The mystery was never solved. Who was guilty of the crime? That question was never answered. Some accused Mrs. Larcher despite her acquittal and death. Others insisted that Jeringham was the criminal; but no one could be certain of the truth. Hilliston, seeing that Mr. and Mrs. Larcher were dead, that Mona, Denis, and Jeringham had disappeared, wisely kept the matter secret from Claude, deeming that it would be folly to disturb the mind of the lad with an insoluble riddle of so terrible a nature. So for five-and-twenty years the matter had remained in abeyance. Now it seemed as though it were about to be reopened by Mrs. Bezel.
"And who—" asked Claude of himself, as he finished this history in the gray dawn of the morning, "who is Mrs. Bezel?"
To say the least, he had a right to ask himself this question, for it was curious that the name of Mrs. Bezel was not even mentioned in connection with that undiscovered crime of five-and-twenty years before.
A STRANGE COINCIDENCE.
Inspite of Tait's methodical habits, circumstances beyond his control often occurred to upset them. On the previous day the unexpected arrival of Claude had altered his plans for the day, and after his return from the theater on the same evening, he had—contrary to his rule—passed the night in reading. The invaluable Dormer had procured "A Whim of Fate" from Mudie's, and Tait found it lying on the table in company with biscuits and wine. Excited by the performance, he did not feel inclined to retire at his usual hour of midnight, and while sipping his wine, picked up the first volume to while away the time till he should feel sleepy.
Alas! this novel, about which everyone in London was talking, proved anything but soporific, and for the whole of that night Tait sat in his comfortable chair devouring the three volumes. The tale was one of mystery, and until he learned the solution Tait, conventional and incurious as he was, could not tear himself from the fascination of the printed page. When the riddle was read, when the criminal was hunted down, when the bad were punished, and the good rewarded, the dawn was already breaking in the east. In his Jermyn Street hotel, Claude Larcher was rising, stiff and tired, from the perusal of a tragedy in real life; in his Earls Street chambers, Spenser Tait wasclosing the third volume of John Parver's work. Each had passed a wakeful night, each had been fascinated by the account of a crime, the one real, the other fictional. So does Fate, whose designs no one can presume to explain, duplicate our lives for the gaining of her own ends.
Rather disgusted by his departure from the conventional, and heartily blaming the too ingenious John Parver for having caused such departure, Tait tumbled hastily into bed, in order to snatch a few hours' sleep. Dormer, ignorant of his master's vigil, woke him remorselessly at his usual hour, with the unexpected intelligence that Mr. Larcher was waiting to see him in the sitting room. From the telegram of the previous night, and this early visit, Tait rightly concluded that his friend was in trouble, so without waiting to take his bath, he hurriedly slipped on a dressing gown, and appeared sleepy and disheveled in the sitting room. Larcher, who looked likewise dissipated, arose to his feet as the little man entered, and they eyed one another in astonishment, for the appearance of each was totally at variance with his usual looks.
"Well," said Tait interrogatively, "I see you've been making a night of it."
"I might say the same of you," replied Larcher grimly; "a more dissipated looking wretch I never saw. Have you fallen into bad habits at your age?"
"That depends on what you call bad habits, Claude. I have not been round the town, if that is what you mean. But, seduced by the novel of a too ingenious author, I have sat up all night devouring his three volumes. Such a thing has not occurred with me since I unfortunately tried to read myself to sleepwith 'Jane Eyre.' Charlotte Brontë and John Parver are both answerable for my white nights. But you," continued Tait, surveying his friend in a quizzical manner; "am I to understand that——"
"You are to understand that my night has been a duplicate of your own," interrupted Larcher curtly.
"What! Have you been reading 'A Whim of Fate'?"
"No, my friend, I have not. While you were devouring fiction, I have been making myself acquainted with a tragedy in real life."
Larcher thereupon savagely threw on the breakfast table a roll of papers, and looked defiantly at his friend. Tone and expression failed to elicit surprise.
"Oh!" said Tait reflectively, "then Hilliston gave you bad news, after all. I guessed he had from your refusal to accompany me to the theater last night."
"You guessed rightly. He gave me such news as I never expected to hear. You will find it amply set forth in those papers, which I have been reading all night."
"Dear me. I trust it is nothing serious. Has Mrs. Bezel——"
"I don't know anything about Mrs. Bezel," said Larcher loudly. "So far as she is concerned I am as much in the dark as ever. But my parents——"
"What of them?" interrupted Tait, uttering the first thought which came into his mind. "Are they alive, after all?"
"No. They are dead, sure enough," muttered Claude gloomily.
"In that case what can Mr. Hilliston or Mrs. Bezelhave to say about them," demanded the other, looking puzzled. "No scandal about Queen Elizabeth, I hope?"
"Confound it, man, don't be so flippant! I've had bad news, I tell you. My father,"—here Larcher gulped down his emotion with some difficulty—"my father was murdered!"
"Murdered!" repeated Tait, looking aghast, as well he might.
"Yes! And my mother was accused of having murdered him. There you have it."
It was some little time before Tait could face the skeleton so unexpectedly produced from the Larcher cupboard. Hitherto his acquaintance with crime had been mainly derived from fiction after the style of John Parver, or from the columns of the press; but now he was brought face to face with a tragedy indirectly connected with his dearest friend, and naturally enough did not like the situation. Nevertheless, like the wise little man he was, he made no comment on the truth so suddenly blurted out, but pushed his friend into a comfortable chair, and proposed breakfast.
"Breakfast!" cried Claude, clutching his hair; "I could not eat a morsel. Have you no feelings, you little monster, to propose breakfast to me, after hearing such hideous news. Why don't you give me sympathy, and try and help me, instead of sitting at your confounded rasher of bacon like a graven image."
"I'll do all in my power later on," said Tait quietly; "but you are upset by this news, and no wonder. Try and eat a little, then you can tell me all about it, and I'll give you the best advice in my power."
Thus adjured, Claude drew in his chair, and managedto eat a morsel of toast and drink a cup of coffee, after which he lighted his pipe, and smoked furiously, while Tait, anxious that his friend should regain his self-control, made a lengthened meal, and talked of divers matters. Breakfast over, he also filled his favorite pipe, and, drawing a chair close to that of Larcher's, waited for an explanation.
"Well, Claude," said he, after a pause, during which the other showed no disposition to speak, "tell me your trouble."
"I have told you," grumbled Larcher angrily; "if you want to know any more about it, read those papers."
"It would take too long, and, as it happens, I am already tired with reading. Tell me about the affair as shortly as possible, and then we can go through the papers together. You say your father was murdered. Who committed the crime?"
"No one knows! The criminal is still at large."
"After five-and-twenty years he is likely to remain so."
"No!", cried Larcher vehemently, striking the table; "I'll hunt him down, and find him out, and put a rope round his neck, so help me God!"
"You say your mother was accused of the crime," said Tait, ignoring this outburst.
"Yes. But she was acquitted on the evidence of my father's valet. Shortly afterward she died in London. I don't wonder at it," said poor Claude distractedly; "the shame, the disgrace! If she survived she was bitterly punished. I should like to see the man who would dare to asperse her memory."
"No one will do so," said Tait soothingly. "Controlyourself, my dear fellow, and we will look into this matter together. I have just been reading about a crime, but I did not think I would be so soon concerned in dealing with one."
"You will help me, Tait? You will stand by me?"
"My dear friend, can you ask? I am completely at your service, and together we will do all in our power to discover the murderer of your father and clear the memory of your mother."
"It is clear. She was acquitted by the jury. Don't you dare to——"
"I don't dare to say anything," interrupted Tait impatiently. "Do be reasonable, my good fellow. So long as I am ignorant, I can say nothing. Tell me the particulars and we may arrive at some conclusion. Now then, give me aprécisof the case."
Dominated by the superior calm of his friend, Claude related the Larcher affair as succinctly as possible. The details of the case had impressed themselves too strongly on his brain for him to hesitate in the narration, and, keeping his emotions well in hand, he managed to give a fairly minute account of the tragedy which had taken place at Horriston in the year 1866.
The effect on Tait was surprising. A look of blank astonishment overspread his face as Larcher proceeded with his story, and when it was finished he looked anxiously at his friend. Apart from the details of the case, he was deeply interested in the matter from another point of view. Larcher waited to hear what his friend thought of the case, but instead of commenting thereon Tait both acted and spoke in an apparently irrelevant manner.
Without a word he heard Claude to the end, thenrose from his seat, and walking to the other end of the room returned with three volumes bound in red cloth.
"This book is called 'A Whim of Fate,'" said he placing the volumes at Larcher's elbow. "Have you read it?"
"Confound it, what do you mean?" burst out Claude, with justifiable wrath. "I tell you of a serious matter which nearly concerns myself, and you prattle about the last fashionable novel."
"Wait a minute," said Tait, laying a detaining hand on his friend's coat sleeve. "There is more method in my madness than you give me credit for."
"What do you mean?"
"The story you tell me is most extraordinary. But the information I am about to impart to you is more extraordinary still. You say this crime at Horriston was committed five-and-twenty years ago."
"Yes, you can see by the date of those newspapers."
"It has very likely faded out of all memories."
"Of course! I don't suppose anyone is now alive who gives it a thought."
"Well," said Tait, "it is certainly curious."
"What is curious? Explain yourself."
"The story you tell me now was known to me last night."
Larcher looked at his friend in unconcealed surprise, and promptly contradicted what seemed to be a foolish assertion.
"That is impossible, Tait. I heard it only last night myself."
"Nevertheless, I read it last night."
"Read it last night!" repeated Larcher skeptically.
"In this book," said Tait, laying his hand on the novel.
"What do you mean?" demanded the other impatiently.
"I mean that John Parver, the author of this book, has utilized the events which took place at Horriston in 1866 for the purpose of writing a work of fiction. The story you tell me is told in these pages, and your family tragedy is the talk of literary London."
TRUTH IS STRANGER THAN FICTION.
Thisastonishing statement was received by Claude with a disbelieving smile; and so convinced was he of its untruth that he affected anger at what he really believed to be the flippancy of Tait's conduct.
"It is no doubt very amusing for you to ridicule my story," said he, with cold dignity, "but it is hardly the act of a friend. Some matters are too serious to form the subject of a jest; and this——"
"I am not jesting," interrupted Tait eagerly. "I assure you that the tragedy which concerned your parents forms the subject-matter of this novel. You can read the book yourself, and so be convinced that I am speaking the truth. The names and places are no doubt fictional, but the whole story is narrated plainly enough."
Larcher turned over the three volumes with a puzzled expression. That a story with which he had only become acquainted within the last twenty-four hours should be printed in a book, and that the book itself should be brought so speedily under his notice, seemed to him quite inexplicable. The strangeness of the occurrence paralyzed his will, and, contrary to his usual self-dependence, he looked to Tait for guidance.
"What do you think of it?" he asked irresolutely.
"Ah! That requires some consideration, my friend. But before we go into the matter let us understand our position toward each other. You believe this story of your father's death?"
"Certainly. Mr. Hilliston would not tell me an untruth, and moreover this bundle of extracts from provincial newspapers confirms his statement. I truly believe that my father, George Larcher, was murdered at Horriston in 1866 by—and there you have me—I know not by whom. My own opinion is that Jeringham is——"
"One moment, Claude! Let us settle all preliminaries. Are you resolved to take up this matter!"
"I am! I must clear the memory of my mother, and avenge the death of my father."
"Would it not be better to let sleeping dogs lie?" suggested Tait, with some hesitation.
"I do not think so," replied Claude quietly. "I am not a sentimental man, as you know; and my nature is of too practical a kind to busy itself with weaving ropes of sand. Yet in this instance I feel that it is my duty to hunt down and punish the coward who killed my father. When I find him, and punish him, this ghost of '66 will be laid aside; otherwise, it will continue to haunt and torture me all my life."
"But your business?"
"I shall lay aside my business till this matter is settled to my satisfaction. As you know, I have a private income, and am not compelled to work for my daily bread. Moreover, the last four years have brought me in plenty of money, so that I can afford to indulge my fancy. And my fancy," added Claude in a grim tone, "is to dedicate the rest of my life to discoveringthe truth. Do you not approve of my decision?"
"Yes, and no," said Tait evasively. "I think your hunt for an undescribed criminal, whose crime dates back twenty-five years, is rather a waste of time. All clews must have disappeared. It seems hopeless for you to think of solving the mystery. And if you do," continued the little man earnestly, "if you do, what possible pleasure can you derive from such a solution? Your father is a mere name to you, so filial love can have nothing to do with the matter. Moreover, the criminal may be dead—he may be——"
"You have a thousand and one objections," said Larcher impatiently, "none of which have any weight with me. I am in the hands of Fate. A factor has entered into my life which has changed my future. Knowing what I now know, I cannot rest until I learn the truth. Do you know the story of Mozart?" he added abruptly.
"I know several stories of Mozart. But this special one I may not know."
"It is told either of Mozart or Mendelssohn! I forget which," pursued Larcher, half to himself. "When Mozart—let us say Mozart—was ill in bed, one of his friends struck a discord on the piano, which required what is technically known as a resolution for its completion. The omission so tortured the sensitive ear of the musician that, when his friend departed, he rose from his bed and completed the discord in accordance with musical theory. Till that was done he could not rest."
"And the point of your parable?"
"Can you not see? This incomplete case of murderis my discord. I must complete it by discovering the criminal, and so round off the case, or submit to be tortured by its hinted mystery all my life. It is not filial love, it is not sentiment, it is not even curiosity, it is simply a desire to complete a matter hitherto left undone. Till I know the sequel to the Horriston tragedy, I shall feel in a state of suspense—and suspense," added Claude emphatically, "is torture to men of my temperament."
"Your reason is a trifle whimsical," said Tait, smiling at the application of this musical theory to the present instance, "but I can understand your feelings. Indeed, I feel the same way myself."
"You!"
"Why not? In reading 'A Whim of Fate,' I could not go to rest without knowing the end, and I feel a like curiosity toward this tragedy of real life. I shall not be content till I learn the truth. My feelings are precisely the same as your own. Therefore," pursued Tait, with emphasis, "I propose to assist you in your search. We will discuss the matter calmly, and see what is best to be done. In spite of the lapse of five-and-twenty years, who knows but what we may lay hands on the murderer of your father, who is no doubt now living in fancied security."
"Unless he is dead."
"Who is making the objections now?" said Tait, smiling. "Well, Claude, will you accept me as your brother detective in this matter?"
"Willingly, and I thank you for this proof of your friendship."
"I am afraid there is an element of selfishness mixed up in my offer," said Tait, shrugging his shoulders."It is not every day that one can find an interesting case like this to dissect. Excitement is the joy of life, and I rather think we will be able to extract a great deal from this investigation. Come! We now understand one another."
Larcher grasped the hand held out to him, and gratefully accepted the aid thus offered. From that moment the two dedicated themselves to hunt down the criminal at whose hands George Larcher had met his death. It was as strange a compact as had ever been made. Halting Nemesis, who had rested all these years, once more resumed her stealthy progress, and before her ran these two young men, as ministers of her long-delayed revenge. This junction of unforeseen circumstances savored of the dramatic.
"The first thing to be done," said Tait, when the compact was thus concluded, "is to read both cases."
"Both cases!" repeated Claude curiously.
"Yes! You remember how Browning gives half a dozen aspects of the same case in his 'Ring and the Book.' In a minor degree we benefit in the same manner. There," said Tait, pointing to the roll of newspapers, "is the case from the real point of view, and here, in these three volumes, we will find the same case as considered in a fictional fashion by the novelist. By reading both we may come to some conclusion whence to start in our talk. Last night you read the newspapers; I the novel. To-day we will reverse the process. I will view the affair as set forth by the provincial press, and you will devour the three volumes of John Parver as I did last night."
"And afterward?"
"Eh! Who can say?" replied Tait, shrugging hisshoulders. Several sojourns in Paris had left their trace in Gallic gestures, and possibly in Gallic flippancy. "We must know what foundation we have before we build."
Claude nodded. He was of the same way of thinking himself, and commented on his friend's speech after his own fashion.
"Yes," said he a trifle vindictively, "we must build our gallows stanch and strong. You can proceed with your toilet, and afterward we will read novels and newspapers, as you suggest. The result of our reading must appear in our actions. I rather think," he added slowly, "that the result will be a visit to Mr. Hilliston."
"Without doubt. He was an eye-witness, and it is always preferable to obtain evidence first hand."
"Then," said Claude reflectively, "there is Mrs. Bezel."
"Quite so! The enterprising lady who started the whole thing. Was she also an eye-witness?"
"I can't say. Her name does not appear in the newspapers."
"Humph!" muttered Tait, scratching his chin. "Nor in those three volumes can I find a character likely to develop into Mrs. Bezel of Hampstead."
"I wonder who she can be," said Claude curiously, "or what she can have to do with the case."
"That we must find out. Depend upon it, there is more in this case than in newspapers or novel. We must find out all about Mrs. Bezel, and," said Tait, with emphasis, "we must learn all that is to be learned concerning John Parver."
"Who is John Parver?"
"Who was the Man in the Iron Mask?" replied Tait, in a bantering tone. "I cannot say. But whomsoever he may be, he knows all about this case."
"There is that possibility, certainly," assented the other smoothly, "but I think it hardly likely. A man of to-day would not readily come across the account of a tragedy occurring in a little known town twenty-five years ago. Do you know," he added, after a pause, "that it occurs to me that the publication of this book, containing an account of the case, may have been the cause which incited Mrs. Bezel to write the letter."
"I thought so myself. Mrs. Bezel may think that John Parver is anom de plumeassumed by Claude Larcher."
"Or another alternative. Mrs. Bezel may be John Parver herself. It is the fashion nowadays for women to write under the names of men."
There was a few minutes' silence, during which each man was intent on his own thoughts. Tait, whose brain turned quicker than that of Larcher, was the first to break the silence.
"Well," said he, moving briskly toward his bedroom door, "before we can say or do anything we must learn the facts of the case."
As he vanished into his room Claude laid his hand on the first of the three volumes.
"LET SLEEPING DOGS LIE."
Onthe journey of life we sometimes come to a dead stop. Obstacles arise which bar our further progress, and circumstances, impossible to do away with, confront us on all sides. We cannot go back, for in life there is no retrogression; we cannot proceed, owing to blocked paths, and so stand hopeless and powerless, waiting for the word or action of Fate. She, unseen but almighty deity, alone can remove the hindrance which prevents our progress, and until she speaks or acts, we can do nothing but wait. It is on such occasions that we feel how truly we are the puppets of some unknown power.
Francis Hilliston had arrived at some such stoppage. Hitherto his keen brain, his strong will, his capability for decisive action, had carried him onward from past to present, through present to future. When obstacles had arisen they had been easily swept away, and with his own life in his hands, he was perfectly satisfied of his power to mold it to his liking. Possibly Fate, who is a somewhat jealous deity, felt angered at the egotistic self-reliance of the man; for without warning she brought him to a dead stop, then grimly waited to see how his boasted cunning would outwit her. As she probably foresaw, the man did nothing but await her decision. It was the only thing he could do.
For five-and-twenty years the Horriston tragedy had been unmentioned, unthought of; Hilliston deemed that it was relegated to the category of unknown crimes, and having in mind his friendship for the parents, and his love for the son, was not unwilling that it should be so. He did not wish Claude to know of the matter, he was not desirous that he should come in contact with Mrs. Bezel; and hitherto had managed so well that neither contingency had eventuated. Congratulating himself on his dexterity, he remained lulled in fancied security, when Fate, observant of his complacency, sent a bolt from the blue, and brought him up short. Now, Hilliston, forced by circumstances to tell the truth to Larcher, did not know what to do. He could only wait for the fiat of the higher power.
Grimly satisfied that she had brought home his fault, and had shown him his moral weakness, Fate made the next move, and sent Larcher and his friend to Lincoln's Inn Fields to again set Hilliston on his former journey. The paralysis of will which had seized the elder man did not extend to the younger; for Claude arrived full of anxiety to begin the search for the undiscovered criminal. The first result of his compact with Tait was this visit to the lawyer.
"Claude Larcher; Spenser Tait," muttered Hilliston, glancing at the cards brought in by his clerk. "I thought as much; the matter is out of my hands now. Show the gentlemen in," he added sharply.
The clerk departed, and Hilliston walked quickly to the window, where he stood biting his nails. All geniality had vanished from his face; he looked older than his years, and an unaccustomed frown wrinkled his expansive forehead. A crisis had come which heknew not how to meet; so, after the fashion of men when they feel thus helpless, he left the decision in the hands of Fate. Which was precisely what Fate wanted.
"Good-morning, Claude! Good-morning, Mr. Tait!" said Hilliston, welcoming the young men with artificial enthusiasm. "I expected to see you today."
"Surely you did not expect to see me?" said Tait, in a silky tone, as he placed his hat on the table.
"Indeed, I did! Where Damon is Phintias is sure to be. That Claude's perusal of those papers would result in your accompanying him to this office, I felt sure. I was right. Here you are!"
Mr. Hilliston affected a cheerfulness he was far from feeling. With increasing age a distaste had come for violent excitements, and with one of Claude's temperament he knew that the chances were that the ensuing quarter of an hour would be somewhat stirring. Contrary to his expectations, however, Larcher was eager, but calm, and Hilliston, assuring himself that the calmness was genuine, began to hope that the interview would pass off better than he expected. Still, none of us like to reopen a disagreeable chapter of the book of life, and this Mr. Hilliston, against his will and inclination, was about to do.
"Well, sir," said Claude, when they were all seated, and the hush of expectancy was in the air, "I have read those papers."
"Yes," said Mr. Hilliston interrogatively; "and what do you think of the matter?"
"I think it is a very black case."
"You are quite right, Claude. It is a very blackcase indeed. I did all in my power to bring the criminal to justice, but without success."
"Who is the criminal?" asked Larcher, with a keen glance at his guardian.
Hilliston shuffled his feet uneasily, by no means relishing the directness of the question.
"That is a difficult question to answer," he said slowly; "in fact an impossible one. My suspicions point to Jeringham."
From this point Tait made a third in the conversation.
"That is because Jeringham disappeared on the night of the murder," he said leisurely.
"Yes. I think that circumstance alone is very suspicious."
"He was never found again?"
"Never. We advertised in all the papers; we employed detectives, inquired privately, but all to no result. The last person who saw Jeringham was Mrs. Larcher. He parted from her at the door of The Laurels, and vanished into the night. It still hides him."
"What do you conclude from that, sir?" asked Claude, after a pause.
"I can only conclude one thing," replied Hilliston, with great deliberation, "that your father, suspicious of Jeringham, returned on that night from London, and saw the parting. The result is not difficult to foresee. It is my own opinion that there were words between the men, possibly a struggle, and that the matter ended in the murder of your father by Jeringham. Hence the discovery of the body thrown into the river, hence the flight of the murderer."
"Was this the generally received opinion at the time?"
"Yes. I can safely say that it was believed Jeringham was guilty, and had fled to escape the consequences of his crime."
"In that case, how was it that Mrs. Larcher was arrested?" asked Tait skeptically.
"You cannot have read the case carefully, to ask me that," replied Hilliston sharply. "She was arrested on the evidence of the dagger. Without doubt the crime was committed with the dagger, and as she had worn it, the inference was drawn that she was the guilty person. But she was acquitted, and left the court—as the saying is—without a stain on her character."
"Nevertheless she died, Mr. Hilliston."
"Shame killed her," said the lawyer sadly. "She was a foolish woman in many ways,—your pardon, Claude, for so speaking,—but she was not the woman to commit so foul a crime. Indeed, I believe she was fondly attached to her husband till Jeringham came between them."
"Ah!" interposed Tait composedly, "that is John Parver's view."
"John Parver?" repeated Hilliston, with well-bred surprise. "I do not know that name in connection with the case."
"Nor do we know the name of Mrs. Bezel," said Claude quickly.
Hilliston started, and looked at Claude as though he would read his very soul. The inscrutability of the young man's countenance baffled him, and he turned off the remark with a dry laugh.
"With Mrs. Bezel we will deal hereafter," he said shortly; "but who is this John Parver!"
"He is the author of a book called 'A Whim of Fate.'"
"A novel?"
"Yes. A novel which embodies the whole of this case."
"That is strange," said Hilliston quietly, "but no doubt the author has come across the details in some old provincial journal, and made use of them. The Larcher affair caused a great deal of talk at the time, but it is certainly remarkable that a novelist should have made use of it for fictional purposes after the lapse of so many years. I must read the book. Just note the name of it here, Mr. Tait, if you please."
Tait did so, and Hilliston continued:
"Is my character in the book?"
"I think so. Under the name of Michael Dene!"
"I trust the author has been flattering to me. By the way, who does he say committed the crime?"
"Michael Dene."
Hilliston went gray on the instant, as though a sudden blow had been struck at his heart. Two pairs of keen eyes were fixed on his face with some surprise, and uneasy at the scrutiny, he strove to recover his composure.
"Upon my word," he said, with quivering lips, "I am infinitely obliged to John Parver for describing me as a murderer. And what motive does he ascribe to me, or rather to Michael Dene, for the committal of the crime?"
"Love for the wife," said Tait, smiling.
"Eh! That is rather the rôle of Jeringham, Ishould say," replied Hilliston, the color coming back to lips and cheek. "I must read this novel, and if possible discover the identity of the author."
"Oh, we will do that!"
"Claude!" cried the lawyer, in astonishment.
"I and Tait. We intend to follow out this case to the end."
"It is useless! Five-and-twenty years have elapsed."
"Nevertheless, I am determined to hunt down the murderer of my father," said Claude decisively. "Besides, we have two eye-witnesses to the tragedy. Yourself and Mrs. Bezel."
"Ah! Mrs. Bezel! I forgot her. Certainly, I will do all in my power to help you, Claude. Your father was my dearest friend, and I shall only be too glad to avenge his fate. But if I could not do it at the moment, how can I hope to do so now—after so long a period has elapsed?"
"Leave that to us, sir. Tait and I will attend to the active part of the business. All we ask you to do is to give us such information as lies in your power."
"I will do that with pleasure," said Hilliston, who by this time was thoroughly master of himself. "What is it you wish to know."
"We wish to know all about Mrs. Bezel. Who is she? What has she to do with the case? Why is not her name mentioned in these pages?"
"For answers to these questions you had better apply to the lady herself. You have her address. Why not call on her?"
"I intend to do so to-morrow."
The old man rose from his seat, and took a turn up and down the room. Then he paused beside Claude,and laid a trembling hand on the young man's shoulder.
"I have been a good friend to you, Claude."
"You have been my second father—my real father," said Larcher gently. "I shall never forget your kindness. I would return it if I could."
"Then do so, by letting sleeping dogs lie."
"What do you mean by that, Mr. Hilliston?" asked the other, with a subtle change in his tone.
"Abandon this case. Do not call on Mrs. Bezel. You can do no good by reopening the affair. It was a mystery years ago, it is a mystery still; it will remain a mystery till the end of time."
"Not if I can help it. I am sorry to disoblige you, sir, but my mind is made up. I am determined to find out the truth."
Hilliston sighed, passed his hand across his forehead, and returned to his seat, hopeless and baffled. He was sufficiently acquainted with Claude's character to know that he was not easily turned from his purpose, and that his resolution to solve the mystery would be resolutely carried out. Yet he made one more attempt to bend the young man to his will.
"If you are wise you will not call on Mrs. Bezel."
"Why not, sir?"
"It will give you great pain."
"All my pain is past," replied Claude quickly. "I can suffer no more than I did when reading these papers. I must call on Mrs. Bezel; I must know the truth, and," added he significantly, "I have your promise to assist me."
"I will do all in my power," answered Hillistonwearily, "but you do not know what are you doing. I am older and more experienced than you, and I give you my best advice. Do not see Mrs. Bezel, and leave the Larcher affair alone."
The result of this well-meant advice was that Claude called the next morning on Mrs. Bezel.
BOTH SIDES OF THE QUESTION.
Man'slife has frequently been compared to a river. In childhood it is a trickling thread, in youth a stream, in manhood a majestic river, and finally in old age is swallowed up in the ocean of death. A very pretty parable, but somewhat stale. It is time that life was indicated by a new metaphor. Let us therefore compare the life of man to the ocean itself. Like the ocean life has its calms and storms, its sullen rages, its caressing moments; and like the ocean—for this is the main point of the illustration—it has its profound depths, containing a hundred secrets unknown to the outer world. Francis Hilliston was like the ocean: all knew the surface, few were acquainted with the depths below.
A man who leads a double life need never feel dull. He may be nervous, anxious, fearful lest his secret should be discovered, but the constant vigilance required to hide it preserves him from the curse of ennui. He ever keeps the best side of his nature uppermost; his smiles are for the world, his brow is smoothed to lull suspicion. But to continue the simile of the ocean: in the depths lie many terrible things which never come to the surface; things which he scarcely dare admit even to himself. Francis Hilliston was one of these men.
Everyone knew Hilliston of Lincoln's Inn Fields, or thought they did, which is quite a different thing. He was widely respected in the profession; he was popular in society; hand and glove with prominent and wealthy personages. His house at Kensington Gore was richly furnished; his wife was handsome and fashionable; he gave splendid entertainments, at which none was more jocund than the host himself; he was, outwardly, all that was prosperous and popular. In his professional capacity he was the repository of a thousand secrets, but of all these none was more terrible than the one locked up in his own breast.
Long years of training, constant necessity, had taught him how to control his emotions, to turn his face into a mask of inscrutability; yet he succeeded ill at times, as witness his interview with the two young men. Not all his powers of self-repression could keep his face from turning gray; nor prevent the perspiration beading his brow; nor steady his voice to well-bred indifference. Usually he succeeded in masking his emotion; this time he had failed, and, worst of all, he knew that he had failed.
It was not Claude that he feared, for the young man was not of a suspicious nature; and even had he been so, would certainly have scoffed at the idea of attributing any evil to the one who had been to him a father. Tait, silent, observant, and cynical, was the person to be dreaded. Accustomed by his profession to read faces, Hilliston had seen that the quiet little man was possessed of one of those inquisitive penetrative natures, which suspect all men, and from a look, a gesture, a pause, can draw evidence to support any suspicion they may entertain.
Certainly Tait had no reason to distrust Hilliston when he entered the room, but during the interview he appeared dissatisfied with the lawyer's manner. That Hilliston should attempt to dissuade Claude from prosecuting a search for his father's murderer seemed strange; but that he should betray such marked agitation at the idea of such searching taking place was stranger still. Altogether Tait left the office in a very dissatisfied state of mind. Hilliston had sufficient penetration to note this, and when left alone was at his wit's end how to baffle the unwarrantable curiosity of this intruder.
"I don't mind Claude," he said, pacing up and down the room, "he has not sufficient brain power to find out anything. I do not want him to know. But this Tait is dangerous. He is one of those dogged creatures, who puts his nose to the scent, and never leaves the trail till the prey is captured. It is with him I have to deal, not with Claude."
His agitation almost mastered him, and he hurriedly took a small bottle from a drawer in his desk. Dropping the contents of this into a glass of water, he drank off the draught, and in a short space of time regained his composure, in some measure. Then he sat down to think, and plot, and plan how to baffle the vigilance of Tait.
"That infernal woman has done it all," he muttered savagely; "she has lighted the fire. Let us see how she will put it out. But she cannot put it out," he added, striking his forehead with his clenched fist; "it will blaze and burn. I shall burn with it unless——"
There was a strange smile on his lips, as an idea entered his mind, and he glanced quickly at his watch.
"Four o'clock. Claude can't possibly call on Margaret to-day, so I have yet time to prepare her for his visit. I must silence her at any cost. She must hold her tongue or ruin us both. Great Heavens! to think that she should break out like this after five-and-twenty years. It is enough to drive me mad."
By this time he had put on his gloves, and stretched his hand toward his hat, which stood on a side table. A glance in the glass showed him how old and gray he looked, and the sight was so unexpected that he started in dismay.
"Bah! I look as though I were going to fail," he said to himself, "but I must not fail. I dare not fail. At sixty, rich, honored, respected, I am not going to fall from the pedestal I have reached. I shall reassure Claude. I shall baffle Tait. I shall silence Margaret. The first move in the game is mine."
Calm, dignified, easy, he left his office, and stepped into the brougham waiting at the door. To judge by appearance, one would have thought him the most respectable and upright man in London. No one knew what lurked behind that benevolent expression. His mask had fallen for the moment when Tait was present; now it was on again, and he went forth to deceive the world. Yet he had an uneasy consciousness that one man at least guessed his real character.
"Never mind," he thought, as the footman closed the door of the brougham, "it will be strange if, with my age and experience and reputation and money, I cannot baffle him."
He did not go direct home, as it was yet early, and he had one or two things to do in connection with his new task. First he drove to Tait's chambers, andascertained from the porter that the two young men were within.
"Never mind sending up my name, I won't disturb them," he said, when the porter requested his card. "I only wished to speak to Mr. Tait about a box at the theater."
"If it is the Lyceum you mean, sir, I have just got two stalls for Mr. Tait."
"Ah! I may see them there," replied Hilliston negligently; and as he drove away reflected: "Good! They have not yet been to Hampstead; nor do they intend to go to-night. Mr. Tait has yet to learn the value of time."
Driving through Piccadilly he stopped at a bookshop, and with some difficulty, for the demand was large, obtained a copy of "A Whim of Fate." He began to read it in the brougham, and skimmed its pages so rapidly that by the time he reached Kensington Gore he had nearly finished the first volume. He did not recognize himself in the character of Michael Dene, and became more convinced than ever that the coincidence of the Larcher affair forming the plot of a novel, was due to the author's reading the case in some old provincial newspaper. On every page it betrayed that, to him, the story was hearsay.
Fortunately Mrs. Hilliston was driving in the Park, so the lawyer shut himself up in his library, and went on reading the story. He did not see his wife till dinner, which took place at eight o'clock, and then descended in his ordinary clothes, looking ill and pale. Something he had read in the novel had startled him more than he cared to confess—even to himself.
"You must excuse my dress, Louise," he said, ontaking his seat, "but I have been so engrossed with a novel that I did not hear the dressing bell."
"It has not had a pleasant effect on you," replied his wife, smiling; "you do not look at all well."
"I am not well," said Hilliston, who merely trifled with his food; "you must excuse me going with you to the Lamberts' to-night, as I think I shall call in and see my doctor."
"Are you so bad as all that?" questioned Mrs. Hilliston anxiously. "Why not send for Dr. Bland?"
"I prefer going to see him, Louise. You will probably not be back till three in the morning, so I will go to bed immediately on my return. Have no fear, my dear, it is only a trifling indisposition."
After these plain statements it was rather strange that Hilliston, in place of driving to Dr. Bland's, who lived in Hill Street, should direct the cab, which he picked up by the Park railings, to drive to Hampstead.
MRS. BEZEL.
Onecannot always judge by appearances either as regards human beings or houses. Mr. Hilliston was one excellent illustration of this rule; Clarence Cottage was another. It was in a narrow and crooked lane trending downward to the right, at the summit of Fitzjohn's Avenue; an unpretentious two-story building, divided from the public thoroughfare by a well-cultivated garden. Therein grew thyme and lavender, marigolds and pansies; for the owner of the cottage loved those homely flowers, and daily gazed at them from the bow-window wherein her couch was placed.
Mrs. Bezel never walked in her garden, for the all-sufficient reason that she was a helpless paralytic, and had not used her limbs for over ten years. Still a moderately young woman of forty-five, she possessed the remains of great beauty, ravaged by years of anxiety and mental trouble. Those passing along the lane usually saw her pale face at the window, and pitied the sufferings written in every line; sufferings which were apparent even to a casual glance. Noting the homely garden, the mean-looking dwelling, the anxious expression of the invalid, they deemed her to be some poor sickly creature, the scapegoat of nature and the world,who had sought this secluded spot in order to hide her troubles. This view was not entirely correct.
She was in ill-health, it is true; she dwelt in a small house certainly; and the anxious expression was seldom absent from her face. But she was in easy circumstances, untroubled by pecuniary worries, and the interior of the cottage was furnished with a magnificence more suggestive of Park Lane than of Hampstead. The outward aspect of the house, like that of Mr. Hilliston, was a lie.
Her sitting room resembled the boudoir of some Mayfair beauty. The curtains were of silk, the carpet velvet pile, the walls were adorned with costly pictures, and every corner of the small apartment was filled with sumptuous furniture. All that art could contribute, all that affection could suggest, were confined in the tiny space, and had Mrs. Bezel possessed the mines of Golconda she could not have been more luxuriously lodged. The house was a gem of its kind, perfect and splendid.
Mrs. Bezel took little interest in these material comforts. Her life was passed between a couch in the bow-window, a well-cushioned chair by the fire, and a downy bed in the next room. She had little appetite and did not enjoy her food; mental anxiety prevented her interesting herself in the splendors around her; and the only pleasure she took was her dreary journey in a Bath-chair when the weather permitted. Then, as she inhaled the fresh breeze blowing across the Heath, she gazed with longing eyes at London, almost hidden under its foggy veil, far below, and always returned with reluctance to the familiar splendors of her narrow dwelling. Fortune had given her much, but by wayof compensation had deprived her of the two things she most desired—of health and of love.
Even on this warm June evening a fire burned in the grate, for Mrs. Bezel was a chilly creature, who shrunk at the least breath of wind. According to custom, she had left the window couch at seven o'clock, and had taken her simple meal while seated in her large chair to the right of the fireplace. After dinner she took up a novel which was placed on a small table at her elbow, and tried to read; but her attention was not fixed on the book, and gradually it fell from her hands, while she gazed idly at the fire.
What she saw therein Heaven only knows. We all have our moments of retrospection, and can picture the past in the burning coals. Some even picture the future, but there was none for this woman. She was old, weary, diseased, worn-out, and therefore saw in the fire only the shadows of past years. Faces looked out of the flaming valleys, scenes arranged themselves in the red confusion; but among them all there was always one face, one scene, which never vanished as did the others. This special face, this particular scene, were fixed, immovable, cruel, and insistent.
The chime of the clock striking half-past nine roused her from her reverie, and she again addressed herself to the novel with a sigh. Tortured by her own thoughts, Mrs. Bezel was not accustomed to retire before midnight, and there were nearly three hours to be got through before that time. Her life was as dreary, and weary, and heart-breaking as that of Mariana in the Moated Grange.
The tread of a firm footfall in the distance roused her attention, and she looked expectantly toward thedoor, which faced her chair. The newcomer passed up the narrow garden path, entered the house, and, after a pause in the hall, presented himself in the sitting room. Mrs. Bezel knew who it was before the door opened; for standing on the threshold was the man with the face she had lately pictured amid the burning coals. Francis Hilliston and the woman who called herself Mrs. Bezel looked steadily at one another, but no sign of welcome passed between them. He was the first to break the awkward silence.
"How are you this evening, Margaret?" he asked, advancing toward her; "better, I hope. There is more color in your cheeks, more brightness in your eyes."
"I am the same as ever," she replied coldly, while he drew a chair close to the fire, and stretched out his hands to the blaze. "Why have you come here at this hour?"
"To see you."
"No doubt! But with what purpose?"
Hilliston pinched his nether lip between finger and thumb, frowning the while at the fire. Whatever had been, there was now no love between this woman and himself. But on no occasion had he noted so hostile a tone in her voice. He was aware that a duel of words and brains was about to ensue, and, knowing his antagonist, he took the button off his foil. There was no need for fine speaking or veiled hints in this conversation. It was advisable that all should be plain and straightforward, for they knew each other too well to wear their masks when alone. Under these circumstances he spoke the truth.
"I think you can guess my errand," he said suavely."It concerns the letter you wrote to Claude Larcher."
"I thought as much! And what more have you to say in connection with that affair?"
"I have merely to inform you that the man whom you desire to see is in London, and will no doubt answer your kind invitation in person."
Mrs. Bezel stretched out her hand and selected a letter from the little pile on her table.
"If you will look at that," she said coldly, "you will see that Claude intends to call on me at three o'clock to-morrow."
Taking the letter in silence, Hilliston turned frightfully pale, and the perspiration stood in large beads on his forehead. He expected some such appointment to be made, yet the evidence in his hand startled him all the same. The promptitude of action spoke volumes to one of his acute perceptions. To defend his good name would require all his skill and experience, for he had to do with men of action, who acted as quickly as they thought. The duel would be more equal than he had thought.
"Are you still determined to tell all," he said in a low tone, crushing the paper up in his hand.
"Yes."
The monosyllable was uttered in so icy a manner that Hilliston lost his temper completely. Before this woman there was no need for him to retain his smiling mask, and in a frenzy of rage he hurried into rapid speech, frantic and unconsidered.
"Ah, you would ruin me!" he cried, springing to his feet; "you would drag up those follies of '66, and make London too hot to hold me! Have I notimplored, threatened, beseeched, commanded—done everything in my power to make you hold your peace? Miserable woman, would you drag the man you love down to——"
"The man I loved you mean," responded Mrs. Bezel, in nowise moved by this torrent of abuse. "Pray do not be theatrical, Francis. You know me well enough to be aware that when my mind is made up I am not easily moved. A man of your brains," she added scornfully, "should know that loss of temper is but the prelude to defeat."
Recognizing the truth of this remark, Hilliston resumed his seat, and subdued his anger. Only the look of hatred in his eyes betrayed his real feelings; otherwise he was calm, suave, and self-controlled.
"Have you weighed the cost of your action?" he demanded quietly.
"Yes. It means ruin to us both. But the loss is yours, not mine. Helpless and deserted, life has no further charms for me, but you, Mr. Hilliston, doubtless feel differently."
"Margaret," he said entreatingly, "why do you speak like this? What harm have I done you that——"
"What harm!" she interrupted fiercely. "Have you not ruined me, have you not deserted me, have you not robbed me of all that I loved? My life has been one long agony, and you are to blame for it all. Not a word," she continued imperiously. "I shall speak. I insist upon your knowing the truth!"
"Go on," he said sullenly; "I listen."
"I loved you once, Francis. I loved you to my own cost. For your sake I lost everything—position, home, respect, and love. And you—what did you do?"
Hilliston looked round the room, and shrugged his shoulders. Look and gesture were so eloquent that she commented on them at once.
"Do you think I valued this splendor? I know well enough that you gave me all material comforts. But I wanted more than this. I wanted love."
"You had it."
"Aye! I had the passion such as you call love. Did it endure? You know well that it did not. So long as I was healthy and handsome and bright your attentions continued, but when I was reduced to this state, ten years ago, what did you do? Left me to marry another woman."
"It was not my fault," he muttered uneasily; "my affairs were involved, and, as my wife had money, I was forced to marry her."
"And you did marry her, and no doubt neglect her as you do me. Is Mrs. Hilliston any happier in her splendid house at Kensington Gore than I in this miserable cottage? I think not. I waited and waited, hoping your love would return. It did not; so I took my own course—revenge!"
"And so wrote to Claude Larcher!"
"Yes. Listen to me. I wrote the first letter on the impulse of the moment. I had been reading a book called 'A Whim of Fate,' which contained——"
"I know! I know! I read it myself this evening."
"Then you know that someone else is possessed of your secret. Who is John Parver?"
"I don't know. I intend to find out. Meanwhile I am waiting to hear the conclusion of your story."
Mrs. Bezel drew a long breath, and continued:
"The book, which contained an account of thetragedy at Horriston, brought the fact so visibly before me that I wrote on the impulse telling you that I wished to see Claude, and reveal all. You came and implored and threatened. Then my impulse became a fixed determination. I saw how I could punish you for your neglect, and so persisted in my scheme. I wrote to Claude, and he is coming here to-morrow."
"What do you intend to tell him?"
"So much of the death of his father as I know."
"You must not—you dare not," said Hilliston, with dry lips. "It means ruin!"
"To you, not to me."
"Impossible," he said curtly. "Our relations are too close for one to fall without the other."
"So you think," rejoined Mrs. Bezel coolly; "but I know how to protect myself. And of one thing you may be assured, I will say nothing against you. All I intend to do is to tell him of his father's death."
"He knows it already."
"What?"
"Yes! Did you think I was not going to be beforehand with you," sneered Hilliston triumphantly. "I guessed your intention when you wrote me that letter, and when Claude arrived in town I saw him before he could call here. I did not intend to tell him of the matter till your action forced me to do so. He has read all the papers in connection with his father's death, and intends to hunt down the murderer. Now, do you see what you have done?"
Apparently the brutal plainness of this speech strongly affected Mrs. Bezel. It seemed as though she had not comprehended till that moment what might bethe result of her actions. Now an abyss opened at her feet, and she felt a qualm of fear.
"Nevertheless, I intend to go on now that I have begun," she said gloomily. "I will answer any questions Claude may ask me."
"You will put him in possession of a clew."
"It is not improbable; but, as I said, life has no charms for me."
"You don't think of my sufferings," said Hilliston bitterly, rising to his feet.
"Did you think of mine during all these lonely years?" she retorted, with a sneer. "I shall punish you, as you punished me. There is such a thing as justice in this world."
"Well, I warn you that I shall protect myself."
"That is your lookout. But I will show you this mercy, as I said before. That nothing will be told by me of your connection with this affair. As to myself, I will act as I think best."
"You will tell him who you are?"
"Yes; I will tell him my real name."
"Then I am lost!"
"Surely not," she rejoined scornfully. "Francis Hilliston is old enough in villainy and experience to protect himself against a mere boy."
"It is not Claude I fear, but his friend, Spenser Tait. He is the dangerous person. But enough of this," added Hilliston, striking the table imperiously. "I forbid you to indulge in these follies. You know I have a means whereby to compel your obedience."
"It is your possession of that means that has turned me against you," she retorted dauntlessly. "If you give me back my——"
"Margaret! Not a word more! Let things remain as they are."
"I have said what I intend to do."
Hilliston ground his teeth. He knew that nothing he could say or do would shake the determination of this woman. He had already experienced her resolute will, and not even the means of which he spoke would shake her immovability. There was nothing more but to retire and protect himself as best he could. At all events, she promised to remain neutral so far as he was concerned. That was something gained. Before leaving the house, however, he made one final effort to force her to his will.
"I will not give you any more money."
"I don't care, Francis. This cottage and its contents are settled on me. A sale of this furniture will produce sufficient money to last my life. I can't live long now."
"I will deny all your statements."
"Do so!"
"I will have you declared insane and shut up in an asylum."
Mrs. Bezel laughed scornfully, and pointed toward the door.
"If that is all you have to say you had better go," she said jeeringly. "You know well enough that you cannot harm me without jeopardizing your own position."
They looked at one another fiercely, each trying to outstare the other. Hilliston's eyes were the first to fall, and he hastily turned toward the door.
"So be it," he said, with his hand on the knob;"you want war. You shall have it. See Claude, tell him all. I can defend myself."
On leaving the house a few minutes later, he paused irresolutely by the gate and looked back.
"If I could only find the paper," he muttered, "she could do nothing. As it is——"
He made a gesture of despair and plunged into the darkness.