"Don't talk to me, Alan!" cried Sophy, when her lover objected to this sudden move. "It would drive me mad to stay here doing nothing, with that on my mind."
"But, my dear girl, it may not be true."
"If it is not, why should that man have written? Did you see him?"
"No. He has left the parade, and no one seems to know anything about him. It is quite likely that when he saw us returning to the hotel he cleared out. By this time I dare say he is on his way to London."
"Did you see the police?" she asked anxiously.
"No," said Alan, taking out the letter which had caused all this trouble; "it would not be wise. Remember what he says here: If the police are called in he will vanish, and we shall lose the information he seems willing to supply."
"I don't think that, Mr. Thorold," said Miss Vicky. "This man evidently wants money, and is willing to tell the truth for the matter of a hundred pounds."
"On account," remarked Thorold grimly; "as plain a case of blackmail as I ever heard of. Well, I suppose it is best to wait until we can communicate with this--what does he call himself?--Cicero Gramp, at Dixon's Rents, Lambeth. He can be arrested there, if necessary. What I want to do now is to find out if his story is true. To do this I must go at once to Heathton, see the Rector, and get the coffin opened."
"I will come," insisted Sophy. "Oh, it is terrible to think that poor father was not allowed to rest quietly even in his grave."
"Of course, it may not be true," urged Alan again. "I don't see how this tramp could have got to know of it."