Alan rode fast and hard in the waning light, between the flowering hedgerows--rode to get away from his thoughts. The advent of Lestrange with his cut-and-dried story, with his accusation of the dead, and his claim to be Sophy's father, was ominous of evil. Alan had his own uncomfortable feelings, but of these he decided to tell no one, not even Phelps, although Phelps was his very good friend. In taking this resolution, Alan made a very serious mistake--a mistake which he found out when it was too late to remedy his injudicious silence. He had just time to dress for dinner before his guest arrived. Knowing that Mr. Phelps was dainty in his eating, Mrs. Hester had prepared a meal such as the good Rector loved. Alan's wine was of the best, and he did not stint it, so Mr. Phelps addressed himself to the solemn business of dinner, with the conviction that he would enjoy himself; and Alan kept his news to himself until they were in the smoking-room. Then, when his guest was sipping aromatic black coffee and inhaling the fragrance of an excellent cigar, the young Squire felt compelled to speak, and exploded his bombshell without further notice. "Mr. Phelps, I have unpleasant news," he said, filling his pipe. The clergyman looked piteously at the excellent cigar, and took another sip of the coffee. "Oh, Alan, my boy, must you?" "You can judge for yourself," replied Alan, unable to suppress a smile. "Sophy had a visitor to-day." "Indeed! Any one connected with these mysteries which so perplex us?" "In one way, yes; in another, no. He is a Captain Lestrange." "Lestrange! Lestrange!" repeated the Rector. "I don't know the name. Who is he?" "Sophy's father!" said Alan simply, and lighted up, while Mr. Phelps remonstrated: "My dear Alan, if this is a jest----" "It is no jest, sir, but, I fear, a grim reality. This man comes from Jamaica." "Dear me! Marlow came from Jamaica. Does he know----" "He knows all Marlow's past life." "The dev--ahem! God forgive me for swearing. And who was Marlow?" "According to Lestrange, a murderer." Phelps dropped his cigar and stared at his old pupil. "Alan, are you mad?" "No. At the present moment I am particularly sane. This man says that Marlow was a murderer, and he himself claims to be Sophy's father. Take some green Chartreuse, Mr. Phelps, and I'll tell you all about it." The Rector's nerves had received such a shock at the abrupt way in which Alan had told his news that he very willingly poured himself out a liqueur. Then he relighted his cigar, and signed to the young man to proceed. "If I must hear it!" sighed he. "Such a pity, too, when I was so comfortable. Ah! Man is born to trouble. Go on, my dear lad!"