe get the key? Not from Mr. Phelps, for he still has his key. Ha!" cried Alan suddenly, "did Joe get it from Brown?"
"No, he did not. The key was not used at all. There was a third key in existence, of which neither you nor Mr. Phelps were aware. Marlow had had it made to provide against the contingency which arose. He had always resolved to feign death, should Lestrange track him. So he kept the third key, and Joe used it on that night."
"Well, even granting that such is the case, why should Brown have stolen my key? And how could he have known that it was in my desk?"
"I think we discussed that point before," replied the inspector composedly, "and that we came to the conclusion that Brown overheard your conversation with Mr. Phelps on the day of the funeral. Where are you going?"
"To see Brown. I am determined to get the truth out of him."
Blair looked at him.
"Well, Mr. Thorold," he said, "I don't suppose it will do any harm for you to see the man. Meanwhile I will go on to Mrs. Warrender's."
"But you ought to come with me and arrest him."
"I do not think I have sufficient evidence to procure a warrant, Mr. Thorold. A charge of murder is serious, you see."
"Pooh! pooh! I don't want him arrested for murder, but on the charge of breaking open my desk."
"I could do that certainly. Well, you go and see him, Mr. Thorold, while I interview Mrs. Warrender. I'll call along at the cottage later. You needn't let Brown out of your sight until I come."
"You'll arrest him?"
"If you wish it; I'll take the risk."
"Very good, I'm off!" and with an abrupt nod Alan ran down the lane. Blair looked after him with a queer smile on his dry face. He had his own ideas regarding the termination of Alan's attempt to make Brown the mysterious speak out.
Mrs. Warrender was at home when the inspector called. At first she felt she could not see him, for the idea of coming into contact with the police was abhorrent to her. She wondered if Blair could have discovered the relationship which existed between herself and Cicero, and it was her anxiety to ascertain this which made her grant the inspector an interview. If her brother were playing her false, the more she knew about his plans the better would she be able to frustrate them. Mrs. Warrender was a capable woman, and had a genius for intrigue. She was quite decided that she could hold her own even against the trained intelligence of a police officer.
And so it came about that the gentleman in question was shown into the drawing-room, a meretricious, gaudy apartment, which betrayed in furniture and decoration the tawdry taste of the doctor's widow.
She came forward to receive him in an elaborate tea-gown of pink silk trimmed with lace, and, in spite of the early hour, she wore a quantity of jewels. Blair had an eye for beauty, and could not deny that this lady was a fine woman, though, perhaps, too much of the ponderous type. He wondered why she did not wear mourning. She could have cared but little for her husband, he thought, to appear in gay colors so soon after his untimely end. But, in truth, Mrs. Warrender had never professed to be an affectionate wife. She had married for a home, and made no secret of it.
"Good-morning," she said, with a sharp glance at Blair's impassive face. "I understand that you belong to the police, and that you wish to see me--why, I cannot conceive."
"If you will permit me to explain myself, I will soon give you my reasons," said the inspector, in his best manner. "May I sit down? Thank you. Now we can talk at our ease."
"I suppose it is about the sad end of my poor husband," she said, in tones of grief, which her gay attire somewhat belied. "Have you found out the truth?"
"No; but I hope to do so--with your assistance."
She looked up suddenly.
"If you think I killed the poor lamb, you are mistaken," she said. "I can account for all my actions on that night, policeman."
This last was hurled at Blair with the object of keeping him well in mind of her condescension in receiving him.
"I never had the slightest suspicion of you," he protested. "My errand has to do with quite a different matter. And might I suggest," he added, a trifle testily, "that I am usually addressed as Inspector Blair?"
"Oh, of course, if you insist upon it!" she cried, with a shrug. "Inspector Blair--will that do?"
"That will do very well, thank you." He paused, and stared hard at the expensive tea-gown and the aggressive jewelry until the widow became restive. "Are you rich?" he asked abruptly.
"What has that got to do with you?" cried Mrs. Warrender furiously. "Remember you are talking to a lady!"
"To a rich lady or to a poor one?"
"Upon my soul, this is too much? Mind your business, Inspector Blair!"
"This is my business," he retorted, keeping himself well in hand. "I merely asked you the question, because, if you are not rich, then I come to make you so."
"What do you mean?"
"Answer my question first: Are you rich?" And he took another good look at the dress and the jewels.
"No," she said sullenly, "I am not. My husband left me fairly well off, but not with so much money as I expected."
"Then you would not object to making some more?"
Her eyes lighted up with the fire of greed.
"I should! I should! I am dying to leave this dull village and take up a position in London; but I cannot do it without money." She paused, then clapped her hands. "I see," she cried; "Sophy Marlow is going to compensate me for the death of my husband. It would be easy enough with all the millions she has!"
"I am sure it would," assented Blair coolly; "but I don't mean to supply you with money for nothing."
"You! What have you to do with the matter?"
"A good deal. Mr. Thorold and Miss Marlow will rely on my advice."
"Oh, Miss Marlow!" jeered Mrs. Warrender, sitting up. "That is her name, is it, Inspector Blair? Are you sure it isn't Marie Lestrange?"
He leaned forward and caught her wrist in a grip of steel.
"So you know the truth, then?" he said. "Give me the confession."
"What confession? What do you mean?" she cried, trying to release her hand.
"The confession left by your husband, in which he tells the story of Achille Lestrange's murder."
"I--I--I don't know----"
"Yes, you do; yes, you do--no lies!" He shook her wrist. "You know that Marlow never murdered Captain Lestrange."
"Let go my wrist!" cried Mrs. Warrender, and succeeded in wrenching herself free. "What do you mean by behaving like this? I know nothing about the matter--there!"
Blair jumped up and made for the door.
"Very good. Then you lose the money. I have got for you."
"Come back! come back!" She followed him to the door and laid her hand on his shoulder. "Don't be in a hurry. Is there--is there money in it?"
"If you have the confession, yes."
"How much?"
"We will talk of that when I know the truth. Have you a confession?"
"Yes, I have." She thought she might with safety admit as much. "I found the whole story of Mr. and Mrs. Lestrange and Mr. Beauchamp amongst my business papers--my husband's papers, I should say. It was signed and witnessed in New Orleans. It seems Warrender was dying there, and wanted to tell Mr. Beauchamp--Marlow, I mean--the truth, so he had the confession drawn up by a lawyer. Afterwards, when he got well, he did not destroy it."
"Beauchamp was innocent of the murder, then?"
"Yes. He knocked Achille Lestrange down, but he did not kill him."
"Aha! I thought so!" chuckled Blair, rubbing his hands. "Who did?"
Mrs. Warrender drew back with a look of cunning on her face.
"That's tellings," said she, relapsing into the speech of her people. "I don't part with my secret unless I get my price."
"Name your price."
"Two thousand pounds."
"What!" cried the inspector. "Two thousand pounds for clearing the memory of a dead man! My dear lady, five hundred is nearer the mark."
"Two thousand," she repeated. "If Sophy Marlow has the millions left by her supposed father, she can well afford that."
"Humph! We'll see. I must speak to Mr. Thorold first. You have the confession?"
"I have--safely put away. It was my intention to have seen Sophy Marlow about it, but I thought I'd wait."
"To see what price you could get?" put in Blair.
"Quite so. I'm a woman of business. If I don't get my price, I burn that confession."
"You dare not! I can have you arrested, remember."
She snapped her fingers.
"Pooh!" she said. "I don't care for your threats. This is my one chance of making money, and I'm going to take it. Two thousand pounds or nothing."
"I'll think it over," said Blair. "I am to have the refusal of that confession, mind."
"What! Do you want to make money too?"
"Certainly," said Blair, with irony; "I am a man of business."
She laughed, and took leave of him in a very amiable frame of mind. When he had gone, she smirked in front of a mirror and took a long look at herself.
"Two thousand pounds," she cried, "and my own savings! I'm not so old, after all. I'll run away from Cicero and marry again. Ha! ha! I've made a deal this time!" And she went in to luncheon with a most excellent appetite.
While this interview was taking place, Alan had been at Mrs. Harry's cottage. Having received no orders to the contrary, she ushered him into the sitting-room. There sat the Quiet Gentleman in his gray suit. At sight of Alan he started violently.
"Good-day, Mr. Brown," said his visitor, looking closely at him. "I have come to see you about that key you stole. You are dumb, I believe, but not deaf, so no doubt you follow my meaning."
The Quiet Gentleman made a step forward, and, to the amazement of his visitor, he spoke.
"Alan," he said--"Alan Thorold!"
The young man dropped into a chair, white and shaking. He knew that voice--he knew what was coming.
With a laugh the Quiet Gentleman pulled off his wig and beard.
"Don't you know me, Alan?" he asked.
"Richard Marlow!" gasped Alan.
"Herbert Beauchamp," was the quiet reply.