In his capacity of trustee, Alan had looked through the papers of the dead man. He found no documents or letters whatever relating to his life in Jamaica, yet there were plenty dealing with his doings in South Africa. Twenty years before he had left Kingston with the child Sophy. He brought her to England, and placed her in the Hampstead convent. Then he sailed for the Cape, and had made his fortune there. Fifteen years after he returned, to buy the Moat House, and settled. Sophy came to live with him, and he had passed a quiet, peaceful time until his sudden death. So far all was clear; but the Jamaica life still remained a mystery. When he died he was over sixty. What had he done with himself during the forty years he had lived in the West Indies? Joe could have told; but Joe, as mysterious as his master, had disappeared, and even if he had remained, Alan could have got nothing out of him. The old sailor, as had been proved both by Thorold and the inspector, was as dumb as an oyster. "Did Marlow ever mention Jamaica?" Alan asked Mr. Phelps, when next they met. "Once or twice, in a casual sort of way. He said he had sailed a good deal amongst the islands." "And Joe was a sailor. I wonder if Marlow went in for trading there?" "It's not impossible," said the Rector; "but that fact, even if we knew it to be true, could throw no light on the disappearance of his body." "I don't know. I have a good mind to go to Jamaica--to Kingston--to make inquiries. The West Indian Island area is not so very large. If Marlow had been a trader there twenty years ago, he would still be remembered amongst them. I might come across some one who knew of his past life." "You might," assented Phelps, with an amount of sarcasm surprising in so mild a man, "if Marlow were his real name." The two were sitting over their wine in the twilight amid the glimmer of shaded candles. This last remark of the Rector's so surprised Alan, that he turned suddenly, and knocked his glass off the table. After he had apologized for the accident, and after the débris had been collected by the scandalized butler, the Squire asked Mr. Phelps what he meant. "It is hard to say what I mean." The Rector sipped his port meditatively. "Marlow was always a mystery to me. Undeniably a millionaire and a gentleman, Alan, and while here a man of clean life. And I have met people in London"--the worthy parson dabbled a little in shares--"who knew him in South Africa. He was highly respected there, and he made his millions honestly, so far as millions can be made honestly in these gambling days. But I always felt that there was some mystery about the man. It was Warrender who gave me the clue." "Ah! Warrender came with Marlow to Heathton."