That same evening the Rector was coming in to dine with Alan. The young man was glad that he had asked him, for he was anxious to consult his old friend about the strange tale he had heard, and about the steps which should be taken to prove its truth or falsity. He stayed with Sophy till it was nearly six o'clock. Miss Parsh had not been called into counsel. She was too timid, they thought, and too likely to lose her head. Moreover, Alan felt that she would give the girl overmuch sympathy and make her nervous. So he did all the bracing he could, advised her not to take the old lady into her confidence, and rode home to the Abbey Farm in the cool twilight.

As he passed the Good Samaritan, Mrs. Timber came flying out in a flutter of excitement.

"Sir! sir! Mr. Thorold!" she called. And then, as he checked his horse: "Is the gentleman all right? He's a furriner, and I never did hold as they could pay honest."

"What are you talking about, Mrs. Timber?" asked the young man, utterly bewildered.

"Why, of the gentleman you sent to me, sir."

"I sent no gentleman. Stay! Do you mean Captain Lestrange?"

"Yes, sir, that's his name--a nasty French name. He said you recommended my house. I'm sure I'm very much obliged, Mr. Thorold." Here Mrs. Timber dropped her best curtsy and smiled a sour smile. "But I arsk again, sir, is he good pay?"

Alan was amazed at the Captain's impudence in making him stand sponsor for his respectability.

"I don't know anything about the gentleman, Mrs. Timber," he said, giving his horse the spur. "He is a stranger to me."

"Oh, is he?" muttered the landlady to herself as Alan galloped off. "Well, he don't get nothing out of me till I sees the color of his money. The idea of giving Mr. Thorold's name when he had no right to! Ah! I doubt he's a robber of the widder and the orphan. But I'll show him!"

And Mrs. Timber, full of wrath, went into her hotel to have it out with her new lodger.

Alan rode fast and hard in the waning light, between the flowering hedgerows--rode to get away from his thoughts. The advent of Lestrange with his cut-and-dried story, with his accusation of the dead, and his claim to be Sophy's father, was ominous of evil. Alan had his own uncomfortable feelings, but of these he decided to tell no one, not even Phelps, although Phelps was his very good friend. In taking this resolution, Alan made a very serious mistake--a mistake which he found out when it was too late to remedy his injudicious silence.

He had just time to dress for dinner before his guest arrived. Knowing that Mr. Phelps was dainty in his eating, Mrs. Hester had prepared a meal such as the good Rector loved. Alan's wine was of the best, and he did not stint it, so Mr. Phelps addressed himself to the solemn business of dinner, with the conviction that he would enjoy himself; and Alan kept his news to himself until they were in the smoking-room. Then, when his guest was sipping aromatic black coffee and inhaling the fragrance of an excellent cigar, the young Squire felt compelled to speak, and exploded his bombshell without further notice.

"Mr. Phelps, I have unpleasant news," he said, filling his pipe.

The clergyman looked piteously at the excellent cigar, and took another sip of the coffee.

"Oh, Alan, my boy, must you?"

"You can judge for yourself," replied Alan, unable to suppress a smile. "Sophy had a visitor to-day."

"Indeed! Any one connected with these mysteries which so perplex us?"

"In one way, yes; in another, no. He is a Captain Lestrange."

"Lestrange! Lestrange!" repeated the Rector. "I don't know the name. Who is he?"

"Sophy's father!" said Alan simply, and lighted up, while Mr. Phelps remonstrated:

"My dear Alan, if this is a jest----"

"It is no jest, sir, but, I fear, a grim reality. This man comes from Jamaica."

"Dear me! Marlow came from Jamaica. Does he know----"

"He knows all Marlow's past life."

"The dev--ahem! God forgive me for swearing. And who was Marlow?"

"According to Lestrange, a murderer."

Phelps dropped his cigar and stared at his old pupil.

"Alan, are you mad?"

"No. At the present moment I am particularly sane. This man says that Marlow was a murderer, and he himself claims to be Sophy's father. Take some green Chartreuse, Mr. Phelps, and I'll tell you all about it."

The Rector's nerves had received such a shock at the abrupt way in which Alan had told his news that he very willingly poured himself out a liqueur. Then he relighted his cigar, and signed to the young man to proceed.

"If I must hear it!" sighed he. "Such a pity, too, when I was so comfortable. Ah! Man is born to trouble. Go on, my dear lad!"

"You will find it really interesting," said Thorold encouragingly, and told his story in as concise a way as he could. The narrative was interrupted frequently by the Rector. When it was ended he was too much astonished to make any remark, and the other had to stir up his intelligence. "What do you think of it, sir?"

"Really--bless me!--I hardly know. Do you believe it, Alan?"

"There are so many things in it which I know to be true, that I can't help thinking the man is honest, in so far as his story goes," said Alan gloomily. "Whether Sophy is really his child I can't say. She is certainly very like him, and the certificate appears to be genuine. Again, Mr. Phelps, you heard Warrender call Marlow 'Beauchamp,' and, as I told you, a sum of two thousand a year is by Marlow's will to be paid to a Herbert Beauchamp. What if he should be Marlow himself?"

"I can't--I won't believe it!" cried the Rector, rubbing his bald head. "The man is as dead as a doornail--you saw the corpse yourself, Alan. The body was put in a leaden casing, hermetically sealed, and that in a tightly-screwed-down oaken coffin. Even if Marlow had been in a trance--if that is what you mean--he could not have survived that! He would have died of suffocation--he would have been asphyxiated. Bless my soul! I don't believe it for one moment."

"But how do you account for the income left to Herbert Beauchamp?"

"He must be a relative," said the Rector.

"But the same Christian name, Mr. Phelps? Still, of course, that is not impossible--he might b............