"You are Achille Lestrange?" "Your father--yes." "I don't admit that, monsieur." "Why do you call me 'monsieur'?" "You are French, are you not?" "French by descent, if you will, but I am a British subject. Also, I am a Roman Catholic. You are of the same faith?" "Yes, I am of the true Faith." "I am glad of that," said Lestrange indolently; he was as indolent as graceful, and reminded Sophy of a full-fed tiger. "I am pleased to hear that Marlow allowed you to retain your faith since he took from you your father and your name." "Do you know that my father is dead?" "Pardon me, he is alive, and sitting before you." Sophy ignored his remark. "Do you know that Mr. Marlow is dead?" she asked again. "Ah! now you speak as you should. Yes, I heard something about his death. The fact is, I have only just landed from a Royal Mail steamer at Southampton--two days ago, in fact--so I know very little. But I have heard of the disappearance of his body. It is town talk in London. One cannot open a newspaper without coming across theories of how it happened." "And the murder of Dr. Warrender? Do you know of that also?" "Of course. The two things go together, as I understand. Marlow's body is lost; Warrender was stabbed. How unfortunate that two people I knew should be out of the way when I come to claim you!" "Did you know Dr. Warrender?" asked Sophy quickly. "As I know myself," was the answer. "Twenty years ago, when you were a child, a mere infant, he practised in the town of Falmouth, Jamaica. He left after certain events which happened there, and, I believe, practised again in New Orleans. He married there, too, it was said." "Yes; his wife lives at Heathton." "Ah! I shall be glad to see her. Has the man who murdered her husband been discovered?" "No; he cannot be found." "Nor ever will be, I suspect," said Captain Lestrange coolly. "From what I read, the whole criminal business was conducted in the most skilful manner. I wonder why they stole poor Dick's body." "Poor Dick!" retorted the girl indignantly. "Are you speaking of my father?" "Of the man who passed as your father--yes, Marie, I am." "Pray don't call me Marie! I am Sophia Marlow." "As you please. Temper again! Oh, how you remind me of Zelia!" She was confounded at the cool assurance of the man. Nothing seemed to ruffle his temper or banish his eternal smile. He was more hateful to her than ever. Never would she acknowledge herself his daughter, even should he prove his claim! She was of age, and her own mistress. The will of Richard Marlow left the money, not to "my daughter," but to "Sophia Marlow," so there was no possibility of the money being taken from her. Then she thought of Alan. He would stand between her and this man. And even as this thought came into her mind, the door opened, and Thorold came forward eagerly to meet her; but, on perceiving the stranger, he stopped short. Lestrange rose and bowed in a foreign fashion.