A silence ensued between them; Tait waiting to mark the effect of his revelation, while Jenny tried to grasp the idea that fiction had changed unexpectedly to fact. To her the case had been more or less of a romance, far removed and impossible; as such she had told it to Linton; but now, brought face to face with the fact that the murdered man's son was in the neighborhood, she scarcely knew what to think, certainly she was ignorant what to say. The shock would have unstrung a more nervous woman, but Jenny Paynton was not wanting in pluck, and so braced herself up to do what was required of her. Yet it took her a little time to recover, and seeing this, Tait afforded her the opportunity by talking broadly of the matter; later on he intended to enter into details.

"I do not wonder you are startled, Miss Paynton," he said easily; "this is a coincidence such as we rarely meet with in real life. My friend was ignorant of his father's fate, but one evening papers were put into his hands which recounted the tragedy; papers similar to those whence you obtained the story. He came to tell me all, but scarcely had he begun his relation, when I became aware that I knew everything beforehand."

"Had you also seen the papers, Mr. Tait?"

"No; but I had read 'A Whim of Fate.' There I found the Larcher affair set forth in the guise of fiction. Astonished at this I sought out Linton, who, I learned, was the author hidden under the name of John Parver, and asked him whence he obtained his material. He mentioned your name, and so I have come to you."

"Why?"

"Can you ask? To find out all you know of the matter."

"For what reason?"

"I think you can guess my reason," replied Tait quietly. "My friend Claude Larcher wishes to find out who killed his father."

"After five-and-twenty years? Impossible!"

"So I said at first. Now I am of a different opinion. In a short space of time we have found out a great deal. With your help we will discover more, and so in the end the matter may be cleared up."

"You want my help?"

"Decidedly! It is solely for that reason that Larcher and I have come here."

It was a pale-faced Jenny who sat considering a reply to this remark. She began to be aware that she had inadvertently set a ball rolling, the progress of which she was powerless to stop. That chance discovery in the garret had resuscitated an old scandal, and brought her into contact with people of whose existence she had hitherto been ignorant. As a matter of fact Jenny was responsible for the revival of the Larcher affair. Her narration of the plot had caused the writing of the novel, and that in its turn had freshened the memory of Mrs. Bezel, with the result that Claude had been told the truth. Now he had come to the source to learn more.

"I don't see how I can help," said Jenny, fencing with the inevitable. "If, as you say, Mr. Larcher saw the Canterbury Observer, he must know as much as I do about the matter."

"Very true," replied Tait promptly; "but there are many things in the novel which are not mentioned in the report of the case."

"Those things are fictitious. You must go to Frank for information about them."

"Was that scarfpin episode fictitious?"

"No," replied Jenny, with some hesitation. "Kerry told me that."

"Kerry!"

"Our man-servant. He has been with my father ever since I can remember, and is quite the autocrat of the household. He found me with those papers one day after I told Frank the story, and took them away from me. You have no idea how angry he was that I had read them."

"Yet he told you about the scarfpin?"

"Oh! that was because I asked him who had committed the crime," said Jenny quickly. "At first he would not talk about it, but when I said that no doubt Jeringham was guilty, since he had fled, Kerry denied it, and asserted that the crime was committed by the man who owned the garnet scarfpin."

"Did he say who owned it?"

"No. He went away before I could ask him, and will not let me speak of the matter. In the book Frank makes Michael Dene the owner of the pin."

"Ah! and Michael Dene is Francis Hilliston in real life."

"How do you know that?" asked the girl quickly, with a nervous start.

"My dear young lady, I have read the report of the case and the novel. It is easy to see who your fictitious personages are. Do you know Mr. Hilliston?"

"A little. He has visited my father once or twice, but we have not seen him now for many years. In fact, I had almost forgotten his name till I saw it in the case."

"Humph! In the novel Michael Dene, the man meant for Hilliston, commits the crime. Was that your idea or Linton's?"

"It was Frank's. Dene was the least likely person to be suspected, and it was necessary to keep up the mystery to the end. But I think he ought to have made Markham commit the crime."

"Markham is Jeringham, is he not?" said Tait thoughtfully. "With your permission, Miss Paynton, we will use the real names, not the fictitious. It will help us to understand the matter more clearly."

Jenny stood up, and tucked the music book under her arm. The recollection of Kerry's anger made her feel that she was unwise to talk so freely to a stranger about the matter. Hitherto, Tait had taken his own way; now she was resolved to take hers.

"I don't want to speak any more about it," she said resolutely. "I am very sorry I told Frank the story, and meddled with those papers. Let me pass, Mr. Tait, and drop the subject."

"No, don't do that," cried Tait, rising in his turn, and barring her way. "You must not fail me at the eleventh hour. My friend is bent on learning the truth, and surely you will not grudge him help. Remember it is the murderer of his father whom he desires to bring to justice."

"I can't say any more. I know no more, Mr. Tait. Do you know what I am about to do?"

"No," said Tait, looking at her grave face in some wonder.

"I am going home to tell my father and Kerry what use I made of those papers. If I have acted wrongly, it is but right that they should know."

"They will know shortly without your telling, Miss Jenny."

"Ah, you intend to speak of the matter yourself?"

"Perhaps! But in this case I allude to Hilliston."

"Hilliston!" repeated Jenny, in surprise. "What has he to do with the matter?"

"A great deal, I fancy. More than you or I suspect. He is now at Eastbourne, and I am certain he will come over here to see you to-morrow."

"To see me! Why?"

"Because he wants you to hold your tongue about these matters."

"Mr. Tait," she cried, with a sudden flush, "surely you are not biased by Frank's book? You imply that Mr. Hilliston is afraid of the truth."

"I think he is! In fact I am sure he is."

"Do you believe he committed that cowardly crime of twenty-five years ago?" asked Jenny, with scorn.

"What is your own opinion?" was the counter question.

"I believe that Jeringham was the murderer. Yes! Captain Larcher went in disguise to that ball, and learned the truth from the lips of his own wife. I believe she loved Jeringham. I believe he followed her home on that fatal night, urging her to fly. Then Captain Larcher appeared on the scene, and in the struggle that ensued he was killed. Jeringham fled, and Mrs. Larcher died. That, I am certain, is the true history of this crime."

"You, then, think that Mrs. Larcher was privy to the murder?"

"Oh, I don't say that!" said the girl, shrinking back; "it is impossible to say. But I have no right to talk to you about these matters, Mr. Tait. I have told you all I know. Let me pass, please."

Tait bowed, and stood aside hat in hand. She flitted down the aisle, a slim girlish figure, and had arrived at the door when his voice arrested her.

"One moment, Miss Paynton," he said, following her quickly.

"What is it?"

"Don't tell your father of this for twenty-four hours."

"Why?"

"Because I want to prove to you that what I say is true. Hilliston will inform your father himself, and ask you to be silent."

"It is too late for that now – unfortunately."

"Why unfortunately? You should be glad to have strengthened the hands of justice. However, we need not speak of that now. Will you promise to withhold your confession for the time I ask?"

"I promise nothing, Mr. Tait. Good-evening!"

"But, Miss Paynton," he said, following her again, "you surely will not be so rash. You can have no idea how important these matters are to my friend. Mr. Hilliston is certain to inform your father within the next twenty-four hours, so surely you can give us that time to do what we can. I beg of you – "

Jenny stopped irresolutely, and looked at Tait with a mixture of anger and doubt. The matter had now grown so intricate that she did not know what to do, what to say. She had not known Tait long enough to be guided by his advice, or to rely on his judgment; and her impulse was to tell her father and receive suggestions as to what was best to be done under the circumstances. Yet, she also mistrusted Hilliston, as his connection with the Horriston case seemed to her to be by no means as simple as had appeared at first sight. She was suspicious of him, and if he came over to Thurston especially to ask her to be silent, that would go a long way toward confirming her doubts. And then, after all, no harm could be done within the twenty-four hours, as afterward she could tell her father; thus, at once satisfying her conscience and her curiosity, she made the compromise.

"Very well, Mr. Tait," she said gravely. "I promise to be silent for twenty-four hours."

CHAPTER XXIV
A NEW SUSPICION

Spenser Tait walked back to the Manor House with the pleasing conviction that he had passed a very profitable hour. He had warned Jenny about the probable movements of Hilliston, and thus had put her on her guard against that astute individual. Once an idea enters a woman's head, it is impossible to get it out again, and Tait, by half hinting a confirmation of Jenny's suspicions regarding the lawyer, had made her uneasily conscious that Hilliston was a man to be watched and reckoned with. If Hilliston fulfilled Tait's prophecy, the little man believed that Jenny would resent his interference, penetrate his motives, and thwart him, if possible. In spite of her denial that she thought him guilty, Tait could not but perceive that the reading of the case had not biased her in favor of the dead man's friend. Jenny believed that Jeringham had committed the crime, but, if Hilliston acted indiscreetly, it would not take much to induce her to alter that opinion. Tait chuckled as he thought of these things; for he had not only cut the ground from under Hilliston's feet by warning Jenny of his possible arrival, but had, as he truly thought, converted a passive spectator into an active enemy.

Again, he had learned that it was the old servant who had informed the girl concerning the scarfpin episode. Kerry said that the man who owned the scarfpin was guilty; and Kerry knew to whom the scarfpin belonged. If he could only be induced to part with the information there might be some chance of solving the mystery; but Kerry's – or rather Denis Bantry's – past conduct and present attitude were so doubtful that it was difficult to know how he would act, even though he were driven into a corner. Tait had little doubt in his own mind that Kerry was the old servant of Captain Larcher, for no one but he knew the truth about the scarfpin. Nevertheless, he failed to understand why the man had changed his name, and why he was staying at Thorston as servant to a recluse like Paynton. Only a personal interview with him could settle these vexed questions, but Tait was of two opinions whether Kerry would be amenable to reason, and confess his reasons for such concealment.

Thus thinking, and trying to come to some conclusion regarding the new aspect placed upon affairs by the conversation with Jenny, the little man arrived home, and learning that Claude was still in the garden, he went there to report the result of his interview, and discuss the situation. Larcher was leaning back in a comfortable garden chair, with an open book on his knee, but, instead of reading, he was staring with unseeing eyes into the fresh green of the tree above him. On hearing Tait's brisk step he hastily lowered his head with a flush, as though he had been caught doing something wrong, and grew still more confused when he saw his friend looking at him with a queer expression of amusement.

"She is a pretty girl," said Tait significantly; "and I don't wonder you are thinking of her."

"Thinking of who?" asked Claude merrily, at this reading of his thoughts. "Are you a mind reader?"

"So far as you are concerned, I am. Knowing how easily influenced you are by the sight of a pretty face, I don't think I am far wrong in guessing that your thoughts were with Jenny Paynton."

"Well, yes," replied Claude, with a frank laugh. "I do not deny it. The glimpse I caught of her as we drove past in the cart charmed me greatly. I have rarely seen a more sympathetic and piquant face."

"Bah! You say that of every woman you meet. Your geese are always swans."

"Jenny is, at all events!" said Larcher promptly; "and you cannot deny that; but I admire her exceedingly – that is, as a pretty woman. You see, I already call her Jenny in my own mind, but that is because you always talk of her by her Christian name. Now, Jenny is – "

"My dear Don Juan," said Tait blandly; "don't you think we had better leave off these erotics and get to business. You must not indulge in the ideal to the exclusion of the real."

"Oh, not that business!" sighed Larcher wearily. "I don't believe we'll do any good with it. The mystery of my father's death is likely to remain one to the end of time for all I can see. Every trace is obliterated by the snows of twenty-five years."

"Not entirely, my friend. For instance, I have learned an important fact to-day."

"From Miss Paynton?"

"Yes. We had a long conversation, and she was considerably startled when she learned the object of your visit here."

"Was it wise of you to tell her?"

"Why, yes," returned Tait decidedly. "We can do nothing without her help, and that she will refuse to give us unless she learns the reason of our inquiries."

"What is her opinion of the matter? The same as Linton's, I suppose?"

"By no means. She thinks that Jeringham killed your father; but I am not altogether sure that she does not suspect Hilliston. After all, she may come round to Linton's opinion before long."

"Did you tell her that we suspected Hilliston?" asked Claude anxiously.

"Not directly. But I permitted myself to hint as much. However, I only aided the seed of suspicion to sprout, for it was already implanted in her mind. You look astonished, Claude, but recall to your recollection the report of that case, and you will see that Hilliston was far too much mixed up in the matter to be as ignorant as he pretended to be at the trial. According to his evidence he had not left the ballroom, and consequently could have known nothing of the tragedy which was then being enacted at The Laurels. Yet, he knows details which, so far as I can see, prove him to have been an eye-witness."

Claude jumped to his feet, and began restlessly pacing up and down the gravel walk. He yet retained some belief in Hilliston, and was reluctant to think that one to whom he owed so much should be guilty of so foul a crime. It was true that certain circumstances looked black against him, but these were purely theoretical, and by no means founded on absolute facts. After due consideration Claude inclined to the belief that Tait was too easily satisfied of Hilliston's guilt, and was willing to accept any stray facts likely to confirm his theory. Thus biased he could not possibly look on the matter in a fair and equable manner. The wish was altogether too greatly father to the thought.

"I don't think you give Hilliston a fair show, Tait," he said, stepping before his friend. "If he winks an eye you look on it as a sign of his guilt. My mother assured me solemnly that Hilliston was at the ball when the tragedy occurred."

"Oh, in that case, I have nothing more to say," said Tait coldly. "Still," he added rather spitefully, "I should like to know why Mr. Hilliston is so anxious to keep the matter quiet."

"Tait!" said Claude hoarsely, sitting down by his friend and seizing his arm; "do you know I have often asked myself that question, and I have found a reply thereto; the only reply of which I can think."

He paused, and looked fearfully around; then wiped the sweat off his white face with a nervous gesture. Tait eyed him in amazement, and could not understand what had come over his usually self-possessed friend; but he had no time to speak, for Claude, with an irrepressible shiver, whispered in a low voice:

"What if my mother should be guilty, after all? Ah, you may well look astonished, but that is the hideous doubt which has haunted me for days. My mother says she ran at my father with a dagger, but fainted before she struck him. What if she did not faint; if she really killed him, and Hilliston, knowing this, is trying to screen her, and trying to save me from knowing the truth?"

"But, my dear fellow, the trial – "

"Never mind the trial. We now know that Denis swore falsely when he asserted that my father was not in the house on that night. We know that he was in the house, and that my mother found him with Mona Bantry. Her jealousy might have carried her to greater lengths than she intended to go. Denis saved her at the trial by telling a lie; but we know the truth, and I cannot rid myself of a doubt, that she may be guilty. If so, in place of being an enemy, Hilliston is acting the part of a friend in placing obstacles in our way."

Tait shook his head. "I do not believe Mrs. Bezel is guilty," he said quietly; "if she had been, she would certainly not have written to you, and thus forced Hilliston to show you the papers. Banish the thought from your heart, Claude. I am as certain as I sit here that your mother is innocent of the crime."

"If I could only be certain!"

"And why should you not be," exclaimed Tait vigorously. "An eye-witness could tell you the truth."

"Where can I find an eye-witness?" cried Claude, with an impatient frown. "Mona Bantry and Jeringham have both fled; they are probably dead by this time. My mother denies that she struck the blow, and Hilliston, she says, was at the ball when the murder took place. Who can tell me the truth?"

"Denis Bantry," said Tait quietly. "Listen to me, Claude. The episode of the garnet scarfpin, which to my mind is the clew to the assassin, is only known to your mother, to Hilliston, and to Denis Bantry. Now Hilliston denies that such a trinket exists; your mother insists that it was found on the bank of the river after the murder. The only person who can give the casting vote – who can arbitrate, so to speak – is Denis Bantry."

"And where is Denis Bantry? Lost or dead, years ago."

"Nothing of the sort, my friend. Denis Bantry is alive and in this neighborhood. Yes; Jenny Paynton admitted to me that the scarfpin episode was related to her by their old servant, Kerry. Therefore, it naturally follows that Kerry is Denis Bantry."

"But why is he hiding here under another name?" said Larcher, after he had digested this piece of information, with a due display of astonishment.

"That I cannot say. Unless," here Tait hesitated before uttering his opinion, "unless Denis Bantry is the guilty person."

"But that is impossible; that is out of the question," said Claude decidedly. "He was devoted to my father, as you know. Why should he turn and kill him without a cause?"

"Ah!" said Tait significantly; "what if he had a cause, and a very good one, to kill your father. Recall your mother's confession. She returned at three o'clock in the morning and found her husband alone with Mona, the sister of Denis. She accused Mona of being her husband's mistress, and the girl confessed her guilt, which your father evidently could not deny. Now what is more probable than that Denis, attracted by the high voices, should have followed your mother to the room. There he would hear the truth, probably while waiting at the door. What follows? With his impulsive Irish temperament he dashes in, hot to avenge the wrong done to his sister. The dagger dropped by your mother is at his feet; he picks it up and kills his master on the instant. Your mother, in a faint on the floor, knows nothing of what is going on, and brother and sister remove the body to the river, where they drop it in. Then Mona is sent away by Denis to hide her shame and evade awkward questions, while he remains."

"But why should he remain?" interrupted Claude smartly. "Would it not have been wiser for him to fly?"

"And so confess his guilt. No! He induces Jeringham to fly, with a threat of denouncing him as the murderer of Larcher. Jeringham is in such a dilemma that, seeing that all the evidence will be against him, he takes to flight. Thereupon Denis is able to save his mistress, and himself, by denying that Larcher came to the house on that night. Of course, this is all pure theory; still it is as circumstantial as the rest of the evidence we have in hand."

But Claude was by no means inclined to agree with this last remark. "There are flaws in your argument," he said, after a few moments' reflection. "If Denis intended to deny that my father was in the house on that night, why should he induce Jeringham to fly?"

"To make assurance doubly sure. No doubt he intended first to put the blame on Jeringham, but finding that Mrs. Larcher was likely to be accused, he made things safe for her by denying that his master returned on that evening. Only four people knew of the return; Mona, who fled, Mrs. Larcher, who held her tongue to save her neck; Denis, who swore falsely to serve his mistress; and Jeringham, who thought he might be accused of the crime."

"But why wouldn't he have denounced Denis?"

"He was doubtless ignorant that Denis was the criminal. You forget that Jeringham was in the garden, and knew nothing of what was taking place in the sitting room. Denis rushed out, and finding Jeringham may have told him that Mrs. Larcher had killed her husband on his account. The man, bewildered and shocked, yet sees that he is complicated in the case through his love for Mrs. Larcher; he guesses that owing to the gossip of the place he may be accused of the crime, and so does the wisest thing he could do, – the only thing he could do, – and seeks refuge in flight."

"Then you think Denis is guilty?"

"I can't say. As you see, I can make a strong case out against your mother, against Jeringham, against Denis. Yes, I could even make a case against Mona Bantry; but it is sole theory. Yet Denis must have some reason for hiding here under the name of 'Kerry,' and for keeping those papers found by Jenny which contained a report of the case. The case is strong against Hilliston, I admit, but is stronger against your father's own servant."

"I don't think so," said Claude quietly. "If Denis had killed my father, he would not have told Jenny about the scarfpin."

"Why not! The scarfpin may have belonged to Jeringham – to Hilliston. For his own safety – now that the case is recognized after so many years by a girl's rash action – Denis would not hesitate to blame them to save himself. Taking it all round," added Tait, with the air of one who has settled the question, "I think the conduct of Denis is very suspicious, and I would not be surprised if he turned out to be the guilty person."

"But the acts of Hilliston?"

Tait rubbed his head and looked vexed, for he was unable to give a direct answer. "Let us leave the matter alone for the present," he said crossly. "I am getting bewildered with all this talk. Only one person can tell the truth, and that is Kerry, alias Denis Bantry."