CHAPTER XI. THE STRANGER

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 West Indies? Joe could have told; but Joe, as mysterious as his master, had disappeared, and even if he had remained, Alan could have got nothing out of him. The old sailor, as had been proved both by Thorold and the inspector, was as dumb as an oyster.

"Did Marlow ever mention Jamaica?" Alan asked Mr. Phelps, when next they met.

"Once or twice, in a casual sort of way. He said he had sailed a good deal amongst the islands."

"And Joe was a sailor. I wonder if Marlow went in for trading there?"

"It's not impossible," said the Rector; "but that fact, even if we knew it to be true, could throw no light on the disappearance of his body."

"I don't know. I have a good mind to go to Jamaica--to Kingston--to make inquiries. The West Indian Island area is not so very large. If Marlow had been a trader there twenty years ago, he would still be remembered amongst them. I might come across some one who knew of his past life."

"You might," assented Phelps, with an amount of sarcasm surprising in so mild a man, "if Marlow were his real name."

The two were sitting over their wine in the twilight amid the glimmer of shaded candles. This last remark of the Rector's so surprised Alan, that he turned suddenly, and knocked his glass off the table. After he had apologized for the accident, and after the débris had been collected by the scandalized butler, the Squire asked Mr. Phelps what he meant.

"It is hard to say what I mean." The Rector sipped his port meditatively. "Marlow was always a mystery to me. Undeniably a millionaire and a gentleman, Alan, and while here a man of clean life. And I have met people in London"--the worthy parson dabbled a little in shares--"who knew him in South Africa. He was highly respected there, and he made his millions honestly, so far as millions can be made honestly in these gambling days. But I always felt that there was some mystery about the man. It was Warrender who gave me the clue."

"Ah! Warrender came with Marlow to Heathton."

"Yes, but there was no mystery about that. Warrender told me that he had met Marlow at Kingston, Jamaica. Afterwards the doctor settled in New Orleans. There he met his wife, who was on the stage. He did not do very well, so Mrs. Warrender urged him to return to England. He did so, and met Marlow by chance in London, where they renewed their acquaintance. Sorry to see that Warrender was so unfortunate, Marlow brought him down here, where he did very well."

"I don't think he did well enough to have supplied Mrs. Warrender with her diamonds, sir."

"Alan, don't speak evil of the dead. She did not get the diamonds from Marlow, but legitimately, my dear boy, from her husband."

"And where did he get them? His practice must have brought him in little enough."

"No, I won't say that. The fact, I think, is that there was some understanding between the two men, and that Marlow gave Warrender money."

"He must have given him a good deal, then. Those jewels represent a lot. Seems like a kind of blackmail, sir."

"On that point, Alan, I would prefer not to give an opinion."

"And Warrender helped to steal the body of his patron," mused Alan. "Strange. But about this idea of a false name."

"Well, it was at dinner one evening. The ladies had retired, and I was alone with Marlow and Warrender, talking over our wine, just as you and I might be now, Alan. The doctor had taken a little too much, and on one occasion he addressed the other man as Beauchamp. Marlow flashed one fierce glance at him, which sobered him at once. I made no remark on the incident at the time, but it stuck in my memory."

"Then you think that Mr. Marlow was called Beauchamp in Jamaica?"

"Warrender's slip gave me that impression," said the Rector cautiously.

"How very strange!" murmured Alan, toying with his glass. "Do you know the will? Of course, I am trustee."

"Sophy's trustee--why, yes. All the money goes to her, doesn't it?"

"Most of it. There are legacies to myself, Joe Brill, and Miss Parsh. Sophy gets the rest, on conditions."

"What conditions?"

"One is that she marries me, the other that she pays two thousand a year to a man called Herbert Beauchamp."

It was the Rector's turn to be startled.

"Bless me, the same name!"

"It would appear so. Perhaps this Herbert Beauchamp is a relative of the so-called Marlow. The money is to be paid into the Occidental Bank of London for transmission to him."

"Where is he?"

"I don't know. But now that you have told me so much, I shall take the first instalment myself to the Occidental Bank and make inquiries about the man. The manager may be able in some measure to account for all this."

"I hope so, I hope so," cried the bewildered Rector, "for the mysteries seem to me to deepen."

"Meanwhile," went on Alan calmly, "I shall see Mrs. Warrender. She may know something that will be useful to us."

"I don't think so," the Rector said doubtfully. "Bless me, why should she? It was long afterwards that she met the doctor in New Orleans."

"Well, he might have told her about Marlow. At all events, I'll see her. You know," added Alan, curling his lip, "Mrs. Warrender is fond of money, and amenable to bribery."

Thorold was usually correct in his forecasts of what would happen, but this time he was quite wrong. The widow received him kindly, and told him absolutely nothing. Acting on the advice given her by Cicero, she had been searching through the papers of her late husband. She had not found what she sought, but she had found quite enough to show that there was a mystery in Mr. Marlow's past life--a mystery which was sufficiently important to be worth money. It was the intention of this astute woman to play her own game, a game which had for stake a goodly portion of Sophy's millions, and she had no desire for a partner. To Cicero and to his wish to join her she soon gave the go-by. And when Alan came upon the scene, she gave him to understand that she knew nothing. Her intention was to prepare her bombshell alone, and when it was ready, to explode it in Sophy's presence. That her knowledge would be profitable to her from a financial point of view she felt pretty secure, for the same blood ran in the veins of Clara Maria Warrender and of Cicero Gramp.

"I wish I could help you, Mr. Thorold," she said; "but I knew nothing of Mr. Marlow. My husband never spoke to me about his life in Jamaica."

"Did he leave any papers?"

"Lots of rubbish, but nothing that could enlighten us as to Mr. Marlow's past."

"Can I see them?"

"Oh, I am so sorry, but I burnt them."

He did not believe her, and went away with the conviction that she was playing a deep game. Meanwhile a new personage had come upon the scene--a man who told an astonishing story, and who made a no less astonishing claim--a slight, dark, bright-eyed man, accurately dressed, but foreign looking. He presented his card at the Moat House, with a request to see Miss Marlow.

"Captain Lestrange!" exclaimed Sophy. "Who is he, Thomas?"

"Looks like a foreigner, miss. Shall I show him in?"

"Yes," she said; and the visitor was announced almost immediately.

He started theatrically when he saw the girl. Sophy, annoyed by his manner, drew back.

"Captain Lestrange?" she queried coldly.

"Captain Lestrange," was the reply, "and your father."