In the circumstances, Derrick was not uncomfortably lodged. The lock-up was an ancient, knock-down affair, and the Inspector had arranged that Derrick should occupy one of the rooms in the adjoining police-station. Here, Mr. Jacobs and Mr. Clendon found him, if not altogether resigned to the situation, at any rate not cast down or despondent.

"Well, here we are," said Mr. Jacobs, cheerfully. "I hope they've made you as comfortable as possible, Mr.—Green. I've brought a friend of yours with me, and I have a message from another friend of yours, Miss Grant. She says she will pay you a visit whenever you like to see her."

Derrick shook his head. "I don't want her to come here," he said. "But I'm very glad to see Mr. Clendon."

"By the way," cut in Mr. Jacobs, "I ought to introduce this gentleman by his right name, or, rather, title. You will be very much surprised to hear, Mr. Green, that Mr. Clendon is the Marquess of Sutcombe. It's a long story, but, with your permission, I will put it into a sentence. His lordship is the elder brother, who was thought to be dead, but has turned up—if his lordship will allow me the phrase."

"It is true," said Mr. Clendon, as we must still call him; and he made the admission with an air of resignation and a gesture of regret. "But we have come to talk of your affairs."

"Quite so, my lord," said Mr. Jacobs. "Now, Mr. Sydney Green—or shall I call you, Mr. Derrick Dene?"

Mr. Clendon started slightly and bent his piercing eyes on Derrick, who coloured and bit his lip.

"Yes, that's my name," he said; "but I don't know how you know it."

"My dear Mr. Dene," said Mr. Jacobs, blandly, "we people in Scotland Yard know a great many things. Just as an instance, let me tell you what I know about you. You were placed at an early age in the care of a worthy couple named Jackson, who brought you up and started you in the profession which I am sure you will adorn. Owing to a—well, let us say, a misunderstanding—you left England—er—somewhat abruptly, and went with a travelling circus to South America; in South America you left the circus and found employment on a ranch, owned by a lady named Donna Elvira——"

Derrick, frowning, stared at him and did not notice that Mr. Clendon had quietly sunk into a chair and, with his hands leaning on his stick, was looking fixedly at Derrick.

"You want to know how we came to know all this?" said Mr. Jacobs, cheerfully. "Well, we had the little affair of the forged cheque placed in our hands, and were following it up when a Mr. Brown, the Sutcombe family solicitor, stepped in and stopped us. You see, the bank refused to prosecute and we couldn't move without it. But, in the course of our inquiries into the business of the forged cheque, we naturally traced your antecedents, and it seemed to us—well, to put it shortly, that your history was so interesting it was worth following. I have all the notes here." He tapped a little book he had taken from his pocket. "You will want to know why I brought it down with me, when I was engaged upon another case and had little reason to expect that you would be arrested on this charge?"

"The question was in my mind," said Derrick, gravely. "Perhaps you'll explain."

"With pleasure," replied Mr. Jacobs, and his tone corroborated his words. "But perhaps this packet which we have, in the discharge of our duty, taken from you, will explain better than I can."

He took the packet from his pocket and laid it on the table. As he did so, he glanced for the first time at the old man, who was sitting so quietly, so immovably.

"Will you allow me to open it—or perhaps we will ask his lordship to do so?"

Derrick looked from one to the other and bit his lip.

"That packet is a confidential one," he said; "but"—moved by an impulse he could not understand—"I am willing that Mr. Clendon shall open it. It has passed out of my hands. I suppose I have no right to it," he added, rather bitterly.

"I made the proposition to save time," said Mr. Jacobs. "There is the packet, your lordship."

With a glance at Derrick, the old man took it and broke the seals slowly. There was no surprise on his face as he read the enclosures. Perhaps he had foreseen that which the packet contained. He read, in absolute silence, the two men watching him; Mr. Jacobs with a cheerful countenance, Derrick with an anxious regard; then presently, Mr. Clendon looked up. Now his face was working, his eyes were moist as he breathed, "My God!" and there was remorse, as well as a kind of solemn joy in the cry.

"You do not guess the truth contained in these papers?" he asked, in a very low voice, as his gaze met Derrick's.

"No, sir," said Derrick.

Mr. Clendon turned his eyes to Mr. Jacobs, but Derrick felt that the old man was addressing him.

"The lady who writes this letter, Mr. Jacobs, the Donna Elvira of whom you have spoken, is—my wife. We have been separated for years. The cause? Nothing that can cast a shadow of dishonour on her. I was wandering in South America when I met her; we fell in love, were married in haste. I was then a headstrong, hot-tempered, unreasonable youth; she—well, she was Spanish, and with a temper and disposition that matched mine. After many quarrels, we parted in anger. I went my way, a wild, desperate way; needless to tell you whither such a way leads. Wrecked in character and prospects, I decided to be quit of the world. I had thought of suicide—but God held my hand. Suffice it that I disappeared, that I concocted a false report of my death, and so made room for my younger brother, Talbot, to take the place in the world which I had rendered myself unfit to fill."

There was a pause, during which the old man strove for composure. Derrick began to tremble. He remembered Donna Elvira's strange tenderness to him, his strange tenderness towards her; and something vague and nebulous was growing out of the Marquess's words, a hope that, in its intensity, was more painful than joyous.

"I did not know," went on the Marquess in a lower voice, and with obvious difficulty, "that, when I left my wife, she was about to become a mother. I did not know that a child was born to me—a son. If I had known—well, the whole course of my life would have been altered from that moment. I should have gone back to her, should have claimed my child; perhaps it is because she knew that I should have done so that she concealed the fact from me. Be that as it may, I was kept in ignorance until this moment; and even now, she does not tell me, but—her son."

He raised his eyes to Derrick with something in them that made Derrick's heart leap, the tears spring to his eyes.

"Yes; you are my son," said Mr. Clendon, and he held out his hand.

Derrick, moving as if in a dream, took the thin hand and grasped it in both of his.

"Oh, is it true?" was all he could say, huskily.

"It is quite true," said Mr. Clendon. "The certificates are enclosed; there is a minute account of the way in which your mother placed you in the charge of these people; there are even periodical receipts for the sums she paid for your maintenance. As to your identity——"

"No doubts about that," murmured Mr. Jacobs, cheerfully. "Proved up to the hilt. Marquess, I congratulate you—and you, too, Lord Heyton."

Now, indeed, Derrick started.

"Do you mean that I——?" he stammered, overwhelmed by the significance of the title by which Mr. Jacobs had addressed him.

Mr. Jacobs nodded, as cheerfully as before. "Quite so," he said. "Your father being the Marquess of Sutcombe, you are, of course, Lord Heyton."

Derrick sank on to a chair, still holding his father's hand; and he was silent for a moment or two; then he looked up.

"This charge?" he said, almost in a whisper. "You—both of you—know that I am innocent?"

Mr. Jacobs nodded, and the father's hand closed tightly on his son's.

"Then," said Derrick hoarsely, "who—who is guilty?"

"Ah!" said Mr. Jacobs, with a shake of the head, his eyes fixed on the carpet. "Very difficult to say. I'm afraid it will turn out to be one of those undiscovered crimes with which the newspapers are always taunting poor Scotland Yard." He rose as he spoke, and reached for his hat. "Now I'll leave you two gentlemen together. By the way, Mr.—I beg your pardon, Lord Heyton!—I'm afraid you'll have to remain here for another hour or two; there are certain formalities which must be endured. For instance"—he smiled—"I shall have to take you before a local magistrate. Of course, we shall produce no evidence, throw any quantity of ashes on our heads, and apologize for the cruel mistake we have made; and the local magistrate, if he knows his business, will read me a severe lecture on my stupidity and set you free with an apology from all concerned. Now I'll leave you. You two gentlemen must have a great deal to say to each other. And I beg you to believe"—he spoke with deep feeling—"that I should not have intruded on this interview, if I had not considered my presence necessary."

He opened the door, but closed it again, holding the handle, and said, in a casual fashion,

"By the way, I am sorry to say that Lord Heyton—tut, tut!—the gentleman who was Lord Heyton—has been called away on important business. I am afraid he will be away some time; in fact, I have advised him to go on a long tour, when his business is finished. He requires change of air, a long change; in fact, I don't think England will ever suit him."

He spoke the last words over his shoulder and disappeared.

The father and son were engaged in a conversation that moved them both deeply; and a knock had been repeated on the door twice, before they heard it and Derrick said, "Come in!"

A policeman stood on the threshold.

"A lady and gentleman to see you, sir."

"I can see no one," said Derrick, trying to keep his voice steady; but his father made a gesture with his hand and Derrick nodded reluctantly.

There entered Lady Gridborough and Reggie Rex, who had obtained permission from Mr. Jacobs. Lady Gridborough was much agitated, and she was going with outstretched hand, straight to Derrick, but stopped at sight of the old man who had risen from his chair.

"Oh, I came at once!" she said, tremulously. "I couldn't stay away. Oh, Derrick, I am so sorry, so sorry. I might have known that you couldn't be so bad, so wicked as they all said! Will you forgive me? Oh, do say you'll forgive me for so cruelly misjudging you."

Derrick took the fat hand and looked, with a grave smile of more than forgiveness, at the good-natured, agitated face.

"Don't say any more, Lady Gridborough," he said. "It was my fault. I ought to have spoken—I see now what a fool I have been! My mistaken sense of honour has caused all this trouble; and grieved you very much, I see, dear Lady Gridborough. But how did you learn the truth—I mean discover that I had not wronged poor Susie?"

"It was Mr. Rex here," said Lady Gridborough, her face all smiles now. "He's an extraordinary young man, and has succeeded in doing that at which we had all failed—opening Susie's lips. How he managed it, I do not know! Perhaps he can tell you."

Derrick had got hold of Reggie's hand by this time, and was regarding him with a half-smiling interrogation; and Reggie was also smiling with that air of omniscience and supreme acuteness which sat so curiously on his boyish face.

"A future wife should have no secrets from her future husband, as you will be the first to admit, dear Lady Gridborough."

"'Future husband!'" echoed Derrick, with a surprise that was only momentary.

"Yes," said Reggie, quietly. "I have won my angel. I don't deny that it was difficult; but this last business of yours settled it. You see, Susie felt that, if she told the truth, and showed up the right man—or, rather, the wrong one; for, if there was ever a 'wrong un,' it is——; but we won't mention names—Susie knew that she would be doing Celia a service; besides, Susie felt that she could face the world much more easily, if she had a great, hulking man beside her. And," he added modestly, "there were—ahem—other reasons."

"I am sure there were," said Derrick, warmly; and he wrung Reggie's hand. "I congratulate you—both."

"But how about this dreadful business of the robbery at the Hall?" said Lady Gridborough, suddenly growing pale.

"So far as my son is concerned, madam," said Mr. Clendon, in his grave voice which had grown very gentle, "you will be glad to hear that it has ended satisfactorily; he has been proved innocent of the crime laid to his charge."

"Oh, I'm so glad!" cried Lady Gridborough, delightedly. "But"—suddenly—"your son? You are his father? I didn't know—I thought his father was dead."

"So I was, madam; to the world; but I have returned from the grave to find my son," said Mr. Clendon.

"Well, I am glad!" cried Lady Gridborough. "You must both come and stay with me. Now, you won't refuse, Mr. Dene, will you?" She looked at Mr. Clendon pleadingly, and then with confusion and embarrassment, as they both remained silent.

"My father's name is not 'Dene,'" said Derrick, who felt that the explanation would have to come sooner or later. "He is Lord Sutcombe."

Reggie did not start; but, for the first time in his life, the young man looked nonplussed and discomfited; he regarded the father and son with a puzzled stare, then, with an exclamation, he cried,

"Of course, the elder brother! Then—then you, Green, are Lord Heyton?" He smiled as if he himself had conferred the title of nobility on Derrick. "Well, this knocks me out. No more detective novels for me! Realism is my line for the future. And yet, what a novel it would make!"

"You shall write it some day, Reggie," said Derrick, with a smile.

"Some day?" retorted Reggie. "I'm going to write it at once! Come away, Lady Gridborough! This is no place for us," he added tactfully, and, taking her hand, he led the bewildered old lady out of the room, nodding, with a smile of intense gratification, over his shoulder at Derrick.