The Third. Volume

"Yes," replied Tait simply, "that is the reason. Is it not an all-sufficient one for you to pause?"

"No!" shouted Claude savagely; "it is all-sufficient for me to go on. You think that I may discover that Hilliston is the criminal, or learn that my mother is accountable for the crime. I tell you no such thing will happen. Hilliston was not near The Laurels on the fatal morning. My mother – I have told you how she exonerated herself, and the exoneration was substantiated by Denis Bantry. Both are innocent."

"It may be so. But who is guilty?"

"Jeringham. I believe that he discovered that my father had returned, and perhaps knowing of this intrigue between him and Mona Bantry, remained at The Laurels, unknown to my mother, in order to assist her as a friend."

"How did Jeringham obtain possession of the dagger?"

"I cannot say. We must find out. But he did obtain possession of the dagger, and during a quarrel with my father killed him with it. He fled to avoid the consequences. Oh, yes! I swear that Jeringham is guilty. But I will hunt him down, if I have to do it alone."

"You will not do it alone," said Tait quietly. "I am with you still."

"But you said – "

"I know what I said! I think it is best to leave well alone. But since you are set on learning the truth, I will help you to the best of my ability. Only," added Tait explicitly, "should you discover the truth to be unpalatable, do not blame me."

"I won't blame you. I am certain that you will find that I am right, and that Hilliston and my mother had nothing to do with the affair. Help me, that is all I ask. I will bear the consequences."

"Very good! Then we had better get to work," said Tait dryly. "Just go and dress, my dear fellow, or you'll keep dinner waiting."

"Why should I dress? I am not going out to-night."

"Indeed you are! We are due at Mrs. Durham's 'At Home' at ten o'clock."

"I shan't go. I am in no mood for frivolity. I would rather stay at home and think over the case. It is only by hard work that we can hope to learn the truth."

"Very true. At the same time it is necessary for you to go out to-night, if only to meet with John Parver."

"The author of 'A Whim of Fate,'" asked Claude eagerly, "is he in town?"

"Yes. And he will be at Mrs. Durham's to-night. We must see him, and find out where he obtained the materials for his novel."

"Do you think such information will lead to any result?" asked Claude dubiously.

"I don't think. I am sure of it," retorted Tait impatiently. "Now go and dress."

Larcher departed without a word.

CHAPTER XIV

THE UPPER BOHEMIA

The name Bohemia is suggestive of unknown talent starving in garrets, of obdurate landladies, of bacchanalian nights, and shabby dress. Murger first invested the name with this flavor, and since his time the word has become polarized, and indicates nothing but struggling humanity and unappreciated genius. Yet your true Bohemian does not leave his country when he becomes rich and famous. It is true that he descends from the garret to the first floor; that he fares well and dresses decently; but he still dwells in Bohemia. The reckless air of the hovels permeates the palaces of this elastic kingdom of fancy.

Mrs. Durham was a Bohemian, and every Thursday received her confrères in the drawing room of a very elegant mansion in Chelsea. She had written a novel, "I Cling to Thee with Might and Main," and this having met with a moderate success, she posed as a celebrity, and set up her salon on the lines of Lady Blessington. Everyone who was anyone was received at her "At Homes," and by this process she gathered together a queer set of people. Some were clever, others were not; some were respectable, others decidedly disreputable; but one and all – to use an expression usually connected with crime – had done something. Novelists, essayists, painters, poets, and musicians were all to be found in her rooms, and a more motley collection could be seen nowhere else in London. Someone dubbed the Chelsea Mansions "The Zoo," and certainly animals of all kinds were to be found there, from monkeys to peacocks.

It was considered rather the thing to be invited to "The Zoo," so when brothers and sisters of the pen met one another there they usually said: "What! are you here?" as though the place were heaven, and the speaker justifiably surprised that anyone should be saved except himself or herself. Literary people love one another a degree less than Christians.

Hither came Tait and Claude in search of John Parver. That young man had made a great success with his novel, and was consequently much sought after by lion hunters. However, Tait had learned that he was to be present at Mrs. Durham's on this special evening, and hoped to engage him in conversation, so as to learn where he had obtained the materials for his story.

When they arrived the rooms were quite full, and Mrs. Durham received them very graciously. It was true that they were not famous, still as Tait was a society man, and Claude very handsome, the lady of the house good-humoredly pardoned all mental deficiencies. Tait knew her very well, having met her at several houses, but she addressed herself rather to Claude than to his friend, having a feminine appreciation of good looks.

"My rooms are always crowded," said she, with that colossal egotism which distinguished her utterances. "You know they call me the new George Eliot."

"No doubt you deserve the name," replied Claude, with mimic gravity.

"Oh, I suppose so," smirked the lady amiably. "You have read my novel, of course. It is now in its fourth edition, and has been refused by Smith and Mudie. I follow the French school of speaking my mind."

"And a very nasty mind it must be," thought Larcher, who had been informed about the book by Tait. He did not, however, give this thought utterance, but endeavored to generalize the conversation. "You have many celebrities here to-night, I presume?"

"My Dear Sir!" exclaimed Mrs. Durham, in capitals, "every individual in this company is famous! Yonder is Mr. Padsop, the great traveler, who wrote 'Mosques and Mosquitoes.' He is talking to Miss Pexworth, the writer of those scathing articles in The Penny Trumpet, entitled 'Man, the Brute.' She is a modern woman."

"Oh, indeed!" said Claude equably, and looked at this latest production of the nineteenth century, "she is rather masculine in appearance."

"It is her pride to be so, Mr. Larcher. She is more masculine than man. That is her brother, who designs ladies' dresses and decorates dinner tables."

"Ah! He isn't masculine. I suppose nature wanted to preserve the balance in the family. The law of compensation, eh?"

"Oh, you are severe. Tommy Pexworth is a dear little creature, and so fond of chiffons. He knows more about women's dress than his sister."

"So I should think," replied Claude dryly. He took an instant and violent dislike to Mr. Pexworth, who was one of those feminine little creatures, only distinguished from the other sex by wearing trousers. "A charming pair," he added, smiling. "I don't know which I admire the most. The sister who is such a thorough gentlemen, or the brother who is a perfect lady."

"You are satirical," smiled Mrs. Durham, enjoying this hit at her friends. "Now you must take me down to have some refreshment. Really, you must."

Thus inspired, Claude elbowed the hostess through the crush, and escorted her to a bare counter in the dining room, whereon were displayed thin bread and butter, very weak tea, and fossil buns. Mrs. Durham evidently knew her own refreshments too well to partake of them, for she had a mild brandy and soda, produced from its hiding place by a confidential waiter. She asked Claude to join her, but he refused on the plea that he never drank between meals.

"But you are not a brain-worker," said Mrs. Durham, hurriedly finishing her brandy and soda, lest her guests should see it and become discontented with the weak tea; "if I did not keep myself up I should die. Ah! Why, here is Mr. Hilliston."

"Hilliston!" said Claude, astonished at seeing his guardian in this house.

"Yes. Do you know him? A dear creature – so clever. He was my solicitor in a libel action against The Penny Trumpet, for saying that I was an ungrammatical scribbler. Just fancy! And they call me the new George Eliot. We lost our case, I'm sorry to say. Judges are such brutes! Miss Pexworth says they are, ever since she failed to get damages for her breach of promise case."

"Here comes Mr. Hilliston," said Larcher, rather tired of this long-tongued lady. "I know him very well, he is my guardian."

"How very delightful!" said Mrs. Durham, with the accent on the "very." "Oh, Mr. Hilliston," she continued, as the lawyer approached, "we were just talking about you!"

"I trust the absent were right for once," replied Hilliston, with an artificial smile and a swift glance at Claude. "I have just come to say good-by."

"Oh, not yet, surely not yet! Really!" babbled Mrs. Durham with shallow enthusiasm. Then finding Hilliston was resolved to go, and catching sight of a newly arrived celebrity, she hastened, after the amiable fashion of her kind, to speed the parting guest. "Well, if you must, you must. Good-by, good-by! Excuse me, I see Mr. Rawler, a delightful man – writes plays, you know. The new Shakspere; yes!" and thus talking she melted away with a babble of words, leaving Hilliston and his ward alone.

They were mutually surprised to see one another, Claude because he knew his guardian did not affect Bohemianism, and Hilliston because he thought that the young man had left town. The meeting was hardly a pleasant one, as Hilliston dreaded lest Mrs. Bezel should have said too much, and so prejudiced Claude against him.

"I understood from your refusal of my invitation that you had gone to Thorston with Tait," said he, after a pause.

"I am going to-morrow or the next day," replied Claude quickly, "but in any event I intended to call on you before I left town."

"Indeed!" said Hilliston nervously; "you have something to tell me?"

"Yes. I have seen Mrs. Bezel."

"Good. You have seen Mrs. Bezel."

"And I have made a discovery."

"Oh! Has the lady informed you who committed the crime?"

"No. But she told me her name."

"Margaret Bezel!" murmured Hilliston, wondering what was coming.

"Not Margaret Bezel, but Julia Larcher, my mother."

"She – she told you that?" gasped Hilliston, his self-control deserting him for the moment.

"Yes. I know why she feigned death; I know how you have protected her. You have been a kind friend to me, Mr. Hilliston, and to my mother. I am doubly in your debt."

Hilliston took the hand held out to him by Claude, and pressed it cordially. The speech relieved him from all apprehension. He now knew that Mrs. Bezel had kept their secret, and immediately took advantage of the restored confidence of Claude. His quick wit grasped the situation at once.

"My dear fellow," he said with much emotion, "I loved your poor father too much not to do what I could for his widow and son. I hope you do not blame me for suppressing the truth."

"No. I suppose you acted for the best. Still, I would rather you had informed me that my mother was still alive."

"To what end? It would only have made you miserable. I did not want to reveal anything; but your mother insisted that you should be made acquainted with the past, and so – I gave you the papers."

"I am glad you did so."

"And now, what do you intend to do?" asked Hilliston slowly. "You know as much as I do. Is there any clew to guide you in the discovery that your mother still lives?"

"No. She can tell me nothing. But I hope to find the clew here."

"Ah! You intend to speak with John Parver?"

"I do," said Claude, rather surprised at this penetration; "do you know him?"

"I exchanged a few words with him," replied Hilliston carelessly. "I only came here to-night at the request of Mrs. Durham, who is a client of mine. As I paid my respects to her, she was talking to John Parver, and he was introduced to me as the latest lion. So you still intend to pursue the matter?" added Hilliston, after a pause.

"Assuredly! If only to clear my mother, and restore her to the world."

"I am afraid it is too late, Claude. You know she is ill and cannot live long."

"Nevertheless, I wish her to take her own name again. She will not do so until the assassin of her husband – of my father – is discovered, so you see it is obligatory on me to find out the truth."

"I trust you may be successful," said Hilliston, sighing; "but my advice is still the same, and it would be best for you to let the matter rest. After five-and-twenty years you can discover nothing. I cannot help you; your mother cannot help you, so – "

"But John Parver may," interrupted Larcher sharply. "I will see how he learned the details of the case."

Before Hilliston could make further objection, Tait joined them, and not noticing the lawyer, hastily took Claude by the arm.

"I have been looking for you everywhere," said he. "Come and be introduced to Mr. Linton."

"Who is Mr. Linton?"

"John Parver. He writes under that name. Ah, Mr. Hilliston, I did not see you. How do you do, sir?"

"I am quite well, Mr. Tait, and am just taking my departure," replied Hilliston easily. "I see you are both set on finding out the truth. But you will learn nothing from John Parver."

"Why not, Mr. Hilliston?"

"Because he knows nothing. Good-night, Claude – good-night, Mr. Tait!"

When Hilliston disappeared Tait looked at Claude with a singular expression, and scratched his chin.

"You see," said he quietly, "Mr. Hilliston has been making inquiries on his own account."

"You are incurably suspicious," said Claude impatiently. "Hilliston is my friend."

"Yes. He was your father's friend also, I believe."

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing! Nothing! Come and cross-examine Frank Linton, alias John Parver."

Clearly Tait was by no means so satisfied with Hilliston as Claude.

CHAPTER XV

A POPULAR AUTHOR

Bearing in 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 a nom 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, with bowed 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."

CHAPTER XVI

A FALSE MOVE

The next 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."