Alan did not wait until Beauchamp had departed for London to acquaint his revered tutor with all that had taken place. On the afternoon of the next day he proceeded to the Rectory, and told the whole story to the amazed and delighted Phelps, Nothing would serve but that he must go at once to Mrs. Marry's and see with his own eyes the man who had been buried alive. But Alan restrained the Rector's impetuosity by pointing out that Mrs. Marry supposed Brown, the Quiet Gentleman, to be dumb. If by any chance she should hear him speak all secrecy would be at an end. "Ay, ay," assented Mr. Phelps, "true enough, Alan, true enough. Mrs. Marry is a terrible gossip, and we must keep the matter quiet. I don't want my churchyard to be made the subject of another scandal. But I must see Marlow--I mean Beauchamp. God bless me! I shall never get his name right--may I be forgiven for swearing! Bring him here, Alan--bring him at once. I must see my old friend after all he has suffered." This Alan agreed to do, and an hour later appeared with Beauchamp and Sophy. Phelps received his old friend as one returned from the dead, and insisted upon having several points cleared up which he felt to be obscure. "How about getting away, Marlow?" he asked. "You had no clothes. How did you manage?" "But I had clothes," replied Beauchamp. "We prepared all our plans very carefully. Joe took a suit of clothes to the hut, and brought money with him. Then I walked to the nearest town and caught the train for London. There, at a quiet hotel, a box in the name of Beauchamp was waiting for me. I slept there, and went on to Brighton, and took rooms in Lansdowne Place. I was comfortable, you may be sure. Joe came down to see me, and told me all the trouble which had ensued upon the death of Warrender." "Ah!" said Alan reflectively; "we don't know who murdered him, and we never shall know. It could not have been Lestrange, and if it were the Quiet Gentleman, he has escaped us." "I wonder who that Quiet Gentleman was," said Sophy. "We all wonder that, my dear," put in the Rector; "but I fear we shall never know." "Well, what does it matter?" said Beauchamp, with more asperity than he usually showed. "Whoever murdered Warrender gave him no more than he deserved. The man was a blackmailer, although the money he got out of me was obtained under the guise of friendship. He could have saved me years of agony had he only spoken the truth--ay, and honesty would have paid him better than dishonesty." "No doubt. But the man is dead; let us not speak evil of the dead," said Phelps. "But there is one question I wish to ask you, Marlow--Beauchamp, I mean. How was it that the page-boy swore Joe Brill was never out of the room on that night?"