Yes, it was the artist himself, looking a little pale, and carrying one arm in a sling, but otherwise, to all appearance, in good health.

Monk had strong nerves, but he could not prevent himself from uttering a wild cry of horror and wonder. At the same moment, Matt went to the young man’s side, and with an air of indescribable trust and sweetness, took his hand—the hand which was free—and put it to her lips.

“The proof is here,” he said calmly, “here upon my person. I am not quite dead, you see, Mr. Monk of Monkshurst, and I thought I should like to bring it you myself. It consists, as you are aware, of Colonel Monk’s dying message, written on the fly-leaf of his Prayer-book, and of the marriage certificate of his wife; both these having been placed upon his child’s person, concealed by the unsuspecting and illiterate Jones, and found by me after a lapse of many years.”

Monk did not speak; his tongue was frozen. He stood aghast, opening and shutting his clenched hands spasmodically, and shaking like a leaf. Reassured to some extent by the sound of the voice, unmistakably appertaining to a person of flesh and blood, William Jones gradually uplifted his face, and looked in ghastly wonder at the speaker.

“You will be anxious to ascertain,” proceeded Brinkley, with his old air of lightness, “by what accident, or special Providence, I arose from the grave in which you politely entombed me. The explanation is very simple. My young friend here, Matt, the foundling, or, as I should rather call her, Miss Monk of Monkshurst, came to my assistance, attended to my injuries, which were not so serious as you imagined, and enabled me, before daybreak, to gain the kindly shelter of my caravan. Tim and a certain rural doctor did the rest. I am sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Monk, but I felt bound to keep my promise—to interfere seriously with your little arrangements, if you persistently refused to do justice to this young lady.”

As he spoke, Monk uttered a savage oath and rushed towards the road; but Marshall was after him in a moment, and sprang upon him. There was a quick struggle. Suddenly Monk drew a knife, opened it, and brandished it in the air; so that it would have gone ill with his assailant if the herculean Tim, coming to the rescue, had not pinioned him from behind. In another moment the knife was lying on the grass, and Monk was neatly handcuffed by the detective.

“Now, governor, you’d better take it quietly!” said Marshall, while Monk struggled, and gnashed his teeth in impotent rage. “You’re a smart one, you are, but the game’s up at last.”

Monk recovered himself and laughed fiercely.

“Let me go! Of what do you accuse me? It was murder just now, but since the murdered person is alive (curse him!) I should like to know on what charge you arrest me.”

“Oh, there’s no difficulty about that!” said Brinkley, looking at him superciliously. “In the first place, you have by fraud and perjury possessed yourself of what never legally belonged to you. In the second place, you attempted murder, at any rate. But upon my life, I don’t think you are worth prosecuting. I think, Mr. Marshall, you might let him go.”

“It’s letting a mad dog loose, sir,” replied Marshall. “He’ll hurt somebody.”

“What do you say, Miss Monk?” said Brinkley. “This amiable-looking person is your father’s cousin. Shall I release your bridegroom, in order that you may go with him to the altar of Hymen and complete the ceremony?”

“I hate him,” cried Matt; “I should like to drown him in the sea.”

Brinkley laughed.

“Your sentiments are natural, but unchristian. And the gentle Jones, now, who is looking at you so affectionately, what would you do with him? Drown him in the sea too?”

“No, no, Matt,” interposed William Jones, abjectly; “speak up for me, Matt. I ha’ been father to you all these years.” Matt seemed perplexed what to say. So Brinkley again took up the conversation.

“On reflection we will refer William Jones to his friends the ‘coastguard chaps.’ I think he will be punished enough by the distribution of his little property in the cave. Eh, Mr. Jones?”

Jones only wrung his hands and wailed, thinking of his precious treasure.

“And so, Matt,” continued Brinkley, “there will be no wedding after all. I’m afraid you’re awfully disappointed.”

Matt replied by taking his hand again, lifting it to her lips and kissing it fondly. The young man turned his head away, for his eyes had suddenly grown full of grateful tears.