"For the present," assented the man, with an ironical smile. "Soon you will be Miss Lestrange. Three proofs, then, I have. Firstly, I can tell you the story of how I lost you; secondly, there is the resemblance between us; and, thirdly, I have the certificate of your birth. Oh, it is easily proved, I can assure you." She shivered. He spoke very positively. What if his claim could be substantiated? She looked at him; she glanced into a near mirror, and she saw with dismay that there _was_ a strong resemblance. Like herself, Lestrange, as he called himself, was slight in build, small in stature. He also had dark hair and brilliant eyes; the contour of his face, the chiseling of his features, resembled her own. Finally, he had that Spanish look which she knew she herself possessed. So far as outward appearances went, she might well have been the daughter of this rakish-looking stranger. He smiled. From her furtive glance into the mirror he guessed her thoughts. "You see the glass proclaims the truth," said he. "Think of your supposed father, Richard Marlow--tall, fair, blue-eyed, Saxon in looks! Like myself, you have the Spanish look and possess all the grace and color of Andalusia. I always thought you would grow up beautiful. Your dear mother was the loveliest woman in Jamaica." She did not answer, but the color ebbed from her cheeks, the courage from her heart. It was true enough that she in no way resembled Mr. Marlow. This man might be her father, after all. Yet he repelled her; the glance of his glittering eyes gave her a feeling of repulsion. He was a bad man, of that she felt certain. But her father? She fought against her doubts, and with a courage born of despair she prepared to defend herself until help arrived. Her thoughts flew to Alan; he was the champion she desired. "I expect my guardian, Mr. Thorold, in a quarter of an hour," she said in a hard voice. "You will be good enough to relate your story to him. I prefer to hear it when he is present." "You don't believe me?" "No, I do not. Mr. Marlow treated me as his daughter, and I feel myself to be his daughter. Do you expect me to believe you, to rush into your arms without proof?" "I have shown you one proof." "A chance resemblance counts for nothing. What about the certificate?" He produced a pocketbook, and took out a piece of paper. "This is a copy of the entry in the register of the Church of St. Thomas at Kingston, You will find it all correct, Marie." "Marie! What do you mean?" "That paper will inform you," said Lestrange coolly. Sophy read the certificate. Truly, it seemed regular enough. It stated that on the 24th of June, 18--, was born at Kingston, in the island of Jamaica, Marie Annette Celestine Lestrange. The names of the parents were Achille Lestrange and Zelia, his wife. Sophy could not suppress a start. The 24th of June was her birthday; the date of the year was also correct. She was twenty-one years of age now. She turned to him.