Sophy neither screamed nor fainted at this extraordinary announcement; indeed, it appeared to her so very ridiculous that she felt more inclined to laugh. However, she controlled her feelings, and spoke very quietly--so quietly that the visitor was somewhat disconcerted.

"Why do you make this strange assertion?" she asked, looking again at his card.

"Because it is true."

"What proof can you give me of its truth?"

"Three proofs, Sophy, if I may call----"

"You may not!" interrupted the girl, flushing. "I am Miss Marlow."

"For the present," assented the man, with an ironical smile. "Soon you will be Miss Lestrange. Three proofs, then, I have. Firstly, I can tell you the story of how I lost you; secondly, there is the resemblance between us; and, thirdly, I have the certificate of your birth. Oh, it is easily proved, I can assure you."

She shivered. He spoke very positively. What if his claim could be substantiated? She looked at him; she glanced into a near mirror, and she saw with dismay that there was a strong resemblance. Like herself, Lestrange, as he called himself, was slight in build, small in stature. He also had dark hair and brilliant eyes; the contour of his face, the chiseling of his features, resembled her own. Finally, he had that Spanish look which she knew she herself possessed. So far as outward appearances went, she might well have been the daughter of this rakish-looking stranger. He smiled. From her furtive glance into the mirror he guessed her thoughts.

"You see the glass proclaims the truth," said he. "Think of your supposed father, Richard Marlow--tall, fair, blue-eyed, Saxon in looks! Like myself, you have the Spanish look and possess all the grace and color of Andalusia. I always thought you would grow up beautiful. Your dear mother was the loveliest woman in Jamaica."

She did not answer, but the color ebbed from her cheeks, the courage from her heart. It was true enough that she in no way resembled Mr. Marlow. This man might be her father, after all. Yet he repelled her; the glance of his glittering eyes gave her a feeling of repulsion. He was a bad man, of that she felt certain. But her father? She fought against her doubts, and with a courage born of despair she prepared to defend herself until help arrived. Her thoughts flew to Alan; he was the champion she desired.

"I expect my guardian, Mr. Thorold, in a quarter of an hour," she said in a hard voice. "You will be good enough to relate your story to him. I prefer to hear it when he is present."

"You don't believe me?"

"No, I do not. Mr. Marlow treated me as his daughter, and I feel myself to be his daughter. Do you expect me to believe you, to rush into your arms without proof?"

"I have shown you one proof."

"A chance resemblance counts for nothing. What about the certificate?"

He produced a pocketbook, and took out a piece of paper.

"This is a copy of the entry in the register of the Church of St. Thomas at Kingston, You will find it all correct, Marie."

"Marie! What do you mean?"

"That paper will inform you," said Lestrange coolly.

Sophy read the certificate. Truly, it seemed regular enough. It stated that on the 24th of June, 18--, was born at Kingston, in the island of Jamaica, Marie Annette Celestine Lestrange. The names of the parents were Achille Lestrange and Zelia, his wife. Sophy could not suppress a start. The 24th of June was her birthday; the date of the year was also correct. She was twenty-one years of age now. She turned to him.

"You are Achille Lestrange?"

"Your father--yes."

"I don't admit that, monsieur."

"Why do you call me 'monsieur'?"

"You are French, are you not?"

"French by descent, if you will, but I am a British subject. Also, I am a Roman Catholic. You are of the same faith?"

"Yes, I am of the true Faith."

"I am glad of that," said Lestrange indolently; he was as indolent as graceful, and reminded Sophy of a full-fed tiger. "I am pleased to hear that Marlow allowed you to retain your faith since he took from you your father and your name."

"Do you know that my father is dead?"

"Pardon me, he is alive, and sitting before you."

Sophy ignored his remark.

"Do you know that Mr. Marlow is dead?" she asked again.

"Ah! now you speak as you should. Yes, I heard something about his death. The fact is, I have only just landed from a Royal Mail steamer at Southampton--two days ago, in fact--so I know very little. But I have heard of the disappearance of his body. It is town talk in London. One cannot open a newspaper without coming across theories of how it happened."

"And the murder of Dr. Warrender? Do you know of that also?"

"Of course. The two things go together, as I understand. Marlow's body is lost; Warrender was stabbed. How unfortunate that two people I knew should be out of the way when I come to claim you!"

"Did you know Dr. Warrender?" asked Sophy quickly.

"As I know myself," was the answer. "Twenty years ago, when you were a child, a mere infant, he practised in the town of Falmouth, Jamaica. He left after certain events which happened there, and, I believe, practised again in New Orleans. He married there, too, it was said."

"Yes; his wife lives at............