LITMIR.BIZ

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anxiety to begin the search for the undiscovered criminal. The first result of his compact with Tait was this visit to the lawyer.

      "Claude Larcher; Spenser Tait," muttered Hilliston, glancing at the cards brought in by his clerk. "I thought as much; the matter is out of my hands now. Show the gentlemen in," he added sharply.

      The clerk departed, and Hilliston walked quickly to the window, where he stood biting his nails. All geniality had vanished from his face; he looked older than his years, and an unaccustomed frown wrinkled his expansive forehead. A crisis had come which he knew not how to meet; so, after the fashion of men when they feel thus helpless, he left the decision in the hands of Fate. Which was precisely what Fate wanted.

      "Good-morning, Claude! Good-morning, Mr. Tait!" said Hilliston, welcoming the young men with artificial enthusiasm. "I expected to see you today."

      "Surely you did not expect to see me?" said Tait, in a silky tone, as he placed his hat on the table.

      "Indeed, I did! Where Damon is Phintias is sure to be. That Claude's perusal of those papers would result in your accompanying him to this office, I felt sure. I was right. Here you are!"

      Mr. Hilliston affected a cheerfulness he was far from feeling. With increasing age a distaste had come for violent excitements, and with one of Claude's temperament he knew that the chances were that the ensuing quarter of an hour would be somewhat stirring. Contrary to his expectations, however, Larcher was eager, but calm, and Hilliston, assuring himself that the calmness was genuine, began to hope that the interview would pass off better than he expected. Still, none of us like to reopen a disagreeable chapter of the book of life, and this Mr. Hilliston, against his will and inclination, was about to do.

      "Well, sir," said Claude, when they were all seated, and the hush of expectancy was in the air, "I have read those papers."

      "Yes," said Mr. Hilliston interrogatively; "and what do you think of the matter?"

      "I think it is a very black case."

      "You are quite right, Claude. It is a very black case indeed. I did all in my power to bring the criminal to justice, but without success."

      "Who is the criminal?" asked Larcher, with a keen glance at his guardian.

      Hilliston shuffled his feet uneasily, by no means relishing the directness of the question.

      "That is a difficult question to answer," he said slowly; "in fact an impossible one. My suspicions point to Jeringham."

      From this point Tait made a third in the conversation.

      "That is because Jeringham disappeared on the night of the murder," he said leisurely.

      "Yes. I think that circumstance alone is very suspicious."

      "He was never found again?"

      "Never. We advertised in all the papers; we employed detectives, inquired privately, but all to no result. The last person who saw Jeringham was Mrs. Larcher. He parted from her at the door of The Laurels, and vanished into the night. It still hides him."

      "What do you conclude from that, sir?" asked Claude, after a pause.

      "I can only conclude one thing," replied Hilliston, with great deliberation, "that your father, suspicious of Jeringham, returned on that night from London, and saw the parting. The result is not difficult to foresee. It is my own opinion that there were words between the men, possibly a struggle, and that the matter ended in the murder of your father by Jeringham. Hence the discovery of the body thrown into the river, hence the flight of the murderer."

      "Was this the generally received opinion at the time?"

      "Yes. I can safely say that it was believed Jeringham was guilty, and had fled to escape the consequences of his crime."

      "In that case, how was it that Mrs. Larcher was arrested?" asked Tait skeptically.

      "You cannot have read the case carefully, to ask me that," replied Hilliston sharply. "She was arrested on the evidence of the dagger. Without doubt the crime was committed with the dagger, and as she had worn it, the inference was drawn that she was the guilty person. But she was acquitted, and left the court—as the saying is—without a stain on her character."

      "Nevertheless she died, Mr. Hilliston."

      "Shame killed her," said the lawyer sadly. "She was a foolish woman in many ways,—your pardon, Claude, for so speaking,—but she was not the woman to commit so foul a crime. Indeed, I believe she was fondly attached to her husband till Jeringham came between them."

      "Ah!" interposed Tait composedly, "that is John Parver's view."

      "John Parver?" repeated Hilliston, with well-bred surprise. "I do not know that name in connection with the case."

      "Nor do we know the name of Mrs. Bezel," said Claude quickly.

      Hilliston started, and looked at Claude as though he would read his very soul. The inscrutability of the young man's countenance baffled him, and he turned off the remark with a dry laugh.

      "With Mrs. Bezel we will deal hereafter," he said shortly; "but who is this John Parver!"

      "He is the author of a book called 'A Whim of Fate.'"

      "A novel?"

      "Yes. A novel which embodies the whole of this case."

      "That is strange," said Hilliston quietly, "but no doubt the author has come across the details in some old provincial journal, and made use of them. The Larcher affair caused a great deal of talk at the time, but it is certainly remarkable that a novelist should have made use of it for fictional purposes after the lapse of so many years. I must read the book. Just note the name of it here, Mr. Tait, if you please."

      Tait did so, and Hilliston continued:

      "Is my character in the book?"

      "I think so. Under the name of Michael Dene!"

      "I trust the author has been flattering to me. By the way, who does he say committed the crime?"

      "Michael Dene."

      Hilliston went gray on the instant, as though a sudden blow had been struck at his heart. Two pairs of keen eyes were fixed on his face with some surprise, and uneasy at the scrutiny, he strove to recover his composure.

      "Upon my word," he said, with quivering lips, "I am infinitely obliged to John Parver for describing me as a murderer. And what motive does he ascribe to me, or rather to Michael Dene, for the committal of the crime?"

      "Love for the wife," said Tait, smiling.

      "Eh! That is rather the rôle of Jeringham, I should say," replied Hilliston, the color coming back to lips and cheek. "I must read this novel, and if possible discover the identity of the author."

      "Oh, we will do that!"

      "Claude!" cried the lawyer, in astonishment.

      "I and Tait. We intend to follow out this case to the end."

      "It is useless! Five-and-twenty years have elapsed."

      "Nevertheless, I am determined to hunt down the murderer of my father," said Claude decisively. "Besides, we have two eye-witnesses to the tragedy. Yourself and Mrs. Bezel."

      "Ah! Mrs. Bezel! I forgot her. Certainly, I will do all in my power to help you, Claude. Your father was my dearest friend, and I shall only be too glad to avenge his fate. But if I could not do it at the moment, how can I hope to do so now—after so long a period has elapsed?"

      "Leave that to us, sir. Tait and I will attend to the active part of the business. All we ask you to do is to give us such information as lies in your power."

      "I will do that with pleasure," said Hilliston, who by this time was thoroughly master of himself. "What is it you wish to know."

      "We wish to know all about Mrs. Bezel. Who is she? What has she to do with the case? Why is

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