That Joe Brill had disappeared from Heathton was perfectly true. So far Cicero was correct; but in stating that the man had vanished without a sign he was wrong. News--to be precise, gossip--travels more quickly in a village than in a town; it also gets more quickly distorted. For the intimacy of villagers is such that they are readier than less acquainted folk to take away from, or add to, any talk about those whose everyday life they know so well.

Joe Brill had left a letter for Sophy, who, in much alarm, consulted Miss Parsh. The consultation was overheard by the footman, who told the servants, without mentioning the letter, about which he was not very clear himself, having caught only scraps of the conversation. The kitchen discussed the news, and retailed it to the baker, who, with the assistance of his wife, a noted gossip, spread it broadcast over the village. Thus, in the evening, it came to Cicero's greedy ears; and so it was that he came to tell his sister that Joe Brill had disappeared without a sign. Sophy knew better.

"Isn't it dreadful?" she said to Miss Vicky. "Joe is very cruel to leave me like this in my trouble. He knows that I look upon him as one of my best friends. To be thirty years with father, and then to leave me! Oh, dear Vicky, what does it mean?"

For answer, Miss Vicky read the letter aloud. It was badly written, and badly spelt; but it was short and to the point. Amended it ran as follows:

"Honored Miss,

"I am called away on business which may turn out well for you. When I'll come back, miss, I don't know; but wait in hope. Stand by and nail your colors to the mast. Don't trust no one but Mr. Thorold. Your prayers, honored miss, are requested for your humble servant,

"Joseph Brill."

"Most extraordinary!" said Miss Vicky, and laid down the letter to gaze blankly at Sophy.

"I shall go mad with all this worry!" cried the poor girl, taking the letter. "Oh, dear Vicky, everything has gone wrong since father died."

"Hush! Don't talk of it, Sophia. Your pa's remains have gone, but his soul is above. Dr. Warrender has been buried, and the verdict of twelve intelligent men has been given. We must think no more of these matters. But Joseph's letter----"

"Is more of a mystery than all the rest put together," finished Sophy. "Just listen to the nonsense Joe writes: 'I'm called away on business.' What business, Vicky?--and how can it turn out well for me? He doesn't know when he'll come back; that means he won't come back at all. 'Wait in hope.' Hope of what, for goodness' sake, Vicky? And Alan--of course, I'll trust no one but Alan. How absurd to put that in! Then he finishes by asking my prayers, just as though he were going to die. Vicky, is Joe mad?"

"No; Joseph is too clear-headed a man to lose his wits. It's my opinion, Sophia, that he's gone to search for your poor papa's remains."

This was Alan's opinion also when he read the letter, and heard of Joe's disappearance. He questioned the servants, but they could give no details. The page, who slept in the same room, declared that he woke at six o'clock to find Joe's bed empty; but this did not alarm him, as Joe was always the first in the house to be up. So Alan went to the railway-station, and learnt there that the old sailor, carrying some things tied up in a handkerchief, had taken the 6.30 train to the junction. A wire to the junction station-master, who knew Joe, elicited the reply that he had gone on to London by the express. Beyond this it was hopeless to attempt to trace him; for at Waterloo Station Joe had vanished into the crowd, and was lost. Alan told the lamenting Sophy that nothing could now be done but wait for his return.

"But will he return?" demanded the girl tearfully.

"I think so. I agree with Miss Vicky: Joe has gone to search for your father's body."

"But he has no idea where it is. If he did, he would surely have told me or you, Alan, knowing how anxious we are!"

"He may have a clue, and may want to follow it up himself. And I believe, Sophy, that Joe knows more about the matter than we think. Do you remember that he gave Cicero a sovereign to leave the Moat House?"

"What of that?"

"Only that a sovereign was a large sum for a servant like Joe to give. He thought, no doubt, that Cicero knew too much, and he wanted to get him away before he could be questioned. It was his guilty conscience which made him so generous."

"Guilty conscience, Alan? What had Joe done?"

"Nothing, so far as I know," replied Thorold readily. "But I am convinced there is something in your father's past life, Sophy, which would account for the violation of the vault. Joe knows it, but for some reason he won't tell. I questioned him about the ridiculous sum he gave to Cicero, but I could get no satisfactory explanation out of him--nor could Blair."

"You don't think he was the short man with Dr. Warrender on that night, Alan?" asked the girl somewhat tremulously.

"No, I do not; I asked the boy who sleeps in the same room. He said that Joe went to bed as usual, and that he never heard him go out. Besides, Sophy, I am certain the accomplice of Warrender was Brown."

"The Quiet Gentleman?"

"Yes; he had the key of the vault. And also, by the evidence of the stamp, he had something to do with Jamaica. Perhaps he knew your father there."

"Perhaps he did. Joe would know."

"Joe will not speak, and, at all events, he has gone. We must wait until he comes back."

"Are you not going to make any more search for the body, Alan?"

"My dearest, I have not the slightest idea where to begin. The case has baffled the police, and it baffles me. I have made inquiries all round the country, and I can find no one who saw Brown with your father's dead body, or, indeed, anything else which might have aroused suspicion. There is only one hope that we may get it back."

"The reward?"

"No; although Blair, and, I believe, Cicero, intend to work for that. The hope lies in the chance that Brown, whoever he is, may have taken away the body for blackmail. In that case we may get a letter demanding money--probably a large sum. We must pay it, and have your father's remains brought back."

"And the murder, Alan?"

"Ah! that is a difficult part. When Brown stole the body he did not intend to commit murder; that came about in some unforeseen way. The danger that he may be arrested for the murder may keep Brown from applying for blackmail, always supposing, Sophy, that such is his object."

"In that case we may never recover poor father."

"I am afraid not. However, we must live in hope."

This conversation ended in the usual unsatisfactory way. On the face of it there was nothing to be done, for Alan could obtain no clue. Brown, if Brown were indeed the guilty person, had managed so cleverly that he had completely cut his trail. Even the offer of the reward brought forth no fresh information. The mystery was more a mystery than ever.

In his capacity of trustee, Alan had looked through the papers of the dead man. He found no documents or letters whatever relating to his life in Jamaica, yet there were plenty dealing with his doings in South Africa. Twenty years before he had left Kingston with the child Sophy. He brought her to England, and placed her in the Hampstead convent. Then he sailed for the Cape, and had made his fortune there. Fifteen years after he returned, to buy the Moat House, and settled. Sophy came to live with him, and he had passed a quiet, peaceful time until his sudden death. So far all was clear; but the Jamaica life still remained a mystery. When he died he was over sixty. What had he done with himself during the forty years he had lived in the ............