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............