THE ORIGINAL OF THE PORTRAIT.
Claude Larcherwas blessed with the best of tempers, and strongly gifted with self-control. He found these virtues very necessary in his profession, especially when in command of a body of men in the wilds. There no trouble ruffled him, no disappointment depressed his spirits; he was always serene and amiable, so that among his comrades his good temper had become proverbial. Had they seen him at this moment they would have found reason to alter their opinion.
The case wore out his patience; he saw no end to the complications arising therefrom. No sooner was one obstacle surmounted than another blocked up the path. But for Tait he would have taken Hilliston's advice long ago, and let the matter lie; but the little man was bent on solving this particularly tantalizing mystery, and so urged his friend to persevere in what seemed to be futile attempts. So far Claude had held to his resolve, but this last letter of Tait's with its budget of new complications threw him into a rage. He vowed that he would throw up the matter as soon as Tait returned. His father was dead, and there was an end of it; after five-and-twenty years nothing whatever could be discovered; and above all there was Jenny.
Claude was too clear-sighted to disguise from himselfthe fact that he was in love; and now enlightened by Mrs. Hilliston regarding the feelings of the young lady, he was doubly anxious to make her his wife. Before he could do so he had to remove an obstacle in the shape of her father, and that was no easy matter. Who Mr. Paynton was he did not know; whether he was implicated in the Larcher affair he could not guess; but of one thing he was certain: that Mr. Paynton resented his prosecution of the case. While he continued to investigate the mystery the recluse would continue inimical, and would therefore refuse to permit him to pay attentions to his daughter.
Regarding Linton and his love, Claude had no fears. He had been assured by Mrs. Hilliston that Jenny liked him best, and taking advantage of the hint he had thrown himself as frequently as possible into the society of his beloved. Did Jenny go to the vicarage, Claude was there under the pretense of questioning the clergyman concerning the architecture of the church; did she practice on the organ, Claude was always waiting at the door to carry her music-book to Rose Cottage. A walk in the morning, he was in the vicinity; a stroll in the evening, and he appeared unexpectedly round the nearest corner. In driving, riding, walking, visiting, this persistent young man was constantly to be found near Miss Jenny Paynton. All this meant infatuation.
Availing himself of the opportunities thus afforded, he learned her secret, and betrayed his own. Without a word being said on either side—with the shadow of the case between them—these two young people fell in love with one another. When Tait returned two days after his last letter, he was confronted by Claude withthe intimation that he wished to stop further investigations. Tait, who was devoured by an unappeasable curiosity to find out the truth, resented this backsliding, and told Claude his opinion very plainly. But for their long friendship they would have quarreled over the matter; as it was Tait argued out the question, and induced Claude to come round to his way of thinking. But it was a hard task.
"You are not going to turn back after putting your hand to the plow?" he said, when Claude first broached the subject of abandoning the case.
"Why not, if the plow won't move?" returned the young man flippantly.
"The plow will move," returned Tait vehemently. "You got my last letter?"
"I did. But I don't see that it contains anything likely to elucidate the mystery. Your Dick Pental is a madman; your Miss Pike an untrustworthy gossip."
"That is your opinion, not mine. I have made a discovery since writing my last letter, of which I have not yet had time to inform you."
"What is it?"
"I'll tell you later on. Meanwhile is it on account of this girl that you have decided to abandon the case?"
"Partly, and partly because I think we are wasting time. Our investigation can lead to no result."
"We may find out who killed your father."
"I doubt that," replied Larcher coolly. "You suspect Hilliston; you suspect Jeringham; you suspect Mona Bantry. Why, in your last letter you hinted at the guilt of Denis, simply because a drunken lunatic told you a wild story; yet, so far as I can see, youhave not a morsel of evidence against any one of the four."
"You are wrong," said Tait, in an argumentative manner. "The misfortune is that there is too much evidence against them all. I could furnish you with a case against each which—so far as circumstantial evidence is concerned—would convince you of their individual guilt."
"Theory, Tait, theory!"
"We'll prove that soon, my boy," said Tait, with exasperating coolness, "if you back out of the case, I at least am determined to see it through. I suppose you are bent on marrying the young lady."
"If she'll have me—yes."
"Humph! There's another obstacle which you have overlooked. The consent of her father—our mysterious friend, Paynton."
"I have not overlooked the obstacle. I will obtain his consent from his own lips."
"And how do you intend to see him?"
"Through the agency of Mr. Hilliston," replied Larcher calmly. "He has agreed to introduce me to Paynton to-morrow. Here is his letter."
The little man fairly bounded from his chair, and he took the letter from his friend's hand with an air of bewilderment. After mastering the contents he returned it with a satisfied nod.
"I congratulate you, Claude," he said, with a good-humored air. "Though you failed with the man, you may succeed with the matter. But how in the name of Olympian Jove did you induce Hilliston to do this?"
"Why, he saw that I was in love with Jenny, and for some inexplicable reason has agreed to forward mysuit, by introducing me to plead my cause with the father."
"Not so inexplicable as you think," said Tait sagaciously. "I see his idea. He thinks you will be so occupied with love-making as to abandon the case."
"I don't know that he isn't right."
"Oh, I see you are bent on getting quit of the matter, Claude. But," and Tait shook a reproving forefinger, "you will change your mind after this interview with our hermit friend."
"Why so?"
"You will learn something which will astonish you. I only wish I could be present with you to see what occurs."
"But if I make no reference to the case," said Larcher seriously.
Tait waxed indignant on the instant, and spoke his mind freely. "Claude, my friend, I went into this matter solely on your account, and you owe it to me to see it through. If you find further investigation a bar to your marriage I will agree to let the matter drop. But first," added Tait, with emphasis, "you must make an effort to get the truth out of this man. Swear to him that you are resolved to push the matter to the end. Tell him that I have learned something new at Horriston. Mention the name of Louisa Sinclair. Then see the result. After hearing the story of Dicky Pental I am convinced that this man is Jeringham."
"I will do all you say," replied Claude, after some hesitation, "but I am afraid that my pertinacity in this matter will prejudice my wooing."
"If, at the end of the interview, you see that, withdrawyour intention to go on with the case. Then out of gratitude he may give you his daughter. Bluff him first—yield afterward. In that way we may discover who Paynton is—what he has to do with the case, and why he is connected with Hilliston. Do you agree? Good! Give me your hand on that."
The two men shook hands, though it was not without a secret qualm that Claude thus sealed the compact. After a pause he said:
"And who is this Louisa Sinclair you make such a point of my mentioning to Paynton?"
"Ah! That is my discovery," said Tait, rubbing his hands. "When I interviewed Mrs. Bezel I showed her a portrait of Mrs. Hilliston, whom curiously enough she had never seen—no doubt Hilliston has his reasons therefor. She seemed startled, but said nothing. Then she wrote to you about Louisa Sinclair."
"But what has Louisa Sinclair to do with Mrs. Hilliston?"
"Can't you guess? Miss Pike showed me a portrait of Louisa Sinclair taken twenty-five years ago. I did not then wonder at Mrs. Bezel's start, or that Hilliston had refrained from letting her see the picture of his wife. In a word, Louisa Sinclair and Mrs. Hilliston are one and the same woman."
"Ah!" cried Claude, with a sudden recollection, "it was for that she was so afraid of your going to Horriston."
"Yes. She thought I might learn too much. This is the beginning of the end, Claude."
"What! Do you think Mrs. Hilliston knows anything of the case?"
"According to your mother she knows a good deal. According to Miss Pike she is in possession of certain facts. Yes, I think Mrs. Hilliston can help us if she will."
"But, my dear Tait," said Claude quietly, "Mrs. Hilliston is an American."
"Ah! Louisa Sinclair went to America, and probably became a naturalized subject of the Stars and Stripes."
"But," objected Larcher, "she was a widow when she married Hilliston."
"So I believe. A Mrs. Derrick. No doubt she came by all her money through that first marriage. Oh, I can put the puzzle easily together. No wonder Hilliston wanted the case dropped, both on his own account and on that of his wife."
"What do you mean, Tait? Do you suspect that——"
"Say no more," said Tait, rising, "I will tell you what I mean after you have seen Paynton. But then," added he significantly, "I don't think you will need any explanation."
A STRANGE THING HAPPENS.
Thenext morning Claude received a second letter from Hilliston, stating that as his wife was ill he would be unable to come over to Thorston, but directing the young man to go to Rose Cottage at noon, when Mr. Paynton would be ready to receive him. Tait regretted that he had not been included in the invitation, and carefully instructed Claude how to act during the interview.
"I believe Paynton can settle the matter," were his parting words, "so put love out of your head for the time being, and do your best to extract the truth."
Anxious to oblige one who took so much interest in his private affairs, Larcher promised to do what he could, and shortly after eleven started for Rose Cottage. As a matter of fact, he need not have gone so soon, but he did so in the hope of meeting with Jenny. Well acquainted as he was with her movements, his surmise proved correct, for he met the young lady at the end of Nightingale Lane. She blushed, and expressed surprise at the meeting. But such feigning is part of love's comedy.
"I did not expect to see you here, Mr. Larcher," she said, after the first greetings had passed between them. "Where are you going?"
"I am about to call on your father."
"Really!" said Jenny, with some perplexity and more doubt. "I am afraid you go on a useless errand. My father sees no one."
"He will see me," replied Claude quietly. "I come by appointment. Mr. Hilliston spoke to your father, with the result that he has agreed to see me."
"Has your visit anything to do with—with that novel?"
"It has everything to do with it. I wish to ask Mr. Paynton some questions in connection with my father's death."
"But he knows nothing—nothing!" cried Jenny vehemently; "he can tell you nothing! It is worse than useless for you to speak to him on the subject. You will only make him ill."
"But I have to speak to him on another subject," said Claude artfully.
Jenny looked up inquiringly, remarked the passion in his gaze, and turned away her face with a blush. Much as she would have liked to, she found it impossible to appear ignorant of his meaning.
"It seems to me that I am the person to be first consulted," she said, with a pout.
"Jenny, I——"
"Hush! Here is Kerry. See my father first, and then see me. Till then good-by."
She flitted rapidly away, and turned the corner of the lane as Kerry, more crabbed-looking than ever, came up to where Claude was standing. It was then that Larcher saw that the old servant was suffering under some strong emotion. His eyes were brighter than usual, his lips quivered, and he was so nervous that he could keep neither limbs nor body at rest.Rightly connecting this agitation with his visit, Claude wisely held his peace, and waited to hear what Kerry had to say.
"You'll be after seeing the master, sir," said Kerry, in breathless anxiety. "He is waiting for you, sir, in the garden."
"I was just on my way there, Kerry, and stopped to speak for a few minutes to Miss Jenny. I am very glad that Mr. Paynton has consented to see me."
"And you may well be glad, Master Claude."
"Master Claude!" echoed the young man, stopping short.
"Oh, blazes! 'twas a slip of the tongue, sir," cried Kerry anxiously. "Don't notice it, sir. Sure, it's old I am, and my mind wanders."
"Then you deny that you are Denis Bantry?"
"Say nothing of that, sir. Let the master speak his own mind to you. You'll know soon enough who I am, and that's a fact, anyhow."
"I am convinced in my own mind that you are my father's old servant," said Larcher, as he resumed his walk, "but who your master is I am not so clear."
Kerry shook his head, and pursed up his lips, as though determined to let no information escape him. They walked along in silence, and it was only when he unlocked the gate in the red brick wall that Kerry again opened his mouth.
"Keep silent, sir, if you love me," he said, in a low tone. "Don't agitate the master. He'll do the speaking, and tell ye all ye wish to know. Begad, and more too."
Larcher nodded, and passed into the garden. The morning was warm and sunny, and the colors of theflowers were dazzling in the warm glow, against the white walls of the cottage. With his hands clasped behind his back, Paynton paced meditatively up and down the path before the house, but stopped as he caught sight of his visitor. Taking off his hat in tribute to the venerable looks of the old gentleman, Claude bowed, and waited to be addressed. For some moments Paynton looked at him in silence, with much emotion, then controlling himself with some difficulty held out his hand.
"I am glad to see you, Mr.—Mr.——"
"Larcher," suggested Claude, seeing his host at a loss for the name.
"Larcher!" gasped Paynton, with an effort, "yes—yes! My friend, Mr. Hilliston, advised me of your coming. Let us enter the house. We will have more privacy there."
As Claude knew no one was about in that walled place but Kerry and the deaf old housekeeper, he wondered what further privacy was necessary; but considering that Paynton had doubtless good reason for his action, he bowed silently and followed him within, as requested.
In a few minutes they were in the bookroom. Paynton seated himself in such a position as to place his back to the strong light shining through the window, and asked Claude to be seated in a chair which lacked this advantage. In this way Paynton could observe every change in the face of his visitor, while his own, being in the shadow, was more difficult to read. Larcher saw the maneuver, but did not think it necessary to make any objection. In his place Tait would have acted differently.
"I am greatly obliged that you have consented to see me," said Claude, breaking the silence, "for I am informed that you live a very secluded life."
"That is true. I accord you this interview at the request of my friend, Mr. Hilliston, but at the same time I may tell you that I have my own reasons for granting it."
"I think I can guess your reasons, Mr. Paynton."
"No doubt," replied Paynton, touching a book on the table; "they are not unconnected with this novel. You know, of course, that my daughter—that Jenny supplied young Linton with the material for his plot."
"I do. She found the report of my father's murder in some old newspapers in this house."
"Did you not think it strange that I should be in possession of such a report?"
"Naturally I did," answered Claude, replying to this direct question with marked embarrassment, "and it is on that account that I ask you to help me."
"Do you think I can do so?"
"I am sure of it."
"Why?" asked Paynton, in an unsteady voice.
"Because you know about the matter. You retained the report of the trial. Denis Bantry is in your service under the name of Kerry, and——"
"How do you know that?"
"Why, in the third volume of that book there is an episode of a scarfpin which is not mentioned in the report of the trial, but which was told to Miss Paynton by the man you call Kerry. Now, only two persons knew that a scarfpin was picked up in the grounds of The Laurels after the murder. One was Hilliston, theother Denis Bantry. You must see, Mr. Paynton, that I can only come to one conclusion."
"I presume you got this information from Hilliston," said Paynton, in an altered voice.
"Mr. Hilliston spoke of it," replied Claude cautiously.
He did not intend to reveal that he had heard it from his mother, or indeed to reveal the existence of Mrs. Larcher until he was sure of his ground, and positive of Paynton's identity. Accepting his diplomatic answer in the affirmative, Paynton nodded, and went on with his questioning.
"You spoke to Kerry on the subject?"
"I did. But, as you may guess, I failed."
"Naturally. Kerry is a faithful servant. I owe more to him than I can ever repay. But here we are talking about the murder," added Paynton irrelevantly, "when you wish to speak about Jenny, at least so Hilliston informed me."
"I do wish to speak of your daughter later on," said Claude, with a flushed cheek; "but in the meantime I am anxious to come to an understanding about this crime."
"Why?" said Paynton, rather disconcerted at his failure to turn the conversation.
"Because I have sworn to avenge the death of my father."
"That is what a good son should do," said Paynton thoughtfully. "But after twenty-five years the chances are small. You wish to find the murderer—so do I."
"You!"
"Yes. I am more deeply interested in thismatter than you suppose. Who do you think I am?" he asked.
"I cannot say, unless you are Jeringham."
"Jeringham?" said Paynton in a faltering tone. "No, I am not Jeringham, poor soul! Do you think him guilty of the crime?"
"I do and I don't. Sometimes it seems so, at others I fancy Hilliston to be guilty."
"Hilliston guilty!" said Paynton, rising. "What do you mean?"
"Oh, it is only a theory," said Claude hastily. "But my friend Tait, who was at Horriston a few days ago, found out all kinds of things which implicated one person and another. He found——"
"Don't tell me—don't tell me," said Paynton hastily. "I cannot talk to you longer or else I shall be ill. This interview has already tried me too much. Here," he added, unlocking a drawer in his desk, "take these papers. You will find in them a full account of all I know of the matter."
"You were, then, an eye-witness?" said Claude, joyfully slipping the roll of manuscript into his pocket. He had been more successful than he had hoped to be.
Paynton pressed his hands together, and looked eagerly at Claude. "I can bear it no longer," he said impatiently, laying his hands on the shoulders of the astonished young man. "Boy—boy, can you not guess who I am?"
"No," replied Larcher, rising to his feet in some wonder, "I do not know who you can be, unless you are Jeringham."
"I am not Jeringham. He is dead."
"Dead!"
"Aye, murdered. Can you not see—can you not guess? Claude, the man who was killed at Horriston was not George Larcher, it was Mark Jeringham!"
"But you—you——"
"I am your father!"
A VOICE FROM THE GRAVE.
Itwas close on two o'clock, and, weary of waiting for Claude, the master of the Manor House had seated himself at the luncheon table. He was curious to know what had taken place between his friend and Mr. Paynton, as he judged from the length of time the interview had lasted that some important communication must have been made. Had Claude discovered the identity of Paynton with Jeringham? If so, had Jeringham confessed to the crime? These questions so annoyed and perplexed Tait that he could not swallow a mouthful of food. Throwing aside his napkin he rose from the table to see if Larcher had returned.
As he pushed back his chair the door opened and Claude, with a roll of papers in his hand, made his appearance. Tait turned to greet him with a smile, but it disappeared from his face and the words died on his lips when he saw the white and haggard countenance of his friend.
"Good Heavens, man!" he cried, hastening toward him; "what is the matter? Here, sit down! Drink this glass of wine!"
Claude did as he was bidden; then waved his hand in the direction of Dormer, who, stolid as ever, stood waiting orders.
"You can go, Dormer," said Tait hastily. Then, when the man leaving the room closed the door after him, and they found themselves alone, he continued: "Is anything wrong, Claude? Did Paynton tell——"
"Not Paynton," said Larcher, finishing his wine and setting down the glass; "there is not such a person!"
"Aha!" remarked Tait, rubbing his hands. "I thought the name was a feigned one. And who is our friend, Mr. Paynton?"
"My father!"
Tait opened his mouth to utter an ejaculation, shut it without doing so, and looked dumfounded at his friend.
"What—what—what do you mean? Are you mad?" he stammered, sitting down limply.
"No, I am not mad," groaned Claude, "though I have suffered enough to make me so. I mean what I say. It was Jeringham who was murdered. Jeringham, who was dressed as Darnley on that night, as was my father. Jeringham, whose corpse was so unrecognizable by decomposition that it was thought to be that of George Larcher. My father is alive! My father is hiding here as Ferdinand Paynton. This is his story of the tragedy."
He placed the roll of paper in Tait's hands, and poured himself out another glass of wine. Overcome with amazement the little man looked first at the paper, then at his friend. It was some minutes before he could collect his wits together and speak coherently.
"What an extraordinary thing," he said at length. "You thought both your parents dead, but now itseems they are alive. Your mother at Clarence Cottage, Hampstead; your father at Rose Cottage, Thorston. Did you tell your father that Mrs. Larcher was still in existence?" he asked sharply.
"I had no time to do so," said Claude, with an effort. "My father placed those papers in my hand, and then confessed who he was. I wished to speak further to him, but he pushed me out of the room, saying, 'Read that confession, and form your judgment before you accept me as your father.' I hardly knew what I was doing till I found myself in the lane outside. Then I came on here. I still feel quite bewildered."
"I don't wonder at it! Take another glass of wine. Did your——"
"Don't ask any questions, Tait," said Claude, rising impatiently. "Read me the confession at once. I can't do it myself."
"Won't you have some luncheon?"
"No! Every mouthful would choke me. I'll lie down on the sofa, and you bring your chair close to me to read."
Tait nodded, and unrolled the papers, while Claude, filling himself another glass of claret, crossed over to the sofa and lay down thereon. With the glass of wine on the carpet beside him; with the untasted luncheon on the table, he closed his eyes with a weary sigh, and compelled himself to listen. Tait glanced sympathetically at him, then without remark, though he was burning to speak, smoothed out the paper and began to read slowly. The writing was clear and legible, the matter interesting, so there was no difficulty in deciphering the story of the tragedy, as narrated bythe man, who, for twenty-two years, had been supposed to be the victim. The confession (so-called) was in the form of a letter from father to son:
"Dear Claude:"At length I have made up my mind to reveal myself to you, and to set out at length the circumstances which placed me in this position. I am led to do so by three things. Firstly, your presence in this neighborhood with the avowed intention of avenging my death. Secondly, the publication of the novel entitled 'A Whim of Fate,' which sets out the particulars of what happened at Horriston in 1866, more or less perverted for fictional purposes. Thirdly, the advice of Francis Hilliston, an old and valued friend, who points out that the only way to stop you in the investigation is to admit my identity, and so do away with your motive, viz., the avenging of my death. On reading this I leave it to yourself whether you will still consider me your father, and visit me accordingly, or whether you will look on me as a guilty man. Till you are acquainted with the truth, so far as I am aware of it, I swear that I will not approach you or open my mouth in your presence. On this understanding I set forth the following facts as shortly as is consistent with clearness. Judge me as you please, but I declare before God that I am innocent of Jeringham's death, and that I know not who killed him. This for the prologue; and now for the story."You will understand that I wish to cast no aspersions on the memory of your mother; but in the present case, it is necessary that I should speak plainly. Your mother and I were ill suited to one another, andlived unhappily together. Even when in the army I was addicted to literary pursuits, and, when I sent in my papers, I devoted myself almost entirely to study. Your mother was gay and social. Being a beautiful woman she liked admiration, and was never so happy as when out at balls, at the theater, or at garden parties. She lived in a whirl of excitement, and she quarreled bitterly with me because I preferred a quieter life. I accompanied her sometimes, but not often enough to please her, and when we came to reside at The Laurels after my leaving the army, she frequently declared that she regretted having given up Mark Jeringham for me. Naturally enough I resented this plain speaking, and we were estranged. Not even your birth could bridge over the abyss between us, and, while we lived at The Laurels at Horriston, I believe we were as unhappy and ill-matched a couple as existed in England. It was the quick coupled with the dead, and we both suffered accordingly."The first cause of our unhappiness was, as you see, incompatibility of temper; the second was the presence of Jeringham, who came to Horriston ostensibly on a visit, in reality to stay near my wife."You can easily understand that I resented the presence of this young man. He was remarkably like me in height, figure, and looks, and my wife had a fancy for him before her marriage with me. That she became my wife, she laughingly avowed, was because of my uniform. So far as looks were concerned there was nothing to choose between Jeringham and myself, but the glitter of the military trappings (so she declared) turned the balance in my favor. You may be sure I liked Jeringham none the more after such adeclaration of lukewarm affection from your mother; and when he came to reside at Horriston, four years after our marriage, I resented his continued presence about the house. Your mother was angry at my expostulations, and the introduction of this second element of discord into the house estranged us more widely than ever. It was a miserable and most unhappy time."It was my friend Hilliston who pointed out the real reason for Jeringham's visits. This latter was not in love with my wife, but with her maid, Mona Bantry. As Denis, the brother of Mona, was an old servant of mine, I did not care to speak to my wife on the matter, but to keep the affair quiet, and to save the girl from the anger of her brother, I discouraged the visits of Jeringham on all possible occasions. We had a quarrel in public, and, as all the gossips of Horriston knew that he had been fond of my wife before her marriage to me, the quarrel was set down to jealousy on my part. All the neighborhood knew there was bad blood between Jeringham and myself, and (foolishly enough, I admit) I made use of several expressions calculated to show my hatred. These heated speeches were afterward remembered and commented upon."Things were in this position when the fancy dress ball took place at Horriston. Hearing that it was to be a masked ball, I resolved to assume a similar dress to that of Jeringham, and learn from my wife's own lips if she still cared for me. You may think I acted in an unworthy manner, but as a matter of fact I was nearly out of my mind with anger and jealousy, and hardly knew what I was doing. My wife was goingto the ball as Mary, Queen of Scots, accompanied by Jeringham as Darnley. This was sufficiently pointed to show in what direction her affections leaned, and I took advantage of the opportunity. Feigning an excuse, I ostensibly went to London, but in reality remained at Horriston, where I obtained from the costumer a similar dress to that worn by Jeringham."Thus masked and disguised I repaired to the ball. There I was recognized by a Miss Belinda Pike, but she kindly consented to keep my secret. You can guess what happened. Deceived by the dress my wife took me for Jeringham, and I learned sufficient to know that she loved him and hated me. I did not reveal myself, but went away mad with wrath. My sole idea was to unmask Jeringham, and show my wife how unworthy he was of her love. To this end I sought out Hilliston, and, learning that my wife was shortly returning home, Hilliston and I went to The Laurels together, as I intended to make Mona confess that Jeringham was her lover. I left Hilliston outside in the garden to watch for the coming of my wife, and entered the house to see Mona. She was waiting in the sitting room for her mistress, and I then and there forced her to admit the truth. She declared that Jeringham was the father of her unborn child, and implored me not to tell her brother. Fortunately, I had directed Denis to stay in the entrance hall, so he did not hear his sister's confession, and she was safe for the time being."While I was talking with Mona, my wife entered. She immediately accused me of having feigned a visit to London in order to stay at home with Mona. Thegirl slipped out of the room, and my wife continued her ravings. She said that Jeringham had come home with her and was at that moment in the garden; there she swore to join him. I prevented her leaving the room, and ultimately she fainted. I ran out to call Mona, and found that she had left the house, no doubt to join Jeringham in the garden, to tell him that the secret was known. I also went into the garden to seek for Jeringham. To my horror I stumbled over a dead body, and hastily ran back for a light to see whose it was. Denis came with the lantern, and we found it was the corpse of Jeringham. He had been stabbed to the heart."I would have given the alarm, but that Denis, quicker-witted than I at the moment, prevented me. He pointed out that it was well-known that I was on bad terms with Jeringham; that the unhappy man had been murdered in my garden; that my hands were red with the blood, and my clothes stained owing to handling the corpse; and said that I would be accused of the murder. I saw in a flash the peril in which I stood. I don't know if Denis suspected me of the crime, as he was not present when I first found the body, but he acted the part of a friend. We threw the body into the river and I made my preparations for flight. No one but Hilliston and Miss Pike knew that I had returned from London on that night, for my wife would keep silence, as I thought, for her own sake, and Mona had disappeared. I left the house in charge of Denis, and without a word to my wife, who had brought about this catastrophe, I sought safety in flight. It was cowardly, if you like, but I had no other resource. I would have been accused of the murderhad I stayed, for the evidence was strong against me. I fled and trusted to chance to hide the crime."The rest you know. My wife was accused and tried for my murder, as Jeringham's corpse was so disfigured that it was thought to be mine. I have mentioned the strong resemblance between us, and this helped the deception. I was compelled to keep in hiding as Jeringham, but I declare, had the case gone against my wife, I should have come forward and told all. As it was I went abroad, aided by Hilliston, who acted as my friend all through. He looked after my unhappy wife till she died in London; he took charge of you and brought you up like a son. He also secured me sufficient of my own property to live quietly, so I came to Thorston under the name of Paynton, and here I have lived ever since. I thought to die in peace, but you, Claude, have reopened the case. I tell you this to show you the futility of trying to find the real murderer. I do not know who killed Jeringham, nor do I think you will ever find out. If, after reading this, you still consider me your father, come at once to a most unhappy man. Be just, be lenient, my son, and forgive your unhappy father,"George Larcher."
"Dear Claude:
"At length I have made up my mind to reveal myself to you, and to set out at length the circumstances which placed me in this position. I am led to do so by three things. Firstly, your presence in this neighborhood with the avowed intention of avenging my death. Secondly, the publication of the novel entitled 'A Whim of Fate,' which sets out the particulars of what happened at Horriston in 1866, more or less perverted for fictional purposes. Thirdly, the advice of Francis Hilliston, an old and valued friend, who points out that the only way to stop you in the investigation is to admit my identity, and so do away with your motive, viz., the avenging of my death. On reading this I leave it to yourself whether you will still consider me your father, and visit me accordingly, or whether you will look on me as a guilty man. Till you are acquainted with the truth, so far as I am aware of it, I swear that I will not approach you or open my mouth in your presence. On this understanding I set forth the following facts as shortly as is consistent with clearness. Judge me as you please, but I declare before God that I am innocent of Jeringham's death, and that I know not who killed him. This for the prologue; and now for the story.
"You will understand that I wish to cast no aspersions on the memory of your mother; but in the present case, it is necessary that I should speak plainly. Your mother and I were ill suited to one another, andlived unhappily together. Even when in the army I was addicted to literary pursuits, and, when I sent in my papers, I devoted myself almost entirely to study. Your mother was gay and social. Being a beautiful woman she liked admiration, and was never so happy as when out at balls, at the theater, or at garden parties. She lived in a whirl of excitement, and she quarreled bitterly with me because I preferred a quieter life. I accompanied her sometimes, but not often enough to please her, and when we came to reside at The Laurels after my leaving the army, she frequently declared that she regretted having given up Mark Jeringham for me. Naturally enough I resented this plain speaking, and we were estranged. Not even your birth could bridge over the abyss between us, and, while we lived at The Laurels at Horriston, I believe we were as unhappy and ill-matched a couple as existed in England. It was the quick coupled with the dead, and we both suffered accordingly.
"The first cause of our unhappiness was, as you see, incompatibility of temper; the second was the presence of Jeringham, who came to Horriston ostensibly on a visit, in reality to stay near my wife.
"You can easily understand that I resented the presence of this young man. He was remarkably like me in height, figure, and looks, and my wife had a fancy for him before her marriage with me. That she became my wife, she laughingly avowed, was because of my uniform. So far as looks were concerned there was nothing to choose between Jeringham and myself, but the glitter of the military trappings (so she declared) turned the balance in my favor. You may be sure I liked Jeringham none the more after such adeclaration of lukewarm affection from your mother; and when he came to reside at Horriston, four years after our marriage, I resented his continued presence about the house. Your mother was angry at my expostulations, and the introduction of this second element of discord into the house estranged us more widely than ever. It was a miserable and most unhappy time.
"It was my friend Hilliston who pointed out the real reason for Jeringham's visits. This latter was not in love with my wife, but with her maid, Mona Bantry. As Denis, the brother of Mona, was an old servant of mine, I did not care to speak to my wife on the matter, but to keep the affair quiet, and to save the girl from the anger of her brother, I discouraged the visits of Jeringham on all possible occasions. We had a quarrel in public, and, as all the gossips of Horriston knew that he had been fond of my wife before her marriage to me, the quarrel was set down to jealousy on my part. All the neighborhood knew there was bad blood between Jeringham and myself, and (foolishly enough, I admit) I made use of several expressions calculated to show my hatred. These heated speeches were afterward remembered and commented upon.
"Things were in this position when the fancy dress ball took place at Horriston. Hearing that it was to be a masked ball, I resolved to assume a similar dress to that of Jeringham, and learn from my wife's own lips if she still cared for me. You may think I acted in an unworthy manner, but as a matter of fact I was nearly out of my mind with anger and jealousy, and hardly knew what I was doing. My wife was goingto the ball as Mary, Queen of Scots, accompanied by Jeringham as Darnley. This was sufficiently pointed to show in what direction her affections leaned, and I took advantage of the opportunity. Feigning an excuse, I ostensibly went to London, but in reality remained at Horriston, where I obtained from the costumer a similar dress to that worn by Jeringham.
"Thus masked and disguised I repaired to the ball. There I was recognized by a Miss Belinda Pike, but she kindly consented to keep my secret. You can guess what happened. Deceived by the dress my wife took me for Jeringham, and I learned sufficient to know that she loved him and hated me. I did not reveal myself, but went away mad with wrath. My sole idea was to unmask Jeringham, and show my wife how unworthy he was of her love. To this end I sought out Hilliston, and, learning that my wife was shortly returning home, Hilliston and I went to The Laurels together, as I intended to make Mona confess that Jeringham was her lover. I left Hilliston outside in the garden to watch for the coming of my wife, and entered the house to see Mona. She was waiting in the sitting room for her mistress, and I then and there forced her to admit the truth. She declared that Jeringham was the father of her unborn child, and implored me not to tell her brother. Fortunately, I had directed Denis to stay in the entrance hall, so he did not hear his sister's confession, and she was safe for the time being.
"While I was talking with Mona, my wife entered. She immediately accused me of having feigned a visit to London in order to stay at home with Mona. Thegirl slipped out of the room, and my wife continued her ravings. She said that Jeringham had come home with her and was at that moment in the garden; there she swore to join him. I prevented her leaving the room, and ultimately she fainted. I ran out to call Mona, and found that she had left the house, no doubt to join Jeringham in the garden, to tell him that the secret was known. I also went into the garden to seek for Jeringham. To my horror I stumbled over a dead body, and hastily ran back for a light to see whose it was. Denis came with the lantern, and we found it was the corpse of Jeringham. He had been stabbed to the heart.
"I would have given the alarm, but that Denis, quicker-witted than I at the moment, prevented me. He pointed out that it was well-known that I was on bad terms with Jeringham; that the unhappy man had been murdered in my garden; that my hands were red with the blood, and my clothes stained owing to handling the corpse; and said that I would be accused of the murder. I saw in a flash the peril in which I stood. I don't know if Denis suspected me of the crime, as he was not present when I first found the body, but he acted the part of a friend. We threw the body into the river and I made my preparations for flight. No one but Hilliston and Miss Pike knew that I had returned from London on that night, for my wife would keep silence, as I thought, for her own sake, and Mona had disappeared. I left the house in charge of Denis, and without a word to my wife, who had brought about this catastrophe, I sought safety in flight. It was cowardly, if you like, but I had no other resource. I would have been accused of the murderhad I stayed, for the evidence was strong against me. I fled and trusted to chance to hide the crime.
"The rest you know. My wife was accused and tried for my murder, as Jeringham's corpse was so disfigured that it was thought to be mine. I have mentioned the strong resemblance between us, and this helped the deception. I was compelled to keep in hiding as Jeringham, but I declare, had the case gone against my wife, I should have come forward and told all. As it was I went abroad, aided by Hilliston, who acted as my friend all through. He looked after my unhappy wife till she died in London; he took charge of you and brought you up like a son. He also secured me sufficient of my own property to live quietly, so I came to Thorston under the name of Paynton, and here I have lived ever since. I thought to die in peace, but you, Claude, have reopened the case. I tell you this to show you the futility of trying to find the real murderer. I do not know who killed Jeringham, nor do I think you will ever find out. If, after reading this, you still consider me your father, come at once to a most unhappy man. Be just, be lenient, my son, and forgive your unhappy father,
"George Larcher."
A NEW ASPECT OF THINGS.
Taitfolded over the last sheet of this long letter with a sigh. Although he was pleased for Claude's sake that George Larcher was still in the land of the living, yet he was distinctly disappointed that no communication had been made likely to elucidate the mystery. Yet the result of this confession was an entire displacement of the point whence it was necessary to survey the case. The motives which had caused the supposed death of Larcher would not suffice to explain the death of Jeringham. The case had assumed a new aspect, but nevertheless it was as complex and inexplicable as ever. Tait thought of all this with inconceivable rapidity, but did not give utterance to his opinion in the presence of his friend.
"The letter is wonderful, so far," was his sole remark, "but it is a great pity that it ends so abruptly. I suppose your father will personally relate all other details, Claude, when you see him again."
The young man assumed a sitting position, and deliberately finished his wine before replying to this remark. He looked anxious and disturbed, and, now that he had recovered from the overwhelming surprise at finding his father alive, seemed less delighted than he should have been. A miracle had been wrought in his behalf; the dead had been restored tolife; but he was by no means gratified by the occurrence.
"I don't know whether I shall see my father again," he said shortly.
"But, my dear friend——"
"Oh, I know all you would say," interrupted Claude hastily, with a frown; "but I am not prepared to admit your arguments. My mother is alive, my father is in existence, yet for twenty-five years I have looked on them as dead. Can you, then, wonder that I feel awkward toward them both; that I am by no means disposed to render them that filial affection which, you must admit, they but ill deserve?"
"The question is so delicate that I can only hold my peace," said Tait, after a pause. "I admit what you say. Still they are your own flesh and blood."
"I might answer you asHamletdid on a like occasion," replied Claude, with a bitter smile; "but a quotation will not mend matters. What I have to consider is the advisability of seeing my father again."
"You must certainly see him again," said the other promptly.
"Why?"
"In the first place he is your father, whatever you may say, and in the second you had better tell him personally that you abandon further investigation of the case. After all, your object is gone; for though you might want to avenge the death of a parent, the murder of a scamp like Jeringham can matter nothing to you."
"Oh, that I abandon the case goes without speaking," said Claude quickly, "and you——"
"I act in the same way. The further we go into thecase the more perplexing does it become. It is beyond me. Only at the Last Day will the mystery be solved. Still," added Tait meditatively, "I must admit a curiosity yet exists on my part to know who struck the blow. Of course your father's story corroborates Dicky Pental's, but the gardener mistook him for Jeringham by reason of the fancy dress."
"Does this letter suggest anything to you?"
"It narrows the field of inquiry, that is all. Your mother, your father, and Denis Bantry must necessarily be innocent, as they were in the house when the murder took place in the garden."
"If they are innocent, who is guilty?"
"We have a choice of two who were outside at the time. You can choose between Hilliston and Mona Bantry."
"Mona Bantry kill her lover! How do you make that out?"
"You forget your father's account of the scene in the sitting room," said Tait significantly; "then Mrs. Larcher asserted in the presence of Mona that she had come with Jeringham, furthermore, that he was in the garden. Mona, also jealous, acts as any other woman would have done in such a position. She goes into the garden to demand an explanation; there is a quarrel between her and Jeringham, and she kills him, then flies, not to hide her disgrace, but to evade the consequences of her act. That is a feasible theory, I think."
Claude shook his head. "I don't agree with you," he said emphatically. "You forget that we have my mother's account of the matter to place against that of my father's. If you recollect she also admittedfinding my father and Mona in the sitting room; she also admits fainting, but there all resemblance between the accounts ceases. My mother distinctly says that she threatened her husband with the dagger, that it fell on the floor when she lost her senses. When she recovered them the dagger was gone. Now," continued Claude slowly, "if you remember, the crime was committed by means of the dagger, for it was found red with blood in the grounds, and then was taken possession of by the police. If my mother's account is the true one, Mona Bantry may certainly have picked up the dagger and have murdered Jeringham, as you suggest. But if my father's story is to be believed, Mona left the room before my mother fainted, and consequently could not have gained possession of the dagger. It follows as a natural consequence that she could not have committed the murder."
Tait nodded several times during this explanation, to show that he agreed with the points raised; but when Claude concluded he rubbed his chin in some perplexity.
"Here we come to a dead stop," said he impatiently. "It was asserted by the police that the murder was committed with the dagger worn by your mother as part of the fancy dress."
"Yes! If you remember, it was on that evidence she was arrested."
"Well, if she wore that dagger in the sitting room, Jeringham could not have been killed with it, because the murder must have taken place while your father was trying to pacify your mother."
Claude glanced at the letter again. "My father makes no mention of the dagger in this," he said, with a puzzled look.
"No. I should like to hear what he has to say on the subject, the more so as I incline to his story rather than to your mother's."
"For what reason?"
"In her conversation with you, Mrs. Bezel—or rather your mother—said that she had threatened your father with the dagger in the sitting room of The Laurels."
"Yes. Well?"
"If you remember the evidence given by her to the police at the time of the arrest was that she had lost the dagger at the ball, and knew not into whose hands it had fallen."
Claude looked nonplussed, and knew not what answer to make. That his mother had made two different statements he was compelled to admit. He further remembered that his father had made no statement whatsoever about the dagger. Yet on the possession of that dagger turned the whole of the case. Whoever picked it up, whether at the ball or in the sitting room, must have killed Jeringham. Assuming his father's account to be true, and Claude saw no reason to doubt its accuracy, Mona could not have committed the murder, nor could Mr. or Mrs. Larcher be guilty. It therefore followed that his mother had spoken truly to the police, and for some inexplicable reason falsely to him. The dagger must have been lost at the ball, and picked up by—whom?
"I can make nothing of it," he said, after due consideration. "The only way to get at the truth is to tell my father that his wife still lives, and bring them together. Out of their meeting good may come."
"You will then call and see your father," said Tait encouragingly.
"Yes. I must. I see no way out of it. He must be informed that my mother lives, and I am the proper person to tell him so. Though it is strange," added Claude suddenly, "that Hilliston never told him."
"Humph! That gentleman seems to serve both sides," said Tait gruffly. "Your mother speaks well of him, your father thinks no end of him, and both trust him, yet for what I can see he has deceived both."
"How?"
"Why, by keeping back the truth from each. He has let your father think your mother dead, andvice versa. What do you make of that?"
"I tell you I can make nothing of the whole confusion," said Claude crossly. "I will see my father and abandon the case, for I am sick of the affair. It is maddening. What a pity your lunatic did not wake up a few minutes earlier so as to see who struck the blow and thus have settled the matter? But it is not that which troubles me."
"No? What else disturbs your mind?"
"Jenny."
"Jenny?" echoed Tait, with feigned simplicity. "I am afraid I am dull. I don't see."
"You must be blind, then," retorted Claude, in an exasperated tone. "You know I love Jenny."
"Well?"
"Well, I can't love her. She is my half sister."
"Indeed!" said Tait, in nowise astonished at this announcement. "How do you make that out?"
"Why, isn't Jenny the daughter of Paynton, and isn't he my father?"
"He is your father, certainly, but I assure you Jenny is not his daughter. She is no relation to him."
"Tait! what do you mean?"
"Can't you guess?"
"No. Out with it, man! Don't keep me in suspense."
"Why," drawled Tait, enjoying the situation. "Jenny is the niece of Denis—in other words, she is the child of Mona Bantry and Jeringham."
THE GARNET SCARFPIN.
Thatsame evening Claude called to see his father. He decided to go alone, but asked Tait to repair to Rose Cottage within the hour, so that, the meeting with his newly found parent having taken place, a consultation could be held by the three regarding the proceeding with, or withdrawing, of the case. Tait especially stipulated that this arrangement should be come to, as he was desirous of seeing Mr. Larcher, senior, in order to disabuse his mind of the straight-forwardness of Hilliston. Privately, Tait believed that the lawyer would yet be found guilty of the crime. On no other grounds could he explain the attitude taken up by Hilliston since the papers had been placed in Claude's hands. The evidence of Miss Pike and Dick Pental failed to alter his idea on this point.
Tait himself was beginning to feel weary of the investigation. At every turn it took he was baffled by some fresh obstacle, and he was not ill-pleased to find that the matter was at an end so far as Claude was concerned. That young man had sworn to avenge the death of his father; but now that his father proved to be still in existence, the oath was null and void. So that, Claude married to Jenny, he would be quite willing to leave the solution of the mystery surrounding the death of Jeringham to Tait; but Tait himselfdetermined to have nothing further to do with so wearisome a problem.
He waited considerably beyond the hour before leaving for the cottage, as he rightly considered the father and son would have much to say to one another. Moreover it was necessary to give Larcher time to overcome his emotion on learning that his wife was still in existence. Tait was by no means sure that the old gentleman would be pleased with this revelation. According to his own showing his relations with his wife had been none of the best; and to renew those relations after twenty-five years could hardly fail to be most unpleasant.
During this time Tait gave no thought to Jenny or Denis. As to the former, he was so satisfied that she was the daughter of Jeringham by Mona Bantry that he did not think it worth while to give the matter the benefit of the doubt. What he was curious to know was how Paynton, or rather Captain Larcher, came to stand in the position of an adopted father. Information on this point was conveyed to him before he reached the cottage by Denis himself.
The old servant walked briskly along the road, looking quite rejuvenated. He had heard the good news, and it had transformed his life. In place of a crabbed expression, his face appeared wonderfully cheerful, and he saluted Tait with a grin of pleasure. The other could not forbear commenting on his changed appearance, so clearly apparent even in the waning light of evening.
"Why, Kerry, you look ten years younger," he said, stopping short in his amazement, with an afterthought of Dick Pental's accusation.
"Ah, and I do that same, sir," said Denis, saluting in military fashion, "and you know why, sir."
"Are they reconciled?" asked Tait, guessing what was in the mind of the old servant.
"Begad, they are! Chattering together like two love birds, and my old master looking on with pride."
"Why, Kerry, I spoke of Captain Larcher."
"Augh, did you now, sir? I spoke of Master Claude, God bless him, and Miss Jenny, God bless her! God bless them both!" cried Kerry, taking off his hat, with a burst of affection, "and his honor along with them. Oh, glory be to the saints for this blessed day. But sure, I am forgetting my service, sir. The master is waiting to see you this very minute."
"I was just on my way," said Tait, signing to Kerry to go on. "We will walk there together. By the way, does Miss Jenny know she is not the daughter of your master?"
"She knew it all along, sir. Ah, and why should you look surprised at that, Mr. Tait? Is it because she is the niece of an old soldier like me?"
"No, no, Kerry! But, as you are aware, Miss Jenny knows the case from those newspapers she found; and in that report Jeringham——"
"I see what you mean, sir," said Kerry, touching his hat in a deprecating manner; "but sure she doesn't know all. She believes herself to be the child of my sister, Mona—who is dead, rest her soul, and of a Mr. Kennedy. We've invented a father for her, sir. 'Twould never do for her to know she was the daughter of the poor man who was killed."
"It is just as well, Kerry. Do you know whokilled him?" Tait asked this question with a keen glance at the man.
"No, sir. How should I know. I ran out with the light when the captain called, but I don't know who struck him the cruel blow. He was a bad man, sir, deceiving my sister, and disgracing the Bantry family, but he is dead, and she is dead, so we'll let them rest, and the heavens be their bed!"
By this time they were at the garden door, and striking his hand over these sad memories Kerry led the visitor into the house, and showed him into the bookroom. Here were assembled Claude, his father, and Jenny, all looking supremely happy, though the old gentleman appeared to be rather shaken. He rose when Tait entered and held out his hand.
"I am glad to see you, Mr. Tait," said he, in an unsteady voice, "and I thank you for the way in which you have aided my son. I feel that an apology is due to you for my behavior on your last visit."
"Don't mention it," replied Tait cordially, shaking the extended hand. "Under the circumstances you could not act otherwise. Well, Miss Paynton, am I to——"
"Don't call me Miss Paynton now, Mr. Tait," she said, smiling; "there can be no need for further concealment. I can take my own name, that of——"
"Miss Kennedy," said Tait quickly. "Do not look so surprised. Kerry told me all about it as I came along. I am at once astonished and delighted."
"I don't wonder at it," said Captain Larcher, patting Claude's hand. "You see I have found a son."
"And soon, sir, you will lose a daughter," observed Tait significantly.
"Oh, no," observed Claude, with a laugh; "when I marry Jenny we will all live together as a happy family."
"Marriage! Has it come to that?"
"You are astonished, I see, Mr. Tait," said the old gentleman, shaking his head. "I am myself. It is too soon—too sudden. They have only known each other a few weeks, and it is impossible that a union on so short an acquaintance can prove happy."
"We will have a long engagement," said Claude, "in order to prove if we truly love one another. But I am not afraid of the result."
"Neither am I," remarked Jenny, slipping her arm within that of her lover. "I am sure nothing will come between us. But come, Claude, and we will see my uncle, for I notice that Mr. Tait is anxious to speak to your father about that horrid case."
Captain Larcher nodded his approval of this, so Claude and Jenny left the room to seek Kerry, and be wept over by the old servant. Left alone with his host, Tait took a chair by the table, and they looked at one another in silence. The captain was the first to break it.
"There is no need for me to recapitulate the events of the day," he said, with a weary sigh, "as Claude told me you read my letter, and are in possession of all the facts. You may believe, Mr. Tait, that I feel considerably shaken. My interview with Claude has been rather trying. He has behaved in the most affectionate manner."
"Well, now your troubles are all at an end, Captain Larcher, and——"
"At an end, sir!" he interrupted sharply. "No, they will continue. My innocence is not yet proved,and I must still remain here under a feigned name, unless you agree to help me."
"Certainly I agree. Is it your intention and Claude's to go on with the case?"
"We have come to that decision, but I wanted to consult you before finally making up my mind. Do you think we ought to proceed?"
"I certainly do," said Tait promptly. "It is true that the police think that you are the victim. But if you want to assume your own name, inquiries would certainly be made. One is never safe in these criminal matters, even after the lapse of years. If you did declare yourself to be Captain Larcher, then it would come out that Jeringham is dead, and you would have to clear yourself. Besides, the evidence of Dicky Pental would implicate you, seeing that he mistook you in that fancy dress for Jeringham."
"True enough," replied Larcher, nodding. "And there is another reason. I have just learned that my wife is still alive, and is protected by Hilliston at Hampstead. I sent Claude out of the room so that I could ask you a plain question. Give me a plain answer, and tell me what are the relations between them."
"I don't care to answer that plainly," said Tait, with some hesitation; "but I think you can guess."
"Does Hilliston love my wife?"
"On the authority of Miss Belinda Pike, whom I saw at Horriston, I believe he does."
"And for her sake he had deceived me all these years?"
"It seems so. In fact, Captain Larcher, Hilliston has been playing a double game. He kept you andyour wife apart by assuring each that the other was dead. That conduct alone stamps him as a villain. Then, again, he threw all kinds of obstacles in the way while we were investigating this case."
"What for?"
"My own opinion is that Hilliston committed the murder."
Captain Larcher clenched his hand, and thought for a few moments.
"It might be so," he muttered, more to himself than to Tait. "Hilliston was in the garden. If he loved my wife—a fact which I never suspected—he might have killed Jeringham out of jealousy."
"But the dagger! How did he obtain that?"
"No doubt at the ball. I assure you, Mr. Tait, that my wife had not the dagger when in the sitting room."
"She declares that she threatened you with it."
"Then she either forgets or speaks falsely. She wore it at the ball when I spoke to her there, but when she returned it was missing. Hilliston came with me, knowing Jeringham was with my wife. He might have picked up the dagger with the fullest intention of committing the crime. Now that I know he loved my wife I am not prepared to say how he acted in the garden while I was in the house."
"And the garnet scarfpin mentioned in the novel?"
"That belonged to Hilliston," said Larcher quickly. "I gave it to him myself. Denis picked it up in the garden, but I thought nothing of that, as I was aware Hilliston was in the grounds on that night. But now I believe——Oh, I am afraid to say what I believe. I may be wrong."
"There is one way of finding out the truth, Captain Larcher. Come up to town this week and see your wife. Then we may learn all."
The old gentleman leaned his head on his hand in deep thought for a few minutes.
"I will come," he said at length. "At whatever cost, I will force the guilty woman to own the truth."