CHAPTER XVII. JOE'S EVIDENCE

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 meat goes down his throat. This is the door, sir."

"Very good. And, Mrs. Timber, should Joe Brill come, show him in here."

"Joe Brill!" yelped the landlady, throwing up her hands. "You don't mean to say as he's back, Mr. Alan! Well, I never did! And I thought he'd run away because of the murder."

"You think too much, Mrs. Timber. Some day you will get yourself into trouble. Now go, and don't forget my orders."

Chilled by the severity of his tone, Mrs. Timber crept away, somewhat ashamed. Alan knocked at the door, heard the thin voice of Lestrange call out "Entrez," and went in. The man was lying on the sofa, reading a French novel by the light of a petroleum lamp, and smoking a cigarette. When Alan appeared, he rose quickly into a sitting position, and stared at his visitor. Of all men, the last he had expected to see was the one he had so basely accused. The thought flashed into his mind that Thorold had come to have it out with him. But Lestrange, whatever his faults, was not wanting in a certain viperish courage. He rose to greet his enemy with a smile which cloaked many things.

"Good-evening, Mr. Thorold," he said, with a wary glance; "to what am I indebted for this visit?"

"You shall know that before long," replied Alan, closing the door. He was now considerably cooler, and had made up his mind that more was to be got out of this man by diplomacy than by blind rage. "Have I your permission to sit down?" he asked, with studied politeness.

"Certainly, my dear sir. Will you smoke?"

"No, thank you."

"Have some refreshment, then?"

"No, thank you."

"Ah!" sneered Lestrange, throwing himself again on the couch, "your visit is not so amiable as I fancied. You come as my enemy."

"Considering your behavior, it would be strange if I came as anything else."

"My behavior?"

"I refer to your interview with Mr. Phelps and Miss Marlow."

"Mademoiselle Lestrange, if you please."

"Ah, that is for you to prove!"

"I shall prove it," said the other, quite unmoved, "in open court."

"That will be a harder task than you imagine," retorted Alan quickly. "But I am not here to discuss Miss Marlow's parentage. My errand is to ask you why you have accused me of taking away the body of her father."

"Richard Marlow was not her father," replied the man with heat.

"So you say--we can pass that point, as I told you before. I speak of the charge you have thought fit to bring against me."

"It is a true one. I am willing to take it into court."

"You may be brought into court sooner than you expect," remarked Alan dryly; and from the sudden start the man gave he saw that the shot had gone home. "On what grounds do you base this charge?"

"If Mr. Phelps reported the interview correctly, you must know," said he sullenly.

"To save time," retorted Alan, "I may as well admit that I do know. Jarks and Cicero speak the truth."

Lestrange looked surprised.

"Then you admit your guilt?"

"No; that is quite another thing. I admit that I was in Heathton on that night when Jarks saw me. What I came for does not concern you, Captain Lestrange; but I can prove also that I was back in Bournemouth before twelve o'clock. You will observe that I can establish an alibi."

"Upon my word, I really believed you guilty!" cried the Captain with sincerity.

"No doubt," was the scornful reply. "The wish is father to the thought. I will thank you not to accuse me falsely again."

"You have to explain away the finding of the lancet."

"That was stolen from my desk, with the key of the vault, by a man called Brown, whom I believe to have been guilty of a crime. You need not try to fasten the guilt upon me! I can defend myself--to use your favorite phrase--in open court, if necessary."

"Your word is enough," protested Lestrange. "I was wrong to accuse you!"

"Very wrong. You did it out of spite----"

"No, no! I really believed----"

"What you wished yourself to believe," interrupted Alan in his turn. "It was my intention to have given you a thrashing, Captain Lestrange----"

"Sir!" the man started up white with rage.

"But I have changed my mind," pursued Alan, without noticing the interruption. "I now intend to take another course. If you do not at once leave Heathton, I shall bring a charge against you of defamation of character."

"Oh!" Lestrange shrugged his shoulders. "You are a true English shop-keeper. A man should protect himself by more honorable means."

"I know very well what I am about, sir. I wish to bring you into contact with the law. For that reason--unless you go--I shall bring the action."

"And what can the law do to me?" he asked defiantly. "I have committed no wrong."

"You intend to. Oh! I know that you are innocent of taking Marlow's body, and of murdering Warrender. But you are here to blackmail Miss Marlow on the threat of proclaiming her dead father a murderer."

"I am here to claim my daughter!" shouted Lestrange fiercely. "Sophia Marlow I know nothing of; but Marie Lestrange is the daughter of Achille Lestrange, and I"--the Captain struck his breast--"I am he!"

While he was still posing in a very effective attitude, the door opened, and Mrs. Timber ushered in Joe Brill. Hardly had it closed, when Brill took a step forward, staring at Lestrange as though he had seen a vision. Lestrange turned white, this time not with rage but with fear. In the silence which ensued Alan looked from one to the other, wondering what revelation was about to be made. Joe was the first to speak.

"You swab!" cried Joe. "D----d if it ain't Captain Jean!"