"What!" cried the inspector. "Two thousand pounds for clearing the memory of a dead man! My dear lady, five hundred is nearer the mark." "Two thousand," she repeated. "If Sophy Marlow has the millions left by her supposed father, she can well afford that." "Humph! We'll see. I must speak to Mr. Thorold first. You have the confession?" "I have--safely put away. It was my intention to have seen Sophy Marlow about it, but I thought I'd wait." "To see what price you could get?" put in Blair. "Quite so. I'm a woman of business. If I don't get my price, I burn that confession." "You dare not! I can have you arrested, remember." She snapped her fingers. "Pooh!" she said. "I don't care for your threats. This is my one chance of making money, and I'm going to take it. Two thousand pounds or nothing." "I'll think it over," said Blair. "I am to have the refusal of that confession, mind." "What! Do you want to make money too?" "Certainly," said Blair, with irony; "I am a man of business." She laughed, and took leave of him in a very amiable frame of mind. When he had gone, she smirked in front of a mirror and took a long look at herself. "Two thousand pounds," she cried, "and my own savings! I'm not so old, after all. I'll run away from Cicero and marry again. Ha! ha! I've made a deal this time!" And she went in to luncheon with a most excellent appetite. While this interview was taking place, Alan had been at Mrs. Harry's cottage. Having received no orders to the contrary, she ushered him into the sitting-room. There sat the Quiet Gentleman in his gray suit. At sight of Alan he started violently. "Good-day, Mr. Brown," said his visitor, looking closely at him. "I have come to see you about that key you stole. You are dumb, I believe, but not deaf, so no doubt you follow my meaning." The Quiet Gentleman made a step forward, and, to the amazement of his visitor, he spoke. "Alan," he said--"Alan Thorold!" The young man dropped into a chair, white and shaking. He knew that voice--he knew what was coming. With a laugh the Quiet Gentleman pulled off his wig and beard. "Don't you know me, Alan?" he asked. "Richard Marlow!" gasped Alan. "Herbert Beauchamp," was the quiet reply. CHAPTER XXI. THE STORY OF THE PAST "Come, Alan," said Beauchamp after a pause, "you need not be tongue-tied with astonishment. I sent Blair on to tell you all that had happened, so you must have known that I was alive." "Yes, yes--but your disguise," stammered the young man. "I expected to see Brown. You are not Brown, never could have been; for when he was here, I have seen you and him at the same time."