The Third. Volume

"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 not her name mentioned in these pages?"

"For answers to these questions you had better apply to the lady herself. You have her address. Why not call on her?"

"I intend to do so to-morrow."

The old man rose from his seat, and took a turn up and down the room. Then he paused beside Claude, and laid a trembling hand on the young man's shoulder.

"I have been a good friend to you, Claude."

"You have been my second father – my real father," said Larcher gently. "I shall never forget your kindness. I would return it if I could."

"Then do so, by letting sleeping dogs lie."

"What do you mean by that, Mr. Hilliston?" asked the other, with a subtle change in his tone.

"Abandon this case. Do not call on Mrs. Bezel. You can do no good by reopening the affair. It was a mystery years ago, it is a mystery still; it will remain a mystery till the end of time."

"Not if I can help it. I am sorry to disoblige you, sir, but my mind is made up. I am determined to find out the truth."

Hilliston sighed, passed his hand across his forehead, and returned to his seat, hopeless and baffled. He was sufficiently acquainted with Claude's character to know that he was not easily turned from his purpose, and that his resolution to solve the mystery would be resolutely carried out. Yet he made one more attempt to bend the young man to his will.

"If you are wise you will not call on Mrs. Bezel."

"Why not, sir?"

"It will give you great pain."

"All my pain is past," replied Claude quickly. "I can suffer no more than I did when reading these papers. I must call on Mrs. Bezel; I must know the truth, and," added he significantly, "I have your promise to assist me."

"I will do all in my power," answered Hilliston wearily, "but you do not know what are you doing. I am older and more experienced than you, and I give you my best advice. Do not see Mrs. Bezel, and leave the Larcher affair alone."

The result of this well-meant advice was that Claude called the next morning on Mrs. Bezel.

CHAPTER VIII

BOTH SIDES OF THE QUESTION

Man's life has frequently been compared to a river. In childhood it is a trickling thread, in youth a stream, in manhood a majestic river, and finally in old age is swallowed up in the ocean of death. A very pretty parable, but somewhat stale. It is time that life was indicated by a new metaphor. Let us therefore compare the life of man to the ocean itself. Like the ocean life has its calms and storms, its sullen rages, its caressing moments; and like the ocean – for this is the main point of the illustration – it has its profound depths, containing a hundred secrets unknown to the outer world. Francis Hilliston was like the ocean: all knew the surface, few were acquainted with the depths below.

A man who leads a double life need never feel dull. He may be nervous, anxious, fearful lest his secret should be discovered, but the constant vigilance required to hide it preserves him from the curse of ennui. He ever keeps the best side of his nature uppermost; his smiles are for the world, his brow is smoothed to lull suspicion. But to continue the simile of the ocean: in the depths lie many terrible things which never come to the surface; things which he scarcely dare admit even to himself. Francis Hilliston was one of these men.

Everyone knew Hilliston of Lincoln's Inn Fields, or thought they did, which is quite a different thing. He was widely respected in the profession; he was popular in society; hand and glove with prominent and wealthy personages. His house at Kensington Gore was richly furnished; his wife was handsome and fashionable; he gave splendid entertainments, at which none was more jocund than the host himself; he was, outwardly, all that was prosperous and popular. In his professional capacity he was the repository of a thousand secrets, but of all these none was more terrible than the one locked up in his own breast.

Long years of training, constant necessity, had taught him how to control his emotions, to turn his face into a mask of inscrutability; yet he succeeded ill at times, as witness his interview with the two young men. Not all his powers of self-repression could keep his face from turning gray; nor prevent the perspiration beading his brow; nor steady his voice to well-bred indifference. Usually he succeeded in masking his emotion; this time he had failed, and, worst of all, he knew that he had failed.

It was not Claude that he feared, for the young man was not of a suspicious nature; and even had he been so, would certainly have scoffed at the idea of attributing any evil to the one who had been to him a father. Tait, silent, observant, and cynical, was the person to be dreaded. Accustomed by his profession to read faces, Hilliston had seen that the quiet little man was possessed of one of those inquisitive penetrative natures, which suspect all men, and from a look, a gesture, a pause, can draw evidence to support any suspicion they may entertain.