A POPULAR AUTHOR.
Bearingin mind that the character of Hilliston had been rehabilitated by Mrs. Bezel, it was natural that Claude should feel somewhat annoyed at the persistent mistrust manifested toward that gentleman by Tait. However, he had no time to explain or expostulate at the present moment; and moreover, as he knew that the little man was assisting him in this difficult case out of pure friendship, he did not deem it politic to comment on what was assuredly an unfounded prejudice. Tait was singular in his judgments, stubborn in his opinions; so Claude, unwilling to risk the loss of his coadjutor, wisely held his peace. His astute companion guessed these thoughts, for in place of further remarking on the inexplicable presence of Hilliston, he turned the conversation toward the man they were about to see.
"Queer thing, isn't it?" he said, as they ascended the stairs. "Linton is the son of the vicar of Thorston."
"Ah! That no doubt accounts for his intimate knowledge of the locality. Do you know him?"
"Of course I do—as Frank Linton; but I had no idea that he was John Parver."
"Why did he assume anom de plume?"
Tait shrugged his shoulders. "Paternal prejudice, I believe," he said carelessly. "Mr. Linton does not approve of sensational novels, and, moreover, wishes his son to be a lawyer, not a literary man. Young Frank is in a solicitor's office in Lincoln's Inn Fields, and he employed his evenings in writing 'A Whim of Fate.' He published it under the name of 'John Parver,' so as to hoodwink his father, but now that he has scored a success I have no doubt he will confess."
"Do you think we will learn anything from him?"
"We will learn all we wish to know as to where he obtained his material. The young man's head is turned, and by playing on his vanity we may find out the truth."
"His vanity may lead him to conceal the fact that he took the plot from real life."
"I don't think so. I know the boy well, and he is a great babbler. No one is more astonished than I at learning that he is the celebrated John Parver. I didn't think he had the brains to produce so clever a book."
"It is clever!" assented Claude absently.
"Of course it is; much cleverer than its author," retorted Tait dryly; "or rather, I should say, its supposed author, for I verily believed Jenny Paynton helped him to write the book."
"Who is Jenny Paynton?"
"A very nice girl who lives at Thorston. She is twice as clever as this lad, and they are both great on literary matters. But I'll tell you all about this later on, for here is Linton."
The celebrated author was a light-haired, light-complexioned young man of six-and-twenty, withbowed shoulders, a self-satisfied smile, and a pince nez, which he used at times to emphasize his remarks. He evidently possessed conceit sufficient to stock a dozen ordinary men, and lisped out the newest ideas of the day, as promulgated by his college, for he was an Oxford man. Although he was still in his salad days, he had settled, to his own satisfaction, all the questions of life, and therefore adopted a calm superiority which was peculiarly exasperating. Claude, liberal-minded but hot-blooded, had not been five minutes in his company before he was seized with a wild desire to throw him out of the window. Frank Linton inspired that uncharitable feeling in many people.
For the moment, Mr. Linton was alone, as his latest worshiper, a raw-boned female of the cab-horse species, had just departed with a fat little painter in quest of refreshment. Therefore, when he turned to greet Claude, he was quite prepared to assume that fatigued self-conscious air, with which he thought fit to welcome new votaries.
"Linton, this is Mr. Larcher," said Tait abruptly. "Claude, you see before you the lion of the season."
"It is very good of you to say so, Mr. Tait," simpered the lion, in no wise disclaiming the compliment. "I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Larcher."
"And I yours, Mr. Linton, or shall I say Mr. Parver?"
"Oh, either name will answer," said the author loftily, "though in town I am known as Parver only."
"And in Thorston as Linton," interpolated Tait smartly. "Then your father does not yet know what a celebrated son he has?"
"Not yet, Mr. Tait. I intend to tell him next week. I go down to Thorston for that purpose."
"Ah! My friend and I will no doubt meet you there. We also seek rural felicity for a month. But now that you have taken London by storm, I suppose you intend to forsake the law for the profits."
"Of course I do," replied Linton quickly. "I never cared for the law, and only went into it to please my father."
"And now you go into literature to please Miss Paynton."
Linton blushed at this home thrust, and being readier with the pen than the tongue, did not know what answer to make. Pitying his confusion, and anxious to arrive at the main object of the interview, Claude interpolated a remark bearing thereon.
"Did you find it difficult to work out the plot of your novel, Mr. Linton?" he said, with assumed carelessness.
"Oh, not at all! The construction of a plot is second nature with me."
"I suppose you and Miss Paynton talked it over together," said Tait artfully.
"Well, yes," answered Linton, again falling into confusion; "I found her a good listener."
"I presume it was all new to her?"
"I think so. Of course she gave me some hints."
Evidently Linton was determined to admit nothing, so seeing that Tait's attack was thus repulsed, Claude brought up his reserve forces.
"I saw in a paper the other day that your book was an impossible one—that nothing analogous to its story ever happened in real life."
"Several critics have said that," replied Linton, growing angry, and thereby losing his caution, "but they are wrong, as I could prove did I choose to do so."
"What!" said Claude, in feigned astonishment. "Did you take the incident from real life?"
"The tale is founded on an incident from real life," answered Linton, flushing. "That is, Miss Paynton told me of a certain crime which was actually committed, and on her hint I worked out the story."
"Oh, Miss Paynton told you," said Tait smoothly; "and where did she see the account of this crime?"
"Ah, that I cannot tell you," replied Linton frankly. "She related the history of this crime, and refused to let me know whence she obtained it. I thought the idea a good one, and so wrote the novel."
"Why don't you tell this to the world, and so confound the critics?"
"I do! I have told several people. For instance, I told a gentleman about it this very evening, just because he made the same remark as Mr. Larcher did."
Tait drew a long breath, and stole a look at Claude. That young man had changed color and gave utterance to the first idea that entered his mind.
"Was it Mr. Hilliston who made the remark?"
"Hilliston! Hilliston!" said Linton thoughtfully. "Yes, I believe that was the man. A tall old gentleman, very fresh-colored. He was greatly interested in my literary work."
"Who could help being interested in so clever a book?" said Claude, in a meaning tone. "But Mr. Hilliston is a lawyer, and I suppose you do not like members of that profession."
"Now, why should you say that?" demanded Linton, rather taken aback by this perspicacity.
"Well, for one thing you admit a dislike for the law, and for another you make Michael Dene, the solicitor, commit the crime in 'A Whim of Fate.'"
"Oh, I only did that as he was the least likely person to be suspected," said the author easily. "Jenny—that is, Miss Paynton—wanted me to make Markham commit the crime."
"Markham is Jeringham," murmured Tait, under his breath. "Who committed the crime in the actual case?" he added aloud.
"No one knows," answered Linton, shrugging his shoulders. "The case as related to me was a mystery. I solved it after my own fashion."
"In the third volume you trace the assassin by means of a breastpin belonging to Michael Dene," said Claude, again in favor. "Is that fact or fiction?"
"Fiction! Miss Paynton invented the idea. She said that as the dagger inculpated the woman the breastpin found on the banks of the river would lead to the detection of the man. And, as I worked it out, the idea was a good one."
"Ah!" murmured Tait to himself, "I wonder if Mr. Hilliston had anything to do with a breastpin."
By this time Linton was growing rather restive under examination, as he was by no means pleased at having to acknowledge his indebtedness to a woman's wit. Seeing this Tait abruptly closed the conversation, so as to avoid waking the suspicions of Linton.
"A very interesting conversation," he said heartily. "I like to get behind the scenes and see the working of a novelist's brain. We will say good-by now.Linton, and I hope you will call at the Manor House next week, when we will all three be at Thorston."
"Delighted, I'm sure," replied the author, and thereupon melted into the crowd, leaving Claude and Tait looking at one another.
"Well," said the former, after a pause, "we have not learned much."
"On the contrary, I think we have learned a great deal," said Tait, raising his eyebrows. "We know that Linton got the whole story from Jenny Paynton, and that Mr. Hilliston is in possession of the knowledge."
"What use can it be to him?"
"He will try and frustrate us with Miss Paynton, as he did Mrs. Bezel with you."
"Do you still doubt him?" asked Claude angrily.
"Yes," replied Tait coolly, "I still doubt him."
A FALSE MOVE.
Thenext day the two young men repaired to the club for the purpose of having luncheon and discussing their plans. Contrary to the wish of Claude, his friend did not deem it advisable to at once depart for Thorston, as he wished to remain in town for a few days on business connected with Hilliston.
"You see, you are quite in the dark regarding that gentleman," said Tait, as they lighted their cigarettes after dinner, "and before we commence operations at Thorston it will be advisable to know that he is not counteracting our efforts."
"In that case you had better go down to Thorston and I will remain in town so as to keep an eye on Hilliston."
"I don't think that will be necessary," replied Tait reflectively, "it is more than probable that Hilliston will visit Thorston."
"For what purpose?"
"Can't you guess? Last night he learned from Linton that Jenny Paynton supplied the material for that novel. Consequently he will see her, and, if possible, find out where she heard the story."
"Yes; I suppose he will," said Claude thoughtfully. "By the way, who is Miss Paynton, who now seems to be mixed up in the matter?"
"She is the daughter of an old recluse called Ferdinand Paynton."
"A recluse! Humph! That's strange."
"Why so? You would not say so if you saw the old man. He is an invalid and lives in his library. A charming companion, though I must say he is rather sad."
"Where does he live?"
"At Thorston, half a mile from the Manor House. Not very rich, I should think. His cottage is small, like his income."
"And his daughter lives with him?"
"Yes. A pretty girl she is, who inherits his literary tastes. It is my impression that she wrote the most part of that novel. From all I know of Frank Linton he is given more to poetry than to prose. Jenny has the brain, not Frank."
"Ho, ho!" said Claude, smiling. "Is it the skeptical misogynistic Tait I hear speaking?"
"Himself. I admit that I do not care for women, as a rule, but there are exceptions to every rule, and in this case Jenny Paynton is the exception."
"Is she in love with our author?"
"No. But I rather think he is in love with her, as you will be when you see her."
"I! What are you talking about, Tait? I have more to do than to fall in love with country wenches, however pretty."
"Jenny is not a country wench," said Tait, with some displeasure; "she is a highly educated young woman."
"Worse and worse! I hate highly educated bluestockings."
"You won't hate Jenny, at all events. Especially as it is probable you will see a great deal of her."
"No; I shall keep away from her," said Claude doggedly.
"That's impossible. We must maneuver to get at the truth. By asking her straight out she certainly will not gratify our curiosity. We must plot and plan, and take her unawares. She is not a fool, like Linton, remember."
"What! Do you call a lion of the season by so opprobrious a name?"
"I do," replied Tait serenely; "because I don't believe he wrote the book."
"Well! well! Never mind Linton. We have pumped him dry. The next thing is to tackle the fair Jenny. How do you intend to set about it?"
"I can't say, at present. We must be guided by circumstances. I will introduce you to the rector and to Mr. Paynton. There will be musical parties and lawn tennisfêtes, so in some way or another we may find out the truth?"
"Does anyone else live with Paynton; his wife, for instance."
"No. His wife died before he came to Thorston, where he has been for a long time. An old servant called Kerry lives with him."
"Man or woman?"
"Man. A queer old fellow, rather morose."
"H'm! A flattering description. By the way, he bears the same name as the ancient retainer in Boucicault's play."
"Why shouldn't he?"
"It may be an assumed name."
Tait threw a surprised glance at his friend, and laughed quickly.
"Who is suspicious now?" said he, smiling. "You blame me for suspecting Hilliston, yet here you are doubtful of people whom you have never seen."
Before Larcher could answer this home thrust, a waiter entered with a letter for him which had just arrived.
"From Hilliston," said Claude, recognizing the writing. "I wonder what he has to say?"
"It's only another move in the game," murmured Tait; then as Claude, after glancing at the letter, uttered an ejaculation of surprise, he added: "What is the matter?"
"Hilliston is going down to Eastbourne."
"Impossible!" cried Tait, holding out his hand for the letter. "He is surely not so clumsy as to show his hand so plainly."
"He does, though. Read the letter yourself."
"My Dear Claude[wrote Hilliston]: Mrs. Hilliston has decided to leave town for Eastbourne this week, so it is probable we will see you and Mr. Tait down there. If you can spare the time come to dinner at half-past seven to-night, and tell me how you are getting on with your case."Yours very sincerely,"Francis Hilliston."
"My Dear Claude[wrote Hilliston]: Mrs. Hilliston has decided to leave town for Eastbourne this week, so it is probable we will see you and Mr. Tait down there. If you can spare the time come to dinner at half-past seven to-night, and tell me how you are getting on with your case.
"Yours very sincerely,
"Francis Hilliston."
"Well," said Claude, as Tait silently returned the letter, "what do you think?"
"I think that Hilliston intends to look up Jenny Paynton."
"I can see that," replied Claude impatiently, "but touching this invitation to dinner."
"Accept."
"But I promised to see my mother to-night, and tell her about John Parver. She will expect me, as I have written."
"I will take your apologies to her," said Tait quietly.
"You?"
"Yes. Listen to me, Claude," continued the little man in a tone of suppressed excitement. "You will keep your belief in Hilliston. I tell you he is your enemy and wishes you to leave this case alone. To-night he will make one last attempt to dissuade you. If he succeeds he will not go to Eastbourne. If he fails you can depend on it he will try and see Jenny before we do. Now, to thwart his aims we will go down to Thorston by an early train to-morrow morning."
"But I must see my mother before I leave town."
"No! I will tell her all she wishes to know."
"She might not like it."
"This is not a case for likes or dislikes," said Tait grimly; "but a question of getting the better of Hilliston. You must dine with him to-night, and find out, if possible, if it was his wife or himself who suggested this visit to Eastbourne. You need not tell him we go down to-morrow. Say you don't know—that you await my decision. Try and learn all you can of his attitude and plans. Then we will discuss the matter when you return. On my part," continued Tait significantly, "I may have some something to say about your mother."
"You want to see her?"
"Yes. I am extremely anxious to see her."
"Perhaps you suspect her!" cried Claude, in a fiery tone.
"Bless the man, what a temper he has!" said Tait jocosely. "I don't suspect anyone except Hilliston. But I am quicker than you, and I wish to learn precisely what your mother has to say. A chance remark on her part may set us on the right path."
"Well, I will be guided by you," said Claude, in a few minutes. "You can go to Hampstead, and I will dine with Hilliston. But I don't like the task. To sit at a man's table and scheme against him is not my idea of honor."
"Nor is it mine. You are doing no such thing. All I wish you to do is to observe Hilliston's attitude and hold your tongue. There is nothing wrong in that. I want to find out his motive for this behavior."
"Then why not see him yourself!"
"I will see him at Thorston. Meantime it is necessary that I become acquainted with your mother. Now come and wire an acceptance to Hilliston, and write a letter to your mother for me to deliver."
Claude obeyed. He was quite content to accept the guidance of Tait in this matter, and began to think that his friend was right in suspecting Hilliston. Else why did the lawyer's plans so coincide with their own.
"Mind you don't tell Hilliston too much," said Tait, when the wire was despatched.
"I shall tell him that we go to Thorston shortly, and that we saw John Parver."
"No; don't tell him about John Parver. He will be certain to mention the subject first."
"Well, and if he does——"
"Oh, you must use your brains," replied Tait ironically. "Baffle his curiosity, and above all, make no mention of the breastpin episode related in the third volume."
"Why not?"
"Because Jenny Paynton told Linton of that. She could not have obtained it from the newspapers, as it is not related therein."
"It is pure invention."
"No! I believe it to be a fact."
"But who could have told it to Miss Paynton?"
"Ah!" said Tait, in a low tone. "Find me the person who told her that and I'll find the man who murdered your father."
THE HUSBAND AT KENSINGTON GORE.
Toa woman who rules by right of beauty it is a terrible thing to see her empire slipping from her grasp by reason of gray hairs and wrinkles. What desperate efforts does she make to protract her sway, how she dyes and paints and powders and tight laces—all to no end, for Time is stronger than Art, and finally he writes his sign-manual too deep to be effaced by cosmetics. Mrs. Hilliston was not yet beaten in the fight with the old enemy, but she foresaw the future when she would be shamed and neglected close at hand.
Perhaps it was this premonition of defeat that made her so unamiable, sharp, and bitter on the night when Claude came to dine. She liked Claude and had stood in the place of a mother to him; but he was a man, and handsome, so when she saw his surprised look at her changed appearance all the evil that was in her came to the surface.
Yet she need not have felt so bitter a pang, had she taken the trouble to glance at her image in the near mirror. It reflected a tall, stylish figure, which, in the dim light of the drawing room, looked majestic and beautiful. It was all very well to think that she appeared barely thirty in the twilight, but she knew well that the daylight showed up her forty-seven yearsin the most merciless manner. Velvet robes, diamond necklaces, and such like aids to beauty would not make up for lack of youth, and Claude's ill-advised start brought this home to her.
Ten years before she had married Hilliston in utter ignorance of the house at Hampstead. Though she did not know it she was not unlike her rival. There was the same majesty, the same imperious beauty, the same passionate nature, but Mrs. Bezel was worn and wasted by illness, whereas Mrs. Hilliston, aided by art, looked a rarely beautiful woman.
People said she had not done well to marry Hilliston. She was then a rich widow from America, and wanted to take a position in society. With her looks and her money, she might have married a title, but handsome Hilliston crossed her path, and, though he was then fifty years of age, she fell in love with him on the spot. Wearied of Mrs. Bezel, anxious to mend his failing fortunes, Hilliston accepted the homage thus offered. He did not love her, but kept that knowledge to himself, so Mrs. Derrick, the wealthy widow, secured the man she idolized. She gave all, wealth, beauty, love, and received nothing in return.
During all their married life her love had undergone no abatement. She loved her husband passionately, and her one object in life was to please him. At the time of the marriage she had rather resented the presence of Claude in Hilliston's house, but soon accepted him as an established fact, the more so as he took up his profession shortly afterward, and left her to reign alone over the heart of her husband. When the young man called she was always kind to him, she constantly looked after his welfare, and playfullystyled herself his mother. Claude was greatly attached to her, and spoke of her in the highest terms, but for the life of him he could not suppress that start, though he knew it wounded her to the heart. During his five years of absence she had aged greatly, and art seemed rather to accentuate than conceal the truth.
"You find me altered, I am afraid," said she bitterly; "age is robbing me of my looks."
"By no means," answered Claude, with a desire to please her; "at the worst, you are only growing old gracefully."
"Small comfort in that," sighed Mrs. Hilliston. "I do not want to grow old at all. However, it is no use fighting the inevitable, but I hope I'll die before I become a hag."
"You will never become one."
"I'm not so sure of that. I'm one of those large women who turn to bones and wrinkles in old age."
"In my eyes you will always be beautiful, Louise," said Hilliston, who entered at this moment. "You are an angel ever bright and fair."
"You have not lost the art of saying pretty things, Francis," replied his wife, greatly gratified; "but there is the gong. Claude, take your mother in to dinner."
The young man winced as she said this, thinking of his real mother who lay sick and feeble at Hampstead. Hilliston saw his change of countenance, and bit his lip to prevent himself remarking thereon. He guessed what Claude was thinking about, and thus his thoughts were turned in the same direction. At the present moment the memories thus evoked were most unpleasant.
During dinner Mrs. Hilliston recovered her spirits and talked freely enough. No one was present save Claude and her husband, so they were a very pleasant party of three. While in the full flow of conversation, Claude could not help thinking that Tait was unjust to suspect the master of the house of underhand dealings; for Hilliston was full of smiles and geniality, and did his best to entertain his guest. Could Claude have looked below the surface he would have been considerably astonished at the inward aspect of the man. Yet a hint was given him of such want of concord, for Hilliston showed the cloven hoof before the meal ended.
"So you are going to Eastbourne," said Claude, addressing himself to Mrs. Hilliston. "I hope you will come over to Thorston during your stay."
"It is not unlikely," replied the lady. "Francis intends to make excursions all round the country."
"Only for your amusement, my dear," said Hilliston hastily. "You know how dreary it is to pace daily up and down that Parade."
"I think Eastbourne is dreary, in any case. It is solely on your account that I am going."
Hilliston did not answer, but stole a glance at Claude to see what he thought. The face of the young man was inscrutable, though Claude was mentally considering that Tait was right, and Hilliston's journey to Eastbourne was undertaken to interview Jenny Paynton.
"I don't like your English watering-places," continued Mrs. Hilliston idly. "They are so exasperatingly dull. In America we can have a good time at Newport, but all your south coast is devoid of amusement.Trouville or Dieppe are more enjoyable than Eastbourne or Folkestone."
"The fault of the national character, my dear Louise. We English take our pleasures sadly, you know."
For the sole purpose of seeing what effect it would produce on the lawyer Claude purposely introduced the name of the town where his father had met his death.
"I wonder you don't try an inland watering-place, Mrs. Hilliston," he said calmly; "Bath or Tunbridge Wells or—Horriston."
Hilliston looked up quickly, and then busied himself with his food. Discomposed as he was, his iron will enabled him to retain a quiet demeanor; but the effect of the name on the wife was more pronounced than it was on the husband. Her color went, and she laid down her knife and fork.
"Ah, I don't know Horriston," she said faintly. "Some inland——Ah, how hot this room is. Open the window," she added to the footman, "we want fresh air."
Rather astonished at the effect thus produced, Claude would have spoken but that Hilliston forestalled him.
"The room is hot," he said lightly, "but the fresh air will soon revive you, Louise. I am glad we are going to Eastbourne, for you sadly need a change."
"The season has been rather trying," replied his wife, resuming her dinner. "What were you saying about Horriston, Claude?"
"Nothing. I only know it is a provincial town set in beautiful scenery. I thought you might wish to try a change from the fashionable seaside place."
"I might go there if it is pretty," answered Mrs. Hilliston, who was now perfectly composed. "Where is Horriston?"
"In Kent," interposed Hilliston quickly, "not very far from Canterbury. I have been there myself, but as it is a rather dull neighborhood, I would not advise you to try it."
Despite her denial Claude felt certain that Mrs. Hilliston was acquainted with Horriston, for on the plea of indisposition she left the table before the dinner was ended. As she passed through the door she playfully tipped Claude on the shoulder with her fan.
"Don't forget to come and see us at Eastbourne," she said vivaciously, "and bring Mr. Tait with you. He is a great favorite of mine."
This Claude promised to do, and, when she left the room, returned to his seat with a rather puzzled expression on his face. Hilliston saw the look, and endeavored to banish it by a hasty explanation.
"You rather startled my wife by mentioning Horriston," he said, in an annoyed tone. "I wish you had not done so. As it is connected with the case she naturally feels an antipathy toward it."
"What! Does Mrs. Hilliston know about my father's death?" asked Claude, in some surprise.
"Yes. When we married, she wanted to know why you lived in the house with me, so I was forced to explain all the circumstances."
"Do you think that was necessary?"
"I do. You know how suspicious women are," replied Hilliston lightly; "they will know the truth. But you can trust to her discretion, Claude. No one will hear of it from her."
At this moment a footman entered the room with a message from Mrs. Hilliston.
"My mistress wants to know if you have the third volume of 'A Whim of Fate,' sir?" said the servant.
"No," replied Hilliston sharply. "Tell your mistress that I took it to my office by mistake. She will have it to-morrow."
Claude thought this strange, and when the footman retired Hilliston made another explanation equally as unsatisfactory as the first.
"I am so interested in that book that I could not leave it at home," he said quickly; "and now that I have met the author I am doubly interested in it."
Another proof of Tait's acumen. Hilliston was the first to introduce the subject of John Parver.
A DUEL OF WORDS.
A longishpause ensued between the two men. Hilliston seemed to be in no hurry to continue the conversation, and Claude, with his eyes fixed absently on his glass, pondered over the facts that Mrs. Hilliston had an aversion to Horriston, and that the lawyer had taken the third volume of the novel out of the house. The two facts seemed to have some connection with each other, but what the connection might be Claude could not rightly conclude.
From his frequent talks with Tait he knew that the third volume contained the episode of the scarfpin, which was instrumental in bringing the fictitious murderer to justice. The assassin in the novel was meant for Hilliston, and remembering this Claude wondered whether there might not be some reason for his removal of the book. Mrs. Hilliston had quailed at the mention of Horriston, and the explanation given by her husband did not satisfy Larcher. What reason could she have for taking more than a passing interest in the tragic story? Why, after ten years, should she pale at the mention of the neighborhood? Claude asked himself these two questions, but could find no satisfactory answer to either of them.
He was toying with his wineglass while thinking,when a sudden thought made him grip the slender stem with spasmodic force. Was it possible that Mrs. Hilliston could have been in the neighborhood five-and-twenty years before; that she could have heard some talk of that scarfpin which was not mentioned at the trial, but which Tait insisted was an actual fact, and no figment of the novelist's brain; and finally, could it be that Hilliston had purposely removed the third volume of "A Whim of Fate" so that his wife should not have her memory refreshed by a relation of the incident. It was very strange.
Thus thinking, Claude glanced stealthily at his guardian, who was musingly smoking his cigar, and drinking his wine. He looked calm, and content, and prosperous. Nevertheless, Claude was by no means so sure of his innocence as he had been. Hilliston's confusion, his hesitation, his evasion, instilled doubts into the young man's mind. He determined to gain a knowledge of the truth by questions, and mentally arranged these as follows: First he would try and learn somewhat of the past of Mrs. Hilliston, for, beyond the fact that she was an American, he knew nothing of it. Second, he would lead Hilliston to talk of the scarfpin, and see if the reference annoyed him; and, third, he would endeavor to discover if the lawyer was averse to his wife reading the novel. With his plans thus cut and dried, he spoke abruptly to his guardian:
"I am sorry Mrs. Hilliston's health is so bad."
"It is not bad, my dear fellow," replied the lawyer, lifting his head. "She is a very strong woman; but of course, the fatigue of a London season tells on the healthiest constitution. That is why I wish her to go to Eastbourne."
"Why not take her to Horriston?"
"Why should I? She connects the place with the story of your father, about whom I was forced to speak ten years ago; and, speaking personally, I have no desire to return there, and recall the horrors of the past."
"You were greatly affected by my father's death?"
"Naturally; he was my dearest friend. I would have given anything to discover the assassin."
"Did Mrs. Hilliston give you her opinion as to who was guilty?"
"No. I told her as little as I could of so painful a subject. She is not in possession of all the facts."
"At that rate why let her read 'A Whim of Fate'?"
"I don't wish her to read it," answered Hilliston quietly; "but I left the novel lying about, and she read the first two volumes. If I can help it, she shall not finish the story."
"Why object to her reading the third volume?"
"Because it would recall the past too vividly to her mind."
"I hardly follow you there," said Claude, with a keen look. "The fact to which you refer cannot exist for your wife. To her the novel can only be a second telling of the story related by you, when she wished to know who I was."
"That is very true. Nevertheless, it made so painful an impression on her excitable nature that I am unwilling that her memory should be refreshed. Take another glass of wine, my boy."
Hilliston evidently wished to turn the conversation, but Claude was too determined on learning the truth to deviate from his course. Slowly filling his glasswith claret he pushed the jug toward Hilliston, and pursued his questioning:
"The American nature is rather excitable, isn't it? By the way, is Mrs. Hilliston a pure-blooded Yankee?"
"Yes," said Hilliston, with suspicious promptitude; "she was a Chicago belle, and married a millionaire in the pork line called Derrick. He died soon after the marriage, so she came to England and married me."
"It was her first visit to England, no doubt."
"Her first visit," replied Hilliston gravely. "All her former life was passed in New York, Boston, and Chicago. But what odd questions you ask," added the lawyer, in a vexed tone. "Surely you do not think that my wife was at Horriston twenty-five years ago, or that she knows aught of this crime save what I have told her?"
"Of course, I think nothing of the sort," said Larcher hastily, and what is more he believed what he said. It was impossible that Mrs. Hilliston, American born and bred, who had only been in England twelve years, should know anything of an obscure crime committed in a dull provincial town thirteen years before the date of her arrival. Hitherto his questionings had eventuated in little, so he turned the conversation into another groove, and tried to learn if Hilliston knew anything of Jenny Paynton.
"What do you think of John Parver?"
"He seemed an intelligent young fellow. Is that his real name?"
"No. His name is Frank Linton, the son of the vicar of Thorston."
"What! He belongs to the place whither you go with Tait," exclaimed Hilliston, with a startled air."That is strange. You may learn there whence he obtained the materials for his novel."
"I know that. He obtained them from Miss Paynton."
"Who is she?"
"A literary young lady who lives at Thorston with her folks. But I fancy Linton mentioned that he had told you about her."
"Well he did and he didn't," said Hilliston, in some confusion; "that is, he admitted that the story was founded on fact, but he did not tell me whence he obtained such facts. I suppose it is your intention to question this young lady."
"Yes. I want to know how she heard of the matter."
"Pooh! Read it in a provincial newspaper, no doubt."
"I think not," replied Claude, with some point. "It is next to impossible that she should come across a paper containing an account of the trial. People don't keep such grewsome matters by them, unless they have an interest in doing so."
"Well, this young lady cannot be one of those persons. How old is she?"
"Four-and-twenty!"
"Ah!" said Hilliston with a sigh of relief, "she was not born when your father was murdered. You must see she can know nothing positive of the matter."
"Then how did she supply Linton with the materials for this book?"
"I can only answer that question by reverting to my theory of the newspaper."
"Well, even granting that it is so," said Larcherquickly, "she knows details of the case which are not set forth in the newspaper."
"How do you know this?" asked Hilliston, biting his lip to control his feelings.
"Because in the third volume——"
"Nonsense! nonsense!" interrupted Hilliston violently, "you seem to forget that the hard facts of the case have been twisted and turned by the novelist's brain. We do not know who slew your father, but the novelist had to end his story,—he had to solve the mystery,—and he has done so after his own fashion."
Rising from his seat, he paced hurriedly to and fro, talking the while with an agitation strange in so hard and self-controlled a man.
"For instance, the character of Michael Dene is obviously taken from me. It is not a bit like me, of course, either in speech, or looks, or dress. All the novelist knew was that I had given evidence at the trial, and that the dead man had been my dearest friend. The circumstances suggested a striking dramatic situation—that the dear friend had committed the crime for the base love of the wife. Michael Dene is guilty in the novel—but the man in real life, myself——You know all I know of the case. I would give ten years of my life, short as the span now is, to find the man who killed George Larcher."
This was strong speaking, and carried conviction to the heart of Claude, the more so when Hilliston further explained himself.
"On the night of the murder I was at the ball three miles off. I knew nothing of the matter till I was called upon to identify the corpse of your father. It was hardly recognizable, and the face was much disfigured,but I recognized him by the color of his hair and the seal on his finger."
"How was it that my father was dressed as Darnley?"
"John Parver explains that," said Hilliston sharply. "Jeringham—I forget his name in the novel—was dressed as Darnley, and I believe, as is set forth in the book, that George Larcher assumed the dress so that under his mask your mother might mistake him for Jeringham. Evidently she did so, as he learned that she loved Jeringham——"
"One moment," interposed Claude quickly, "my mother denies that Jeringham was her lover."
"Your mother?"
"Mrs. Bezel."
"True; I forgot for the moment that you knew she was alive. No doubt she is right; and Jeringham was only her friend. But in the novel he is her lover; Michael Dene, drawn from myself, is her lover. You see fact and fiction are so mixed up that there is no getting at the truth."
"I shall get at the truth," said Claude quietly.
"Never. After such a lapse of time you can discover nothing. Better let the dead past bury its dead. I advised you before. I advise you now. You will only torture your life, cumber it with a useless task. George Larcher is dead and buried, and dust by this time. No one knows who killed him, no one ever shall know."
"I am determined to learn the truth!"
"I hope you may, but be advised. Leave this matter alone. You do not know what misery you may be laying up for yourself. Why, you have not even aclew to start from! Unless," added Hilliston, with a sneer, "you follow the example of the novelist and elucidate the mystery by means of the scarfpin."
Again Tait was right. Hilliston had himself introduced the subject of the scarfpin. Claude immediately took advantage of the opening.
"I suppose that episode is fiction?"
"Of course it is. No scarfpin was found in the garden. Nothing was found but the dagger. You know that Michael Dene is supposed to drop that scarfpin on the spot. Well, I am the living representative of Michael Dene, and I assure you I never owned a garnet cross with a central diamond."
"Is that the description of the scarfpin?"
"Yes. Do you not remember? A small Maltese cross of garnets with a diamond in the center. The description sounds fictitious. Who ever saw such an ornament in real life. But in detective novels the solution of the mystery turns on such gew-gaws. A scarfpin, a stud, a link, a brooch—all these go to hang a man—in novels."
This assertion that the episode of the scarfpin was fiction was in direct contradiction to that of Tait, who declared it to be true. Claude was torn by conflicting doubts, but ultimately put the matter out of his thoughts. Miss Paynton alone could give a correct opinion as to whether it had emanated from her fertile brain, or was really a link in the actual case. Judging from the speech of Hilliston, and the silence of the newspaper reports, Claude believed that Tait was wrong.
The lawyer and his guest did not go to the drawing room, as Mrs. Hilliston sent word that she was goingto bed with a bad headache. Under the circumstances Claude took his leave, having, as he thought, extracted all necessary information from Hilliston. Moreover, he was anxious to get back to Tait's chambers and hear what the little man had to tell him about Mrs. Bezel. Hilliston said good-by to him at the door.
"I shall see you at Eastbourne, I suppose," he said genially.
"Yes. I will drive over and tell you what Miss Paynton says."
The door closed, and Hilliston, with a frown on his face, stood looking at the floor. He was by no means satisfied with the result of the interview.
"I wish I could stop him," he muttered, clenching his fist; "stop him at any price. If he goes on he will learn the truth, and if he learns the truth—ah——"
He drew a long breath, and went upstairs to his wife. As he ascended the stairs it seemed to him as though he heard the halting step of Nemesis following stealthily behind.
TAIT BRINGS NEWS.
Asquick as a fast hansom could take him, Claude drove to Earls Street, and found Tait impatiently waiting his arrival. The little man had a look of triumph in his eyes, which showed that his interview with Mrs. Bezel had been to some purpose. Dormer had placed wine and biscuits on the table, and, made hungry by his long journey to Hampstead, Tait was partaking of these modest refreshments when Claude entered the room.
"I thought you were never coming," said he, glancing at his watch; "past ten o'clock. You must have had an interesting conversation with Hilliston to stay so long."
"I have had a very interesting conversation. And you?"
"Oh, I got back thirty minutes ago, after being more than an hour with your mother."
"Was she disappointed at my non-appearance?"
"Very much so, but I explained that you had to dine with Hilliston. She did not seem to like that either."
"Absurd! She thinks no end of Hilliston, and advised me to see as much of him as possible."
"Nevertheless, the idea that you were dining withhim did not please her; I could only quiet her by telling all I know about Mrs. Hilliston."
When Tait made this remark Claude was taking off his cloak, but he paused in doing so to ask a question.
"What possible interest can my mother have in Mrs. Hilliston?"
"I don't know. But she asked me who she was, and where she came from. Insisted on a description of her looks, and altogether pumped me dry on the subject. I suppose she wished to know something of Hilliston's domestic felicity, and, as he has not enlightened her on the subject, applied to me."
This explanation, which was accepted implicitly by Claude, was by no means the truth. With his usual sharpness Tait had noted Mrs. Bezel was profoundly jealous of the lawyer's wife, and from this, and sundry other hints, had drawn conclusions by no means flattering to the lady herself. Still, as she was Claude's mother, he had too much good breeding, and too much liking for his friend, to state his belief—which was that the bond between Mr. Hilliston and Mrs. Bezel was not of so harmless a nature as they would have the world believe.
With this idea in his head, Tait began to look at the case from the point of view adopted by John Parver. Might it not be true that Hilliston was the secret lover of the wife and the murderer of the husband? Certainly the efforts he was making to stay Claude in solving the mystery gave color to the idea. If he were innocent of crime and illicit passion he would surely be anxious to hasten, instead of retarding, the discovery. Tait's private opinion was that Hilliston had the crime of murder on his soul, but for obviousreasons, not unconnected with Mrs. Bezel, he did not care to speak openly to Larcher. On the contrary, while admitting a disbelief in the lawyer, he feigned a doubt of his complicity in the matter which he was far from feeling.
Under these circumstances he had advised Claude to leave the matter alone, for he dreaded the effect on his friend's mind when he learned the truth.
Whether Hilliston proved innocent or not, the unraveling of the mystery would necessarily result in the disclosure of the relations existing between him and Mrs. Bezel. Tait shrank from pursuing investigations likely to lead to such a result, but the determination of Claude to avenge his father's murder left him no option. Against his better judgment he was urged along the path of discovery; but trusted when the time came to soften the blow of the inevitable result.
In silence he heard the story related by Claude of the evening at Hilliston's, and did not comment on the information thus given so speedily as Larcher expected. He thought it wiser to delay any remarks till he had told the young man of his interview with Mrs. Bezel.
"I need not go into details, Claude," he said, anxious not to say too much, "but will tell you as shortly as I can. Mrs. Bezel—it is more convenient to speak of her so than to call her your mother—is not pleased that you should try and solve this mystery."
"I know that. She thinks it is hopeless, and is unwilling that I should waste my time to no purpose. But she should have thought of that before inducing Hilliston to show me the paper. Now it is too late,and for my own satisfaction, if not for hers, I must go on with the matter. Did you relate our conversation with Linton?"
"Yes. And she takes the same view of it as Hilliston. That Miss Paynton got the case from a bundle of old newspapers."
"What do you think yourself?"
"I still hold to my opinion," said Tait quietly. "The affair was related to Jenny by someone who lived in Horriston at the time the murder took place. Else she would never have given Linton that fact about the scarfpin, which, as we know, is not mentioned in the report of the trial."
"Hilliston says that the episode is fiction."
"Mrs. Bezel says it is fact."
"What! Was a scarfpin of garnets really found in the grounds of The Laurels?"
"It was. Mrs. Bezel described the jewel to me, and asserted that it was discovered near the bank of the stream."
"Does she know to whom it belonged?"
"No! She had no recollection of having seen it before. Neither your father nor Jeringham wore a scarfpin of that pattern."
"It is curious that Hilliston should insist that such a pin never existed."
"It is very curious," assented Tait significantly, "especially as it was shown to him by Denis Bantry. This one fact ought to convince you that Hilliston is playing us false."
"My doubts were confirmed by his manner to-night," replied Claude gloomily. "I don't know what his reason may be, or how I can reconcile his presentbehavior with his kindness to my mother, but he certainly seems anxious to thwart us if he can."
Tait guessed what the reason was very well, but was too wise to explain himself. Granted that a bond existed between Mrs. Bezel and the lawyer, and the whole thing became clear, but Mrs. Bezel was Claude's mother, so Tait held his peace.
"Why wasn't the scarfpin produced at the trial?" asked Claude, seeing his friend made no answer.
"Only one man can answer that question—Denis Bantry."
"Does my mother know where he is?"
"No. She has not set eyes on him since she left Horriston."
"It is strange that he should have suppressed so important a piece of evidence," said Claude meditatively, "devoted as he was to my father. I should have thought he would have done his best to bring the murderer to justice."
"Perhaps he did not know who the murderer was. However, there is no doubt that the scarfpin must have told him something about which he judged it wise to hold his tongue. Perhaps Miss Paynton can enlighten us on the subject."
"Then she must know Denis Bantry."
"So I think," said Tait thoughtfully. "The episode of the scarfpin was only known to your mother, to Hilliston, and to Bantry. Jenny Paynton does not know your mother, who denied all knowledge of her. She cannot be acquainted with Hilliston, or he certainly would not have let her make use of the affair for Linton's book, even if he had told her. There only remains Denis Bantry. Now, I know thatJenny has lived all her life at Thorston, so if she saw this man anywhere it must have been there."
"Is there anyone in the neighborhood you think is he?" asked Larcher, greatly excited.
"None that I can call to mind. But then, I don't know the neighborhood very well. We must make a thorough exploration of it when we are down there."
"Certainly. But it seems to me that the only one who can put us in the right track is the girl."
"True enough. I only hope she will be amenable to reason."
Larcher poured himself out a glass of wine and drank it slowly. Then he lighted his pipe and returned to his chair with a new idea in his head.
"I wonder why Hilliston told that lie about the scarfpin, Tait?"
"Ask me something easier. I cannot say. We'll learn nothing from him. My dear fellow, it is no use asking further questions of your guardian or of your mother. We have found out all from them that we can. Nothing now remains but to see Jenny Paynton."
"Quite right. And we go to Thorston to-morrow?"
"By the ordinary train. I have written for the dogcart to meet us. By this time next week we may know a great deal—we may know the truth."
"That is, if Hilliston doesn't thwart us. He is going down to Eastbourne, remember."
"I know. But I intend to get what the Americans call the 'inside running,' by seeing Jenny to-morrow evening. The whole case turns on her explanation of the scarfpin episode.
"Well," said Claude, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, "we found Linton through his book, we found Jenny through Linton. Through her we may find Denis Bantry."
"And through Denis Bantry we may find the man who killed your father," finished Tait triumphantly.
"Well, I know what the name of the man will be."
"What will it be?"
"Jeringham."
Tait shrugged his shoulders. Knowing what he did he was by no means certain on that point.