"To wring my heart!" replied Lestrange savagely. "He knew that I loved my little Marie. He carried her away. I would have followed, but all my troubles and the shock of Zelia's death brought on an attack of fever. I rose from my bed weeks later to hear that Beauchamp had vanished. On the night he committed the double crimes of murder and kidnapping he went on board his yacht at Falmouth, and was never heard of again. I searched for him everywhere, but without success." "What about his estate?" asked Alan. "There he has been cunning. It seemed that he had long since planned to elope with Zelia, and that some weeks before he had sold his land. He took the money with him, and the child. Had Zelia been alive she would have gone too. As months and years went by, I gave up hope, and I believed that the yacht had foundered." Suddenly Sophy got up, much agitated. "I can listen to this no longer," she said. "You are telling lies." "Her mother's temper," muttered Lestrange. "Zelia's masterly way of crushing argument." "Don't call her my mother!" cried Sophy. "I won't have it. I am not the child that was taken away by Beauchamp. I never knew any one of that name." "Probably not," replied Lestrange smoothly. "There were reasons for its being kept from you. But Mr. Thorold----" "Mr. Thorold is waiting to hear the end of the story," said that gentleman coolly. "I have yet to hear who Beauchamp is and how you traced him." "This is mere evasion." The Captain was losing his temper somewhat. "You know who the man is as well as I do." "I am waiting to hear how you connect the two." "What two?" asked Miss Marlow. But in her own heart she knew the answer. Yet, like a loyal soul, she kept true to the memory of the dead. Lestrange took no notice of her. "You are either very dull or very cunning," he said addressing Alan pointedly. "The latter, I think. How did I find Beauchamp again? In a curious way. I saw an illustrated paper in Jamaica, which gave a portrait of the famous South African millionaire, Richard Marlow. The face had on its right cheek a jagged scar. Jean gave that scar to Beauchamp with his diamond ring. No doubt it was the drawing of blood which led to the murder." "Then you assert that Marlow was none other than Herbert Beauchamp?" "I do. Also that Sophia Marlow is my child whom he carried away. I have mourned her for twenty years. By the accident of the illustrated paper I have traced her. At Southampton I heard of Marlow's death, so I knew that he had escaped punishment on earth. But at least I have found my dear child Marie." "I am not your child!" she cried. "I will never acknowledge you as my father." "In that case"--Lestrange rose to his feet and looked very stern--"I must appeal to the law." Alan laughed. "The law can't help you," he said. "Sophy is over age and her own mistress. Even if you can prove your case, you cannot force her to go with you." "Natural affection----"