"No, child, no," he said; "I am as dead as Richard Marlow, and I shall not come to life again. What purpose would it serve? It would only cause a scandal, and the papers would be full of the story. I have no wish to be a nine days' wonder." "But, father, what will you do?--where will you live?" "Oh," said he, with a smile, "I dare say you will carry out the terms of the will and let me have that two thousand a year. I shall take my departure from Mrs. Marry's as the Quiet Gentleman, and appear in London as Herbert Beauchamp. You can join me there, and we can go on our travels." "But what about me?" cried poor Sophy, who had found her adopted father only to lose him again. "You shall marry Alan." "But I want you to be at the wedding, father." "I shall be at the wedding, child, and I shall give you away." Alan looked at him in surprise. "Then you will be recognized, and the whole story will come out." "So it would if you were married here," answered Beauchamp composedly. "But the wedding must take place in London. Can't you see, Alan, that Sophy must be married to you under her true name--Marie Lestrange?" "Oh, must I?" cried the girl in dismay. "I think so; otherwise I doubt if the marriage would hold good." "You are right," said Alan, after a pause. "We must do as you say. But I am sorry. I wanted to be married here, and I wanted Phelps to marry us." "There is no reason against that. Bring him to London and tell him the whole story." "But I will never be called Marie!" "No, no; you will always be Sophy to us," said her lover, kissing her. "And we will go abroad with Mr. Beauchamp for our honeymoon." "With my father!" cried Sophy, embracing the old man; "my dear and only father!" He sighed as he kissed her good-by. He was devoted to his adopted daughter, and felt deeply parting with her even to so good a fellow as Alan Thorold. But he comforted himself with the thought that they could be much together abroad. And so, taking this cheerful view of the situation which had been created by the villainy of Lestrange, the ex-millionaire, as he may now be called, withdrew to his lodgings. It was there that Alan took leave of him, promising to call the next morning. A thankful heart was Herbert Beauchamp's that night. The sorrow of his life was over, the dark clouds had lifted, and now, under his own name, and with a good income, he could spend the rest of his days in peace. Lestrange had slunk back into the night whence he had emerged, leaving one part of the mystery cleared up by his confession. It still remained to discover who had been the murderer of the unlucky Warrender. And that came to light the very next day.