"Like her brother," put in Alan. Then, observing the looks of surprise directed at him by the other two, he added: "Didn't you know? Cicero Gramp is Mrs. Warrender's brother. I found that out in London." "A nice pair of jail-birds!" cried Blair. "I'd best get that confession at once, or she'll be giving it to Cicero, and they'll demand more money. Mr. Beauchamp, can you give me a check?" "No," he said, shaking his head. "You forget, Blair, I am dead and buried, and, what's more, I do not intend ever to come to life again as Marlow. But Mr. Thorold, as Sophy's trustee, can give you the money." "If Blair will come to the Abbey Farm, I will do so," said Alan, rising. "I agree that the sooner the confession is obtained the better, or Cicero may give trouble. By the way, who was it killed Achille, Blair? Was it the doctor himself?" "No, no!" cried Beauchamp. "It was Scipio, the negro." "I can't tell you that;" and the inspector shook his head. "Mrs. Warrender declares that you are innocent, Mr. Beauchamp; but she declines to give any further information until she has received her pound of flesh." "She shall have it this very day," said Alan, putting on his cap. "Come, Blair. Mr. Beauchamp, will you remain here?" "Yes. I am safer as the Quiet Gentleman than as anything else." "You don't want me to bring Sophy here?" "Not until we get that confession, Alan. Sophy might make a scene when she met me. Mrs. Marry would learn the truth, and the news would spread. If Lestrange knew, all would be lost. Get the confession, Alan." "Yes, I think that is the best plan. Good-day, Mr. Brown," said the inspector, speaking for the benefit of Mrs. Marry, and with Alan he left the house. Alone again, Beauchamp fell on his knees and thanked God that his innocence was about to be vindicated. For years he had lived in dread of discovery; now he was about to be relieved of the nightmare. Talking as they went of the strange and unexpected turn the Case, as Blair called it, had taken, the two men walked through Heathton and out on to the country road. On turning down a quiet lane which led to the Abbey Farm, they saw a ponderous man behaving in a most extraordinary manner. He danced in the white dust, he shook his fist at the sky, and he spun round like a distracted elephant. Blair's keen eye recognized him at once. "Very pretty, Mr. Cicero Gramp," he observed dryly. "Are you in training for a ballet-dancer?" The man stopped short, and turned a disturbed face on them. "I'll be even with him!" he gasped, wiping his streaming forehead. "Oh, the wretch! oh, the Judas! Gentlemen, proceed, and leave an unhappy man to fight down a whirl of conflicting emotions. _E pluribus unum!_" quoted Cicero, in a pathetic voice; "that is me--Ai! Ai! I utter the wail of Orestes." "And, like Orestes, you seem to be mad," observed Alan, as the fat man returned to his dancing. "And no wonder, Mr. Thorold. I have lost thousands. Lestrange----"