CHAPTER XIV. THE ENMITY OF CAPTAIN LESTRANGE

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 be a relative. I will see the manager of the bank, and insist upon knowing the address of this man."

"Supposing he won't give it?"

"Then I shall call in the police. I must get to the bottom of this affair. Why should that body have been stolen?"

"Perhaps Lestrange can tell you, Alan." The little parson jumped up in a state of wild excitement. "What if he should be the Quiet Gentleman--Brown?"

"Impossible--he landed at Southampton only two days ago."

"Oh! so he says, but you must find out if it is true."

"I will examine the passenger-list of the last steamer."

"It is strange," said the Rector--"strange that Marlow--let us call him Marlow--should have died so opportunely. If you remember, he was much worried by a West Indian letter he received a week before his death."

"Yes; I believe that was written to warn him against Lestrange. To escape being arrested on a charge of murder, he--he--well, what did he do."

"He didn't feign death, at all events," said Mr. Phelps. "Bless me, Alan! I know the feel and the look of a corpse. I've seen dozens! Besides, you studied for medicine--your knowledge must tell you----"

"Yes, I could have sworn he was, as you say, dead as a doornail. Of course"--Alan cast about in his mind for some hypothesis--"that is--the shock of impending danger hinted at in that letter might have killed him. He died in a fit, sir, and died very suddenly."

"Humph! You didn't attend him?"

"I--a layman! My dear sir, Warrender attended him."

"And Warrender was his bosom friend in Jamaica. Alan, Warrender must have recognized him as Beauchamp--must have known Sophy was not his daughter--must have known that he had been accused of murder in Jamaica."

"Quite so," said Alan composedly, "and so Mrs. Warrender's diamonds are accounted for. He blackmailed Marlow. I can see it plainly."

"Then the murder of--of Warrender?" whispered the Rector, with a look of terror.

"Ah! we are still in the dark about that. Marlow, being dead, could not have killed him. Humph! I wonder if Lestrange is the Quiet Gentleman after all!"

"Alan!" said Phelps suddenly. "Joe Brill!"

"What about him?"

"Do you think he is guilty? He was devoted to his master. Warrender possessed his master's secret, and Joe might have killed him, and have run away to escape arrest."

Alan shook his head.

"There was no suspicion against Joe," he said. "Why should he have run away?"

"His guilty conscience, perhaps."

"A man who had nerve enough to commit such a murder and take the corpse of his victim back to the vault wouldn't have any conscience to speak of. Besides, the boy who slept in Joe's room says he was not out on that night."

"No, no--of course not," said the Rector. "Then it can't be Joe. Well, I give it up!"

"I don't," said Alan grimly. "I go to London to-morrow to solve the mystery."

This he did. He left next morning and was away for three days, leaving Mr. Phelps to console and protect Sophy from any annoyance on the part of Lestrange, who remained in the village. The Captain propitiated Mrs. Timber by the payment of a week's board and lodging in advance, and this was enough to convince the landlady that he was a most estimable person.

Naturally enough, he and Cicero Gramp came into contact, and, equally naturally, Cicero did his best to find out what business the Captain had in Heathton. But this was no easy task, for Lestrange was guarded in speech, and did not at first encourage his advances, judging very truly that Mr. Gramp was a scoundrel, and could be dangerous. But finally he decided that the gentleman in broadcloth, if properly handled, could be converted into a useful tool, and he determined to make use of him in that capacity. The intimacy began one night when Cicero, having taken more than was good for him, allowed his tongue to wag more freely than usual. Lestrange thus became aware that it could dispense useful knowledge.

"I tell you what it is, my noble Captain," said Cicero, with drunken gravity, "you are a clever man--I am another. Why shouldn't we get that reward by working together?"

"Really, my friend, I hardly see what I can do. I am a stranger here."

"That's why we ought to work together. You are not in these parts for nothing. The gossip of servants--ah!" Gramp looked significantly at Lestrange. "Oh, I heard how you were turned out of the Moat House."

"What do you mean, my dear friend?" asked the Captain, in silky tones.

"Oh! that you've got some game on--so have I. Let us work together."

"Pooh! pooh! You are talking nonsense."

"Nonsense which may mean money. See here, I know that you were kicked out of the Moat House. Ah! the gossip of menials."

"Pardon me, but I was not kicked out."

"You were. Young Thorold did it. He wants all the money, and he'll get it by marrying that girl--if I let him."

"If you let him? What do you mean?"

"Mean? Why, that I hate young Thorold, and that I want a few thousands!"

"Oh! and how do you intend to get them?"

"Never you mind. If we work together--but, then, we don't. Cedant arma tog?--which means, you're a soldier, I'm a lawyer--so that's all right. Goo'night."

And he staggered off, leaving Lestrange with much food for meditation.

The outcome of this was that next morning the Captain met Cicero halfway, and later in the day Sophy received a note from Lestrange asking to see her. If she would not consent, he added, Mr. Thorold would be placed in a position of great danger.

After some reflection Sophy sent for Mr. Phelps, and they decided to see the scamp. So on a Saturday morning Captain Lestrange was received in the library of the Rectory.

"Well, sir," said Phelps, "and what have you to say about Mr. Thorold?"

"Only this," was the reply: "that he is a scoundrel!"

"Indeed!" the Rector stopped Sophy's exclamations. "On what grounds?"

"On the grounds that it was he who stole the body of Richard Marlow!"