The next 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 the flowers 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, the other 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 this matter 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!"

CHAPTER XXXVII
A VOICE FROM THE GRAVE

It was 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 it seems 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 by the 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, and lived 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 a declaration 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 going to 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. The girl 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 murder had 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."