Monk now felt that the game was almost up, for he was beset on every side, and the very ground seemed opening under his feet. The wretched Jones, in a state bordering on frenzy, remained on his knees wailing over his own ruin. The two strangers, Lightwood and Marshall, looked on as calm but interested spectators. Matt, having delivered her home-thrust of accusation, stood and gazed into Monk’s face with cool defiance, “It is a plot!” Monk cried, presently, “an infamous plot to ruin me! You have-been tampering, I see, with this wild girl, whom you foolishly suppose kin to me by blood. Arrest me, if you please--I shall not take the trouble to resist, for I am perfectly innocent in this matter.” He added, while they looked at one another as if somewhat puzzled-- “As to the girl’s relationship with my dead cousin, the very idea is absurd. Where are the proofs of her birthright?” “Here,” said a quiet voice. Monk turned his eyes and started back in wonder, while William Jones shrieked and fell forward on his face. Standing before them in the sunshine was the reality or the semblance of--the murdered young man of the caravan! CHAPTER XV.--THE “MURDERED” MAN! Yes, it was the artist himself, looking a little pale, and carrying one arm in a sling, but otherwise, to all appearance, in good health. Monk had strong nerves, but he could not prevent himself from uttering a wild cry of horror and wonder. At the same moment, Matt went to the young man’s side, and with an air of indescribable trust and sweetness, took his hand--the hand which was free--and put it to her lips. “The proof is here,” he said calmly, “here upon my person. I am not quite dead, you see, Mr. Monk of Monkshurst, and I thought I should like to bring it you myself. It consists, as you are aware, of Colonel Monk’s dying message, written on the fly-leaf of his Prayer-book, and of the marriage certificate of his wife; both these having been placed upon his child’s person, concealed by the unsuspecting and illiterate Jones, and found by me after a lapse of many years.” Monk did not speak; his tongue was frozen. He stood aghast, opening and shutting his clenched hands spasmodically, and shaking like a leaf. Reassured to some extent by the sound of the voice, unmistakably appertaining to a person of flesh and blood, William Jones gradually uplifted his face, and looked in ghastly wonder at the speaker.