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."