"Come, Alan," said Beauchamp after a pause, "you need not be tongue-tied with astonishment. I sent Blair on to tell you all that had happened, so you must have known that I was alive."
"Yes, yes--but your disguise," stammered the young man. "I expected to see Brown. You are not Brown, never could have been; for when he was here, I have seen you and him at the same time."
"That's all right, my boy. I was not Brown, as you say, and who Brown was I know no more than you do. But I am Brown now," with emphasis, "and Brown I shall remain until I can show myself with safety as Richard Marlow. Not that I intended to stick to that name. No; if Blair is right, and that scoundrel Warrender has left papers to prove my innocence, I shall take my own name. But this disguise! It is a plot between me and Blair. It was necessary that I should be on the spot, so we thought this was as good a mask as any. Oh, depend upon it, Alan, I am perfectly safe here from Jean Lestrange!"
As he spoke, Beauchamp was putting on his wig and beard. And when this was done to his satisfaction, he seated himself on a chair opposite to Alan, looking the very image of the Quiet Gentleman. Thorold did not wonder that Mrs. Marry had been deceived--the completeness of the disguise would have deceived a cleverer woman.
"Still," said he doubtfully, "if the real Brown should reappear----"
"We will have him arrested for the murder of Warrender," said Beauchamp quietly. "Yes, I am convinced he is guilty, else why did he steal the key of the vault? Blair told me about that. He must surely be some tool of Jean Lestrange's. No, not the man himself--I am aware of that. Blair saw the passenger-list."
"Are you certain that the Quiet Gentleman killed Warrender?"
"No, because I did not see the blow struck. I was insensible at the time--but it is a long story, and to make things perfectly clear, I must begin at the beginning. One moment, Alan." Beauchamp crossed to the door and turned the key. "I don't want Mrs. Marry to come in."
"She will hear your voice, and believing you to be dumb----"
"I'll speak low. Come nearer to this chair. First tell me how Sophy is."
"Very well, but much cast down. She thinks you are dead, and that your body has been stolen. Oh, Beauchamp!" cried Alan passionately, "why did you not trust Sophy and me? You would have spared us both many an unhappy hour."
"I wish now that I had told you, but I acted for the best. I had little time for thought. I expected daily that Lestrange would appear. If I had only considered the matter rather more--but there, it's done and we must make the best of it. Sophy's tears will be turned to smiles shortly--if, indeed, she still loves me, knowing that I am not her father," and the old man sighed.
"You need have no fear on that score," said Alan, with a faint smile. He was getting over the first shock of surprise. "Sophy would have nothing to do with Jean Lestrange, although she half believed his story. She always insists that you are her true father. She will welcome you back with the greatest joy."
"She must welcome me secretly."
"Secretly--why? Should your innocence be established, you would surely reappear as Richard Marlow?"
"What! And have the whole story in the papers? No, Alan, I shall spend the rest of my life under my true name of Beauchamp, and live on the two thousand a year I left myself in my will. You and Sophy can marry and take the rest of the money. I shall travel, and take Joe with me."
"Well, perhaps it is the best thing to do," said Thorold. "But tell me, how was it that the manager of the Occidental Bank reported you dead?"
"Joe wrote to him by my order to say so. When Joe came to me at Brighton and told me how the death of Warrender had complicated matters, I was afraid lest I should be traced, and perhaps accused of a second murder. So I thought it best to put it about that I was dead, and end all pursuit."
"If you had only trusted me, sir, all this trouble would have been avoided. I merited your confidence, I think."
"I know--I know. Indeed, on that day when I spoke to you of the probability that my body would not be allowed to rest in its grave, I had half a mind to tell you. But somehow the moment passed. Even then I had designed my plot of feigning death. It was the only way I saw of escaping Lestrange."
"Tell me the story from the beginning," said Alan. "I know only scraps."
"The beginning was in Jamaica, Alan," said Beauchamp sadly. "All this trouble arose out of the love I had for Sophy's mother. Poor Zelia! if only she had married me, I would have made her a good husband. As it was, she chose Achille Lestrange, a roué and a gambler, a spendthrift and a scoundrel. I could never tell Sophy what a bad man her father was. He treated poor Zelia abominably."
"But was that altogether his fault, Beauchamp? Joe hinted that Jean Lestrange caused much of the trouble."
"So he did, the scoundrel! Jean was, if anything, worse than his cousin, though there was not much to choose between them. But Jean was madly in love with Zelia--worshiped her with all the fierce passion of a Creole. When he lost her he vowed he would be revenged--he sowed dissension between them on my account."
"He hinted that you were in love with her, I suppose?"
"Yes, and he was right!" cried Beauchamp with emphasis. "I was in love with Zelia, and pitied her from the bottom of my heart. Well, a year after Sophy was born things came to a crisis. I was at Kingston, and my yacht in the harbor there. I saw a good deal of Zelia, and one night she came on board with her child, and asked me to take her away. Lestrange had struck her, the beast! and she had refused to live with him any longer. At first I hesitated, but she was in such a state of agony that I consented to take her away from her wretched life. I had to go first to Falmouth to fetch some things which I did not wish to leave--I had sold my plantation some time before, having made up my mind to leave Jamaica. So we sailed, reached Falmouth in safety, and I went to my estate, leaving Joe Brill on board."
"Ah! that was why Joe could not say who killed Achille?"
"Precisely. Joe knew little of the events of that night; but he believed in me, and stood by me like the noble, faithful fellow he is. But to continue: Zelia arrived at my house only to die; worry and melancholy had brought her to a low state of health, and she caught a fever. On the very night Jean and her husband came in pursuit she died. I had made all arrangements to sail; I had sold my estate, and had sent the proceeds to England. It had been my intention to have married Zelia when Achille had divorced her, to adopt little Marie, and to start life afresh in a new land. Her death put an end to these plans."
"But the murder, Beauchamp?"
"I am coming to that. Warrender was attending Zelia when she died, and he was in the house when Achille and Jean arrived. I was quite determined he should not get the child; for Zelia had left some money, and I knew well that Achille would soon squander it. Well, Lestrange demanded his wife. I told him she was dead; he declined to believe me, and we quarreled. I am naturally of a fiery temper," continued Beauchamp with some agitation, "and I knocked him down on the veranda. The blow stunned him, and he lay there like a dog."
"Was Jean present?"
"Yes. He saw me knock Achille down; then he went away to see the body of Zelia. I had to look for the child, intending to take her to my yacht until such time as I could obtain the guardianship. When I came out again I found Warrender kneeling down beside the body of Achille. He was dead!"
"Not from the effects of your blow?" cried Alan incredulously.
"No. He had been stabbed to the heart while senseless."
"By whom--Warrender?"
"I don't know. Warrender always swore that his hands were clean of blood, and certainly he had no reason to murder Achille. I suspected Jean, but Warrender told me that Jean had been in Zelia's room praying beside the body. He advised me to fly."
"Yes, yes; but who killed Achille?"
"Well, I supposed it must have been a negro whom Achille had brought with him--a Zambo, called Scipio, who was devoted to his mistress and who hated his master. On hearing that Zelia was dead--knowing, as he did, that her husband's brutality had probably had a good deal to do with it--he might have stabbed Achille as he lay senseless on the veranda. At any rate, Warrender said that he found him dead when he came out. To this day I don't know who killed him. It must have been either Warrender, Scipio, or Jean. I am inclined to suspect Scipio. However, at the time there was nothing for it but flight if I wanted to escape an accusation of murder. You see bow strong the evidence was against me, Alan. I had taken away Achille's wife and child; he had come in pursuit; I had quarreled with him and knocked him down; he had been found dead. Therefore I fled with the child. Can you blame me?"
"No," said Alan decisively. "Under the circumstances, I don't see what else you could do. So you escaped?"
"I did. I went on board my yacht and told Joe all. Of course, he believed in my innocence, and strongly advised me to leave at once. We sailed down the coast of South America, round the Horn, and home to England. I called myself Richard Marlow, and I sold the yacht under another name at a French seaport. I had plenty of money, and there was no one who suspected my past."
"I suppose the news of the murder had not reached England?"
"No. I believe there was a casual reference in one of the papers, but that was all. The yacht was supposed to have foundered. I felt secure from pursuit, and determined to start a new life. I gave out that Marie was my daughter, and I called her Sophy. Then I placed her in the convent at Hampstead, with a sum of money for her education, and besides that, I secured a certain sum on her for life in case of my death. When this was settled I went to Africa. There Fortune, tired of persecuting me, gave me smiles instead of frowns. I made a fortune in the gold-mines, and became celebrated as Richard Marlow the millionaire. The rest of my story you know."
"Up to a point," said Alan significantly. "I know how you bought this place and settled here with Sophy. But the letter from Barkham----"
"Ah! Joe told you about that, did he?" said Beauchamp composedly. "Yes, the letter was from an old friend of mine called Barkham. He told me that Jean Lestrange had recognized my portrait in an illustrated paper, and that he intended to come to England to hunt me down. The letter was sent to the office of the paper, and by them forwarded here. You may guess my feelings. I thought myself lost. I showed the letter to Warrender, and he suggested that I should feign death. I jumped at the idea, made a will, allowing myself an income under my true name of Herbert Beauchamp, got another key of the vault fashioned from the one which afterwards was taken to Phelps, and took Joe into my confidence. Then Warrender drugged me."
"What did he give you?" asked Alan. "You looked really dead."
"I can't tell you the name of the drug. He said it was some vegetable preparation used by the negroes. Then I died--apparently--and I was buried. They had bored holes in the coffin, and that night, when you were all absent, Joe and Warrender took me out of the vault and carried me to the hut on the heath, where Warrender revived me. It was while he was doing this that he heard a noise, and ran out. He never came back, and when I was myself again we went out to find his body. He was quite dead, stabbed to the heart, and lying some distance from the hut. Who killed him I do not know."
"But how did his body get into the vault?"
"Joe did it. After he had got me away, he dragged the body into the hut, and next night came back and took it to the vault. He put it into the coffin, never dreaming that any one would look for it there. Nor would they, and all would have been well had it not been for that man Cicero Gramp. He saw too much, and----"
He was interrupted by a sharp knock at the door.
Alan started to his feet at that imperative summons. Had Beauchamp been overheard by Mrs. Marry? Had his disguise been penetrated? Had she brought some one to witness the discovery? These thoughts rushed through his mind with lightning speed, and for the moment he lost his presence of mind. Not so the man who was truly in danger. Adopting the peculiar shuffle of the Quiet Gentleman, he crossed the room and opened the door. As the key turned in the lock Alan fully expected to see Lestrange, menacing and sinister, on the threshold. But the newcomer proved to be Blair.
"How are you getting on, Mr. Thorold?" he said, stepping through the door, which Beauchamp locked behind him. "You know now who the Quiet Gentleman is. Don't look so scared, sir."
"Can't help it," muttered the young man.
"This business has been rather too much for me. I thought when you knocked, that Lestrange had run his prey to earth."
"He won't get much out of his prey if he does," said Blair, with a nod to Beauchamp. "I have seen Mrs. Warrender."
The old man turned as white as the beard he wore.
"And--and--what does she say?" he stammered.
"Say!" Blair seated himself and chuckled. "She says two thousand pounds will pay her for that confession."
"Then it does exist! Warrender knew the truth!"
"Of course. Didn't I tell you the man was a blackmailing scoundrel? Faith! and his wife is not much better. Two thousand pounds for a bit of paper!"
"And for my freedom!" said Beauchamp excitedly. "Oh to think of being free from the horror which has hung over me all these years! And Warrender knew the truth! What a scoundrel! He always swore that he knew nothing, and I paid him money to hold his tongue about my supposed guilt. Ungrateful wretch! He and his wife arrived in England almost penniless. I met him in London, and, as he knew my story, I brought him down here. I helped him in every way. How was it he left a confession behind him?"
"It is an old confession," replied Blair. "It seems that Warrender fell ill of fever in New Orleans. His conscience smote him for his villainy, and he made a full confession, signed it, and had it witnessed. When he recovered he did not destroy it, but kept it safely with the rest of his papers. There Mrs. Warrender found it, and she is now prepared to sell it for two thousand pounds. A nice sum, upon my word!" grumbled Blair.
"She shall have it," said Beauchamp eagerly. "I would pay five thousand for that confession--I would indeed!"
"I dare say. But Mrs. Warrender will give it to you for the lesser sum, sir."
"Does she know that I am here? Did you tell her?"
"Not such a fool, Mr. Beauchamp. She'd have asked five thousand if she had known that. The woman has the blackmailing instinct."
"Like her brother," put in Alan. Then, observing the looks of surprise directed at him by the other two, he added: "Didn't you know? Cicero Gramp is Mrs. Warrender's brother. I found that out in London."
"A nice pair of jail-birds!" cried Blair. "I'd best get that confession at once, or she'll be giving it to Cicero, and they'll demand more money. Mr. Beauchamp, can you give me a check?"
"No," he said, shaking his head. "You forget, Blair, I am dead and buried, and, what's more, I do not intend ever to come to life again as Marlow. But Mr. Thorold, as Sophy's trustee, can give you the money."
"If Blair will come to the Abbey Farm, I will do so," said Alan, rising. "I agree that the sooner the confession is obtained the better, or Cicero may give trouble. By the way, who was it killed Achille, Blair? Was it the doctor himself?"
"No, no!" cried Beauchamp. "It was Scipio, the negro."
"I can't tell you that;" and the inspector shook his head. "Mrs. Warrender declares that you are innocent, Mr. Beauchamp; but she declines to give any further information until she has received her pound of flesh."
"She shall have it this very day," said Alan, putting on his cap. "Come, Blair. Mr. Beauchamp, will you remain here?"
"Yes. I am safer as the Quiet Gentleman than as anything else."
"You don't want me to bring Sophy here?"
"Not until we get that confession, Alan. Sophy might make a scene when she met me. Mrs. Marry would learn the truth, and the news would spread. If Lestrange knew, all would be lost. Get the confession, Alan."
"Yes, I think that is the best plan. Good-day, Mr. Brown," said the inspector, speaking for the benefit of Mrs. Marry, and with Alan he left the house.
Alone again, Beauchamp fell on his knees and thanked God that his innocence was about to be vindicated. For years he had lived in dread of discovery; now he was about to be relieved of the nightmare.
Talking as they went of the strange and unexpected turn the Case, as Blair called it, had taken, the two men walked through Heathton and out on to the country road. On turning down a quiet lane which led to the Abbey Farm, they saw a ponderous man behaving in a most extraordinary manner. He danced in the white dust, he shook his fist at the sky, and he spun round like a distracted elephant. Blair's keen eye recognized him at once.
"Very pretty, Mr. Cicero Gramp," he observed dryly. "Are you in training for a ballet-dancer?"
The man stopped short, and turned a disturbed face on them.
"I'll be even with him!" he gasped, wiping his streaming forehead. "Oh, the wretch! oh, the Judas! Gentlemen, proceed, and leave an unhappy man to fight down a whirl of conflicting emotions.E pluribus unum!" quoted Cicero, in a pathetic voice; "that is me--Ai! Ai! I utter the wail of Orestes."
"And, like Orestes, you seem to be mad," observed Alan, as the fat man returned to his dancing.
"And no wonder, Mr. Thorold. I have lost thousands. Lestrange----"
Cicero could say no more. He was choked with emotion, and gave vent to his feelings by shaking his fist at the sky.
"Ah," said Blair, who had been taking in the situation, "Lestrange! You have found a cleverer villain than yourself."
"He has gone away!" roared Cicero, with the voice of an angry bull. "Yes, you may look. He went this morning, bag and baggage. I don't know where he is, save that he roams the wilderness of London. And my money--he paid his bill to mine hostess of the hostel with my money!"
"The deuce he did!" said Alan. "And how did you come to lend him money?"
"I do not mind explaining," said Mr. Gramp, with a defiant glance at the gentleman who represented the police. "I went into partnership with Lestrange. He had no money; I lent him a goodly part of your fifty pounds, Mr. Thorold, on an undertaking that I should get half of what he received from Miss Marlow."
"A very creditable bargain," remarked Alan grimly; "but you invested your cash in a bad cause, Mr. Gramp. I saw Lestrange last night, and assured him that he would not get one penny of the blackmail he proposed to extort. I dare say, after my visit, he found the game was up, and thought it advisable to clear out. I should recommend you to do the same."
"So should I," put in Blair significantly, "or I'll have you arrested as a vagabond without proper means of support."
"I am a professor of eloquence and elocution!" cried Cicero, his fat cheeks turning pale at this stern hint. "You dare not arrest me; and you, Mr. Thorold, will be sorry if you do not employ me."
"Employ you? In which way?"
"To hunt Lestrange down."
Alan shrugged his shoulders.
"I do not wish to see the man again."
"But I know something about him. Promise to pay me some money, and I'll show you a letter written to Captain Lestrange, which came to the inn after he left. I took it and opened it to find out his plans."
"Well, you are a scoundrel!" said Alan, looking Mr. Gramp's portly figure up and down. "By opening another person's letter you have placed yourself within reach of the law."
"I don't care!" cried Cicero recklessly. "I am desperate. Will you pay me for a sight of that letter?"
"Yes," said the inspector before Alan could reply, "if it is worth paying for. On the other hand, you could be arrested for opening it. Come, the letter!"
Cicero produced the document in question, and kept firm hold of it while he made his bargain.
"How much, Mr. Thorold?"
"If it proves to be of use," replied the young Squire leisurely, "I'll pay you well. Leave the amount to me."
The tramp still hesitated, but Inspector Blair, becoming impatient, snatched it out of his hand and proceeded to read it aloud. It was a short note to the effect that if the writer did not receive a certain sum of money "at once" (underlined), he would come down to Heathton and "tell all" (also underlined) to Miss Marlow. These few lines were signed, "O. Barkham."
"Barkham!" exclaimed Alan. "That must be the man who warned Beauchamp that Lestrange was coming. I wonder what he knows."
"Humph!" grunted Blair, putting the letter into his pocket, "very likely he will be able to tell us sufficient to enable us to dispense with Mrs. Warrender's confession. I am not particularly anxious to pay her two thousand pounds for nothing."
"Two thousand pounds!" wailed Cicero, with his eyes staring out of his head. "Oh, Clara Maria! Has she got that out of you! My own sister--my very own!" wept the old scamp, "and she won't go shares! Yet I offered to work with her!" he finished.
"I don't think you'll get a sixpence out of her," said Alan; "a desire to grab money evidently runs in your family. However, if this letter turns out to be of any assistance in clearing up these mysteries, I'll see what I can do."
Mr. Gramp, seeing no other alternative, accepted this offer.
"When am I to get it?" he asked sulkily.
"When I choose," Alan replied tartly. "Go back to the Good Samaritan, and don't let me catch you annoying your sister, or I'll make it hot for you!" and he moved away, followed by Blair.
Cicero shook his fist at them, and spent the rest of the day making futile guesses as to how much they would give him.
"What's to do now, Blair?" asked Thorold abruptly.
"I shall pay Mrs. Warrender and get the confession. You can take it to Mr. Beauchamp and set his mind at rest."
"And you--what will you do?"
"Catch the 6.30 train to London. I shall go straight to the address given in this letter"--Blair tapped his breast-pocket--"and see Barkham, and," he added, "I shall see Lestrange."
"Will he be with Barkham?"
"I think so. He--Lestrange, I mean--went away before he got this letter. It is likely enough that he has gone to London to see his accomplice."
"If Barkham were an accomplice, he would not have written, warning Beauchamp of Lestrange's departure from Jamaica."
"It is on that point I wish to be clear," retorted Blair. "It seems to me that Barkham is running with the hare and hunting with the hounds."
"Well, I hope you'll find out sufficient to solve the mystery," said Alan, bringing the conversation to a close; "but I confess I am doubtful."
The check duly written and safely deposited in the inspector's pocket, the two men set out on their visit to Mrs. Warrender, who was graciously pleased to accept the money, in exchange for which she handed over the confession. Alan and Blair read it on the spot, and were greatly astonished at the contents. Then the inspector hurried away to catch the London train, and Alan set out for Mrs. Marry's cottage, taking with him the precious document. Mrs. Warrender--fearful lest the check should be stopped--left for London by a later train. She had decided that she would cash it herself the moment the bank opened the following morning. Her business capacities were indeed undeniable.
Alan returned home, tired out with the day's work, and was glad enough to sit down to the excellent meal provided by Mrs. Hester. But his troubles and excitements were not yet over. Hardly had he finished his dinner when a note from Sophy was brought in.
"Come at once," she wrote; "Lestrange is here."
After his interview with Alan, Captain Lestrange had come to the conclusion that it would be the best and wisest course to retreat before the enemy. Alan knew much, Brill knew more, and the two together might prove too much for him. Moreover, since his design of passing as Sophy's father had been rendered useless, it was not necessary that he should remain in Heathton. Therefore, he paid his account at the inn with money borrowed from Cicero, and departed in hot haste before that gentleman was afoot. It was not until he got to the Junction that he began to wonder if he was acting judiciously. It struck him that he should have made at least one attempt to get money out of Sophy.
For some time he pondered over this question, and finally decided to leave his baggage in the Junction cloak-room and steal back to Heathton under cover of darkness. True, his accomplice Barkham was waiting for him in London, but he would not get much of a welcome from that gentleman unless he brought money with him. Moreover, after Joe's intimation that it was Barkham who had warned Beauchamp of the plot to hunt him down, Lestrange had had no confidence in him. But that Barkham knew enough to be very dangerous, he would have left him out of his calculations altogether. He decided at last that he must get money out of Sophy, bribe Barkham to return to Jamaica, and then deal alone and unaided with the lucrative business of extracting further blackmail. Having made up his mind to this course of action, he loitered about at the Junction until he could with safety return to Heathton.
It was during this tune that he had a surprise. While lurking in the waiting-room, he saw Blair arrive by a local train and catch the London express. What could he be doing? Was he hunting him down? The very idea terrified him, and he began to congratulate himself on having remained at the Junction. Had he known that Blair was now on his way to see Barkham, he would have had still greater cause for alarm. Matters were indeed coming to a crisis, but Lestrange did not guess that the crisis was so near at hand.
When he had seen the lights of the London express disappear, he took his seat in a local train, which was timed to leave shortly after eight o'clock. On arriving at Heathton, he left the station hurriedly, and stole through deserted by-ways to the Moat House. Here he asked for Miss Marlow, and sent in his card, on which he had scribbled, "News of your father." The lie, which was not all a lie, gained him the interview he sought; but before seeing him, Sophy sent off the note to Alan. Then she induced Miss Vicky to retire, and received her visitor alone in the drawing-room.
The Captain entered the room with a somewhat cringing air. His nerve was gone, and with it a goodly portion of his courage. Miss Marlow, on the contrary, was quite mistress of herself and of the situation. She had heard from Joe Brill, amongst other things, that this man was not her father, and she now felt no fear of him. He was anxious and ill at ease, like a culprit before a judge.
"Good evening, Captain Lestrange," said Sophy, sitting very erect in her chair. "You wish to see me, I believe. Why have you come?"
"To make reparation, Miss Marlow."
"Oh," she said ironically, "then I am not your daughter?"
"I expect you have heard as much from Joe Brill," replied Lestrange, looking at her gloomily. "No, you are not my daughter, but you are my cousin, Marie Lestrange, although you choose to keep your name of Sophia Marlow."
"I keep the name of the man who has been a father to me."
"In that case, you should call yourself Beauchamp," he retorted. "May I sit down? Thank you. Well, I suppose you are wondering why I have come to see you?"
She glanced at the card.
"To give me news of my father, I presume," she said. "Do you mean my real father?"
"No, I mean the false one. Your real father died long ago. He was murdered by Beauchamp."
"He was not!" cried Sophy vehemently, and started from her seat. "I have heard the story from Joe, and I know now why you came here. But nothing will induce me to believe that he killed my father. My mother fled to him from the cruelty of her husband, and you were at the bottom of all the trouble."
"Yes," he cried fiercely, "I was! I loved your mother dearly. She gave me up for Achille, and I swore I would be revenged. I sowed dissension between them. It was through me that Zelia fled with Beauchamp. Do you think I am sorry for what happened? I am not. I hated Achille; but he is dead. I hate Beauchamp, for your mother loved him----"
"And he also is dead," interrupted Sophy; "you cannot harm him."
"Are you so sure he is dead?" sneered Lestrange.
"I saw his dead body!" cried the girl, with emotion.
"You saw him in a state of insensibility, brought about by Warrender's devilish drugs!" said the Captain sharply. "I don't believe Beauchamp is dead. If he had been, why should his body have been carried off?"
"You declared that Mr. Thorold did that, and----"
"I do not say so now. Thorold had nothing to do with it; but I am quite sure that Warrender had. In order to escape me, Beauchamp allowed himself to be drugged by Warrender, and that was why Warrender assisted at the removal of the supposed dead body. I feel certain that Beauchamp is alive."
"Alive! Oh! I hope so, I hope so! My dear father!" cried Sophy. "Only prove that he is alive, Captain Lestrange, and I will forgive you all!"
"You forget that I am his enemy," was the fierce reply. "Were I able to prove that he is alive, I should at once have him arrested for the murder of your father--my cousin."
"It is not true! it is not true!"
"It is, and you know it. Beauchamp must have had some very good and strong reason for allowing himself to be buried alive so as to escape me. But for your sake and for my own I will leave Beauchamp, should he be indeed alive, to the punishment of his conscience."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that I want money. You are rich, and you can pay me. Give me a thousand pounds, and I will go away and never trouble you again."
"I refuse!" She walked up and down the room in a state of great agitation. "If you were certain that Mr. Beauchamp was alive--if you were certain he had committed that crime, you would not let him escape so easily."
"I would! I would! I am tired of the whole business."
"No, no," insisted the girl; "I don't believe you. If I gave you money, I should only be supplying you with the means to cause further trouble. If my dear father--for I shall still call him so--is alive, I will leave the matter in his hands."
"And hang him."
"And save him," retorted the girl firmly. "You can go, Captain Lestrange. I shall not give you one penny!"
Lestrange made a bound and caught her wrist.
"Take care!" he cried, shaking with rage; "I am desperate--I will stick at nothing. If you do not give the money I want, I shall go to the police!"
"Go! go! I defy you!"
"Little devil!" muttered Lestrange, and he gave her arm a sharp twist.
She screamed for help, and as though in answer to her summons, Alan appeared at the door. With an exclamation of rage he sprang forward, seized Lestrange, and flung him on the floor.
"You hound!" he cried, panting. "You dog!"
"Alan! Alan! Thank Heaven you are here! Let me sit down, Alan; I--I feel faint."
While Alan was assisting the girl to a chair, Lestrange rose slowly from the ground. The sudden and opportune arrival of the young Squire disconcerted him greatly, and he began to think it was time to retire. If Sophy refused him money when alone, she would most certainly not yield to his demand now that her lover was beside her. So with deadly hatred in his heart, he stole towards the door, which was still open. On the threshold he recoiled with a shrill cry of fear. Before him stood Herbert Beauchamp, alias Richard Marlow.
"You--you here, after all?"
Beauchamp, shutting and locking the door after him, strode into the room.
"Yes, I live to punish you, Jean Lestrange. Hold him, Alan, while I speak to Sophy."
The girl, with a pale face and staring eyes, was looking at the man who had come back from the grave. He approached and took her hands.
"My poor child!" he said in caressing tones, "do not look so alarmed! I am flesh and blood."
"You are alive, father?" gasped Sophy, amazed and somewhat terrified.
"Yes." He kissed her. "I feigned death to escape from this man. Come, Sophy, have you no welcome for me? It is true that I am not your father; but--after all----"
"You are as dear to me as ever!" she cried, putting her arms round his neck. "You are my true father--my real father! I shall never think of you as anything else. Oh, thank God--thank God!" And she wept and kissed him by turns.
"Amen!" said Beauchamp in a solemn tone. "But we have much to do before things are put straight. There is the cause of all my trouble, and I must deal with him." He rose and crossed to where Lestrange, white and shaking, was in the grip of Thorold. "What have you to say for yourself, Lestrange?"
The man made a violent effort to recover his self-control, and partially succeeded.
"I have to say to you what I shall shortly say to the world: You are a murderer!"
"That is a lie!"
"It is no lie. You murdered that girl's father?"
"That is a lie!" repeated Beauchamp sternly. "Do you think I am a Judas, to kiss that innocent girl if I knew myself to be her father's murderer? I knocked your cousin Achille senseless, and well he deserved it; but it was not I who stabbed him to the heart. It was you, Jean Lestrange!"
"I--I----" gasped the wretch, his lips white, his limbs shaking under him. "You dare--to--to--accuse--me--of----"
"I do not accuse you," said Beauchamp solemnly. "Out of the mouth of the dead you are condemned. Here is the confession of Warrender, and in it he tells the truth. You are the murderer of Achille!"
Sophy uttered a cry of horror, and throwing herself back on the couch, hid her face from the guilty wretch. He strove to speak, but no words came, and he continued to look silently on the ground. But for the support of Thorold he would have fallen.
"Warrender," continued Mr. Beauchamp, "himself almost as great a villain as you, knew the truth these twenty years. But he kept silence in order to terrorize me, to extort money from me. It was he who proposed that I should escape you by feigning death, knowing, as he did, that I was innocent. Well, he has been punished!"
"I did not kill him, at all events!" cried Lestrange savagely.
"I know you did not; you were not in England at the time. But you killed Achille. Yes, you left the room where Zelia lay dead, you found Achille senseless on the veranda, and you stabbed him to the heart. Warrender saw you commit the crime. It is all set out here, and signed by Warrender, in the presence of two witnesses. Can you deny it?"
Lestrange moistened his dry lips, looked at Sophy, at Beauchamp, then suddenly shook off Alan's hold.
"No, I don't deny it," he said in a loud, harsh voice. "You have been one too many for me. I am so poor as to be almost starving, so I don't care what becomes of me. Hang me if you like. I hate you, Beauchamp--I have always hated you, the more so when I found how much Zelia cared for you. And I loved her, though that was not the reason I killed her husband; for she was dead then, and could never be mine. But I killed him so that blame might rest on you. And I wanted the custody of the child, because I should have been able to handle the money. I found Achille senseless where you had knocked him down. I did not intend to do it; but I had a knife--and the devil put it into my head to stab him. Then you fled, and the murder was laid at your door."
"And had you not done me harm enough, wretched man, without hunting me down?" said Beauchamp sternly.
"I wanted money," he cried recklessly. "I saw your portrait in the paper, and I arranged with Barkham, who was as hard-up as I, that we should come to England and get some of your money. He played the traitor, and wrote you that letter--why, I don't know, as he stood to make as much as I did. But for that letter I should have found you alive, and I should have forced you to pay me. As it turned out, you escaped me."
"And will you escape me, do you think?" asked Beauchamp with emphasis.
"I don't know--I don't care. Call in the police and have me arrested if you like. I have played a bold game, and lost--do your worst!"
He folded his arms, and stared defiantly at the man whose life he had ruined.
Beauchamp looked irresolutely at him, then he turned to Sophy, who, pale and quiet, was clinging to her lover's arm.
"The daughter of the man whose life you took shall be your judge," said the millionaire. "Sophy, is he to go free, or shall the law take its course?"
"Let him go--let him go," murmured the girl. "His death shall not be upon my soul. Let him go and repent."
"I agree with Sophy," said Alan Thorold. "Let him go."
"And repent," finished Mr. Beauchamp. "Go, Jean Lestrange, and seek from an offended God the mercy you denied to me."
Lestrange pulled himself together, and put on his hat with a would-be jaunty air. He tried to speak, but the words would not come, and he slunk out of the room like a beaten hound.
And that was the last they ever saw of Jean Lestrange.
Shortly afterwards Mr. Beauchamp returned to his lodgings as the Quiet Gentleman. Having been informed by Alan, on his way to the Moat House, that Lestrange was there with Sophy, he had taken off his false wig and beard to confound him; but now, in spite of the girl's protestations, he put them on again.
"No, child, no," he said; "I am as dead as Richard Marlow, and I shall not come to life again. What purpose would it serve? It would only cause a scandal, and the papers would be full of the story. I have no wish to be a nine days' wonder."
"But, father, what will you do?--where will you live?"
"Oh," said he, with a smile, "I dare say you will carry out the terms of the will and let me have that two thousand a year. I shall take my departure from Mrs. Marry's as the Quiet Gentleman, and appear in London as Herbert Beauchamp. You can join me there, and we can go on our travels."
"But what about me?" cried poor Sophy, who had found her adopted father only to lose him again.
"You shall marry Alan."
"But I want you to be at the wedding, father."
"I shall be at the wedding, child, and I shall give you away."
Alan looked at him in surprise.
"Then you will be recognized, and the whole story will come out."
"So it would if you were married here," answered Beauchamp composedly. "But the wedding must take place in London. Can't you see, Alan, that Sophy must be married to you under her true name--Marie Lestrange?"
"Oh, must I?" cried the girl in dismay.
"I think so; otherwise I doubt if the marriage would hold good."
"You are right," said Alan, after a pause. "We must do as you say. But I am sorry. I wanted to be married here, and I wanted Phelps to marry us."
"There is no reason against that. Bring him to London and tell him the whole story."
"But I will never be called Marie!"
"No, no; you will always be Sophy to us," said her lover, kissing her. "And we will go abroad with Mr. Beauchamp for our honeymoon."
"With my father!" cried Sophy, embracing the old man; "my dear and only father!"
He sighed as he kissed her good-by. He was devoted to his adopted daughter, and felt deeply parting with her even to so good a fellow as Alan Thorold. But he comforted himself with the thought that they could be much together abroad. And so, taking this cheerful view of the situation which had been created by the villainy of Lestrange, the ex-millionaire, as he may now be called, withdrew to his lodgings. It was there that Alan took leave of him, promising to call the next morning. A thankful heart was Herbert Beauchamp's that night. The sorrow of his life was over, the dark clouds had lifted, and now, under his own name, and with a good income, he could spend the rest of his days in peace. Lestrange had slunk back into the night whence he had emerged, leaving one part of the mystery cleared up by his confession. It still remained to discover who had been the murderer of the unlucky Warrender. And that came to light the very next day.
Alan did not wait until Beauchamp had departed for London to acquaint his revered tutor with all that had taken place. On the afternoon of the next day he proceeded to the Rectory, and told the whole story to the amazed and delighted Phelps, Nothing would serve but that he must go at once to Mrs. Marry's and see with his own eyes the man who had been buried alive. But Alan restrained the Rector's impetuosity by pointing out that Mrs. Marry supposed Brown, the Quiet Gentleman, to be dumb. If by any chance she should hear him speak all secrecy would be at an end.
"Ay, ay," assented Mr. Phelps, "true enough, Alan, true enough. Mrs. Marry is a terrible gossip, and we must keep the matter quiet. I don't want my churchyard to be made the subject of another scandal. But I must see Marlow--I mean Beauchamp. God bless me! I shall never get his name right--may I be forgiven for swearing! Bring him here, Alan--bring him at once. I must see my old friend after all he has suffered."
This Alan agreed to do, and an hour later appeared with Beauchamp and Sophy. Phelps received his old friend as one returned from the dead, and insisted upon having several points cleared up which he felt to be obscure.
"How about getting away, Marlow?" he asked. "You had no clothes. How did you manage?"
"But I had clothes," replied Beauchamp. "We prepared all our plans very carefully. Joe took a suit of clothes to the hut, and brought money with him. Then I walked to the nearest town and caught the train for London. There, at a quiet hotel, a box in the name of Beauchamp was waiting for me. I slept there, and went on to Brighton, and took rooms in Lansdowne Place. I was comfortable, you may be sure. Joe came down to see me, and told me all the trouble which had ensued upon the death of Warrender."
"Ah!" said Alan reflectively; "we don't know who murdered him, and we never shall know. It could not have been Lestrange, and if it were the Quiet Gentleman, he has escaped us."
"I wonder who that Quiet Gentleman was," said Sophy.
"We all wonder that, my dear," put in the Rector; "but I fear we shall never know."
"Well, what does it matter?" said Beauchamp, with more asperity than he usually showed. "Whoever murdered Warrender gave him no more than he deserved. The man was a blackmailer, although the money he got out of me was obtained under the guise of friendship. He could have saved me years of agony had he only spoken the truth--ay, and honesty would have paid him better than dishonesty."
"No doubt. But the man is dead; let us not speak evil of the dead," said Phelps. "But there is one question I wish to ask you, Marlow--Beauchamp, I mean. How was it that the page-boy swore Joe Brill was never out of the room on that night?"
"Joe drugged the lad's supper-ale, and slipped out when he was fast asleep. He did the same the next night when he had to take Warrender's body to the vault. That was my idea, for I was terrified lest I should be traced by the murder, and I wanted to get rid of the evidence of the crime. That tramp, confound him! spoilt all."
They were interrupted by the entrance of a servant, with the card of Inspector Blair. He was admitted at once, leaving a companion whom he had brought with him in the hall.
"You must excuse my intrusion, sir," he said, addressing Mr. Phelps; "but I have already been to the Moat House and to the Abbey Farm in search of Mr. Thorold."
"Here I am," said Alan. "What is the matter, Blair? You have some news."
"I have, sir. I have been to London, and I have brought back with me a gentleman whom Mr. Beauchamp may know;" and he summoned the gentleman in the hall.
"Barkham!" exclaimed Mr. Beauchamp; "you here!"
Mr. Barkham was a dapper dark man, not unlike Lestrange, with an expression which a schoolboy would have called "sneaky." He did not recognize Mr. Beauchamp until that gentleman stripped off beard and wig. Then he hastened to acknowledge him.
"Mr. Beauchamp," he said, in a servile voice, "I hope, as I warned you of Lestrange's plot, you will hold me blameless."
"Why? What have you been doing?"
"I will tell you," interposed Blair. "This gentleman, as you see, bears a slight resemblance to Captain Jean Lestrange. He and the Captain were hard up in Jamaica, and seeing your portrait, Mr. Beauchamp, in the papers, they thought they might have a chance of extorting money from you. In case Lestrange got into trouble here, he wished to have an alibi, so he left for England under another name, and Mr. Barkham here came to Southampton in theNegressas Captain Lestrange."
"Yes, yes," said Barkham nervously; "but I warned Mr. Beauchamp that Lestrange was coming."
"Quite so; but you did not tell him that Lestrange was masquerading as a dumb man in Heathton."
"What!" cried Alan and Sophy in one breath. "Was Lestrange the Quiet Gentleman?"
"Yes," replied Blair, with triumph. "He confessed as much to Barkham here. That was why he wore the gray wig and beard and assumed dumbness--oh, a most effective disguise; quite a different person he made of himself! He came down to keep a watch on you, Mr. Beauchamp, in order to plunder you when he thought fit. Your unexpected death took him by surprise and upset his plans. Then Barkham, as Jean Lestrange, arrived at Southampton, and our Quiet Gentleman disappeared from his rooms here, to reappear from London in his own proper person, as Captain Jean Lestrange. No wonder that, with so carefully-prepared an alibi, we did not guess it was he who had been masquerading here."
"Ha!" exclaimed Alan, "and he stole the key of the vault?"
"Mr. Barkham can explain that, and other things," said Blair significantly.
"Wait!" cried Sophy, rising excitedly, "I know--I know! It was Lestrange who murdered Dr. Warrender!"
"Yes," admitted Barkham, "he did."
There was a deep silence, which was broken at length by Beauchamp.
"The scoundrel!" he said hoarsely, "and I let him escape!"
"What!" cried Blair, jumping up. "You let him escape, Mr. Beauchamp--and when you knew that he killed Achille Lestrange?"
"It was my wish," struck in Sophy; "I thought he might repent."
"Such scoundrels never repent, Miss Marlow," said Blair; "he has committed two murders, he may commit two more. But I'll hunt him down. He can't have gone far yet."
"No, I don't suppose he has," said Alan. "He was here last night. By the way, how did he kill Dr. Warrender, and why?"
"Barkham!"
The little man obeyed the voice of the inspector, and meekly repeated his story.
"Lestrange," he said, "did not believe that Mr. Beauchamp was dead. He heard Mr. Thorold say something to the Rector about the key of the vault----"
"God bless me!" cried Phelps, "so you did, Alan."
"Yes," said the little man, nodding, "then he stole the key. He sent for the doctor to ask him about the burial. The doctor came, but Lestrange was out."
"Did Warrender recognize him?" asked Beauchamp abruptly.
"No, sir, he did not--at least, not then. Well, Lestrange waited and waited to enter the vault. When he went at last he found Warrender and another man taking the body out. He followed them to the hut on the heath; he tried to look in, and he made a slight noise. Warrender came out, and in the moonlight he recognized Lestrange, who turned to run away, but the doctor caught him and they struggled. Then Lestrange, knowing that he would be arrested for the murder of Achille in Jamaica, stabbed the doctor to the heart. Terrified at what he had done, he lost his head, and hurried up to me in London. At first he refused to tell me anything, but I made him drink," said Barkham, with a leer, "and so I got the whole truth out of him."
"You scoundrel!" cried Thorold.
"Call me what you like," was the sullen rejoinder. "I wanted to get money out of Beauchamp myself, and wrote to warn him that I might have a claim on his gratitude. I was afraid to come here. I sent a letter to Lestrange asking him for money, and it got into this policeman's hands. He traced me, and brought me down here. That is all I know; but as Mr. Beauchamp is alive, I ought to have something. After all, it was I who warned him."
"You shall have fifty pounds," said Beauchamp sternly. "But you must leave England."
"I don't know that I will let him," said Blair. "He should have communicated with the police."
"I'll turn Queen's evidence if you like," said Barkham. "I don't care if I am arrested or not. I have had nothing but this fifty pounds--and you call that gratitude, Mr. Beauchamp!"
"Let him go, Blair, if you can consistently with your duty," said Beauchamp.
"I'll see," was the reply. "Hullo! what's that! Gramp, what do you mean by rushing into the room?"
It was indeed Cicero who stood, hot and puffing, at the door. He took no notice of Blair, but addressed himself to Alan.
"Mr. Thorold," he said, "I have information if you will pay me well."
"You shall be paid if what you have to say is worth it."
"Then I must tell you that Lestrange was the Quiet Gentleman. You see this lancet? He stole it out of your desk, and gave it to me to say that I found it in the hut. This proves that he was the Quiet Gentleman, and I believe he murdered Dr. Warrender."
"You do, you scoundrel!" cried Mr. Beauchamp. "But you are too late--we know all!"
"Too late!" cried Gramp. "Good heavens! to think of my getting nothing, and Clara Maria two thousand pounds!"