"I don't know. Warrender always swore that his hands were clean of blood, and certainly he had no reason to murder Achille. I suspected Jean, but Warrender told me that Jean had been in Zelia's room praying beside the body. He advised me to fly."
"Yes, yes; but who killed Achille?"
"Well, I supposed it must have been a negro whom Achille had brought with him--a Zambo, called Scipio, who was devoted to his mistress and who hated his master. On hearing that Zelia was dead--knowing, as he did, that her husband's brutality had probably had a good deal to do with it--he might have stabbed Achille as he lay senseless on the veranda. At any rate, Warrender said that he found him dead when he came out. To this day I don't know who killed him. It must have been either Warrender, Scipio, or Jean. I am inclined to suspect Scipio. However, at the time there was nothing for it but flight if I wanted to escape an accusation of murder. You see bow strong the evidence was against me, Alan. I had taken away Achille's wife and child; he had come in pursuit; I had quarreled with him and knocked him down; he had been found dead. Therefore I fled with the child. Can you blame me?"
"No," said Alan decisively. "Under the circumstances, I don't see what else you could do. So you escaped?"
"I did. I went on board my yacht and told Joe all. Of course, he believed in my innocence, and strongly advised me to leave at once. We sailed down the coast of South America, round the Horn, and home to England. I called myself Richard Marlow, and I sold the yacht under another name at a French seaport. I had plenty of money, and there was no one who suspected my past."
"I suppose the news of the murder had not reached England?"
"No. I believe there was a casual reference in one of the papers, but that was all. The yacht was supposed to have foundered. I felt secure from pursuit, and determined to start a new life. I gave out that Marie was my daughter, and I called her Sophy. Then I placed her in the convent at Hampstead, with a sum of money for her education, and besides that, I secured a certain sum on her for life in case of my death. When this was settled I went to Africa. There Fortune, tired of persecuting me, gave me smiles instead of frowns. I made a fortune in the gold-mines, and became celebrated as Richard Marlow the millionaire. The rest of my story you know."
"Up to a point," said Alan significantly. "I know how you bought this place and settled here with Sophy. But the letter from Barkham----"
"Ah! Joe told you about that, did he?" said Beauchamp composedly. "Yes, the letter was from an old friend of mine called Barkham. He told me that Jean Lestrange had recognized my portrait in an illustrated paper, and that he intended to come to England to hunt me down. The letter was sent to the office of the paper, and by them forwarded here. You may guess my feelings. I thought myself lost. I showed the letter to Warrender, and he suggested that I should feign death. I jumped at the idea, made a will, allowing myself an income under my true name of Herbert Beauchamp, got another key of the vault fashioned from the one which afterwards was taken to Phelps, and took Joe into my confidence. Then Warrender drugged me."
"What did he give you?" asked Alan. "You looked really dead."