The Third. Volume

After all, such incessant novelty is rather fatiguing. London is the most exhausting city in the world in which to live. From all quarters of the globe news is pouring in, every street is crowded with life and movement; the latest ideas of civilization here ripen to completion. It is impossible to escape from the contagion of novelty; it is in the air. Information salutes one at every turn; it pours from the mouths of men; it thrusts itself before the eye in countless daily and weekly newspapers; it clicks from every telegraph wire, until the brain is wearied with the flood of ephemeral knowledge. All this plethora of intellectual life was concentrated in the narrow confines of the Athenian Club House. No wonder its members complained of news.

"What is the prevailing passion with the Athenian at present?" asked Larcher as he stepped briskly along Piccadilly beside Tait.

"The New Literature!"

"What is that?"

"Upon my word, I can hardly tell you," replied Tait, after some cogitation. "It is a kind of impressionist school, I fancy. Those who profess to lead it insist upon works having no plot, and no action, or no dramatic situations. Their idea of a work is for a man and woman – both vaguely denominated 'he' and 'she' – to talk to one another through a few hundred pages. Good Lord, how they do talk, and all about their own feelings, their own woes, their own troubles, their own infernal egotisms! The motto of 'The New Literature' should be 'Talk! talk! talk!' for it consists of nothing else."

"Why not adopt Hamlet's recitation," suggested Larcher laughingly, "'Words! words! words!'"

"Oh, 'The New Literature' wants nothing from the past! Not even a quotation," said Tait tartly. "Woman – the new woman – is greatly to the fore in this latest fancy. She writes about neurotic members of her own sex, and calls men bad names every other page. The subjects mostly discussed in the modern novel by the modern woman, are the regeneration of the world by woman, the failure of the male to bridle his appetites, and the beginning of the millennium which will come when women get their own way."

"Haven't they got their own way now?"

"I should think so. I don't know what further freedom they want. We live in a world of petticoats nowadays. Women pervade everything like microbes. And they are such worrying creatures," pursued Tait plaintively, "they don't take things calmly like men do, but talk and rage and go into hysterics every other minute. If this sort of thing goes on I shall retire with Dormer to an uninhabited island."

"It is easily seen that you are not a friend to the new movement," said Larcher, with a smile, "but here we are. Wait in the smoke room, like a good fellow, while I see after my correspondence."

"You will find me in the writing room," replied Tait. "I have lost my morning pipe, and do not intend to smoke any more till after luncheon."

"I don't believe you're a man, Tait, but a clockwork figure wound up to act in the same manner at the same moment. And you are such a horribly vulgar piece of mechanism."

Tait laughed, gratified by this tribute to his methodical habits, so, leaving Larcher to see after his letters, he vanished into the writing room. Here he wrote an apologetic telegram to his friend Freak, and sent it off so that it might reach that gentleman before he started for Richmond. Then he scribbled a few notes on various trifling matters of business which called for immediate attention, and having thus disposed of his cares, ensconced himself in a comfortable armchair to wait for Claude.

In a few minutes Larcher made his appearance with a puzzled expression on his face, and two open letters in his hand. Taking a seat close to that of Tait, he at once began to explain that the news contained in the letters was the cause of the expression aforesaid.

"My other letters are nothing to speak of," said he, when seated, "but these two fairly puzzle me. Number one is from Mr. Hilliston, asking me to call; the other is from a Margaret Bezel, with a similar request. Now I know Mr. Hilliston as guardian, lawyer, and banker, but who is Margaret Bezel?"

Tait shook his wise little head. Well-informed as he was in several matters, he had never heard of Margaret Bezel.

"She lives at Hampstead, I see," continued Claude, referring to the letter. "Clarence Cottage, Hunt Lane. That is somewhere in the vicinity of Jack Straw's Castle. I wonder who she is, and why she wants to see me."

"You have never heard of her?" asked Tait dubiously. He was never quite satisfied with Larcher's connections with the weaker sex.

"Certainly not," replied the other, with some heat. "If I had I would assuredly remember so odd a name. Bezel! Bezel! Something to do with a ring, isn't it?"

"It might have something to do with a wedding ring," said Tait, with a grim smile. "The lady may have matrimonial designs on you."

"Bah! She may be a washerwoman for all you know, or a wife, or a widow, or Heaven only knows what. But that is not the queerest part of the affair, for Mr. Hilliston – But here, read the lady's letter first, the gentleman's next, and tell me what you think of them. Upon my word, I can make neither top nor tail of the business!"

(The First Letter.)

    "April 18, 1892.

"Dear Sir: Will you be so kind as to call and see me at Clarence Cottage, Hunt Lane, Hampstead, as I have an important communication to make to you regarding your parents.

    "Yours truly,
    "Margaret Bezel."

(The Second Letter.)

    "Lincoln's Inn Fields, June 10, 1892.

"Dear Claude: Call and see me here as soon as you arrive in town, and should you receive a communication from one Margaret Bezel, bring it with you. On no account see the lady before you have an interview with me. This matter is more important than you know of, and will be duly explained by me when you call.

    "Yours sincerely,
    "Francis Hilliston."

Tait read these two letters carefully, pinched his chin reflectively, and looked at Claude in a rather anxious manner.

"Well, sir," said the latter impatiently, "what is your opinion?"

Tait's opinion was given in one word, and that not of the nicest meaning.

"Blackmail."

"Blackmail!" repeated Larcher, taken aback, as well he might be. "What do you mean?"

"I may be wrong," said Tait apologetically, "but this is the only conclusion to which I can come. I read the matter this way: Margaret Bezel knows something about your parents, and wishes to reveal it to you, possibly on condition that you pay her a sum of money. Hilliston evidently knows that such is her intention, and wishes to put you on your guard. Hence he asks you to see him before you accept the invitation of the lady."

"H'm! This is feasible enough. But what possible communication can this woman be likely to make to me which would involve blackmail. My parents both died when I was four years of age. She can't have any evil to say of them after twenty-five years."

"You must question Hilliston as to that," replied Tait, shrugging his shoulders. "I think you ought to see him this afternoon. He knows you are in town. I suppose?"

"I wrote from Wellington to tell him that I was returning in the Kailargatin," said Claude, glancing at the letter. "He must have been informed by the paper of her arrival yesterday, for this note is dated the same day. To-day is the eleventh."

"But surely Hilliston knew you would call as soon as you arrived?"

"He might be certain that I would do so within the week, at all events," answered Larcher reflectively. "That is what makes his letter the more puzzling. The matter must be very urgent when he demands an immediate interview."

"I am certain he wishes to forestall this lady," said Tait, picking up the letter of Margaret Bezel. "She, at all events, knows nothing of your movements, for the note is dated the 10th of April, when you were in New Zealand."

"Humph! It is very odd, Tait."

"It is extremely odd, and too important to be neglected. Call on Mr. Hilliston this afternoon, and send him a wire now to make an appointment."

"I hope I am not going to have a bad quarter of an hour," observed Claude, as he wrote out the telegram. The mystery of the matter ruffled his usual serenity.

"I sincerely trust you are not," replied the other, touching the bell for the waiter; "but I must say I do not like the look of those two epistles."

The telegram was duly dispatched, and after a few more conjectures as to the motive of the communications, Larcher went upstairs to luncheon with his friend. Halfway through the meal he was struck with an idea.

"Margaret Bezel must be old, Tait."

"How do you know?"

"If she knows anything of my parents she must have been their friend or servant, and as they died twenty-five years ago she can be no chicken."