A DUEL OF WORDS.

A longish pause ensued between the two men. Hilliston seemed to be in no hurry to continue the conversation, and Claude, with his eyes fixed absently on his glass, pondered over the facts that Mrs. Hilliston had an aversion to Horriston, and that the lawyer had taken the third volume of the novel out of the house. The two facts seemed to have some connection with each other, but what the connection might be Claude could not rightly conclude.

From his frequent talks with Tait he knew that the third volume contained the episode of the scarfpin, which was instrumental in bringing the fictitious murderer to justice. The assassin in the novel was meant for Hilliston, and remembering this Claude wondered whether there might not be some reason for his removal of the book. Mrs. Hilliston had quailed at the mention of Horriston, and the explanation given by her husband did not satisfy Larcher. What reason could she have for taking more than a passing interest in the tragic story? Why, after ten years, should she pale at the mention of the neighborhood? Claude asked himself these two questions, but could find no satisfactory answer to either of them.

He was toying with his wineglass while thinking, when a sudden thought made him grip the slender stem with spasmodic force. Was it possible that Mrs. Hilliston could have been in the neighborhood five-and-twenty years before; that she could have heard some talk of that scarfpin which was not mentioned at the trial, but which Tait insisted was an actual fact, and no figment of the novelist's brain; and finally, could it be that Hilliston had purposely removed the third volume of "A Whim of Fate" so that his wife should not have her memory refreshed by a relation of the incident. It was very strange.

Thus thinking, Claude glanced stealthily at his guardian, who was musingly smoking his cigar, and drinking his wine. He looked calm, and content, and prosperous. Nevertheless, Claude was by no means so sure of his innocence as he had been. Hilliston's confusion, his hesitation, his evasion, instilled doubts into the young man's mind. He determined to gain a knowledge of the truth by questions, and mentally arranged these as follows: First he would try and learn somewhat of the past of Mrs. Hilliston, for, beyond the fact that she was an American, he knew nothing of it. Second, he would lead Hilliston to talk of the scarfpin, and see if the reference annoyed him; and, third, he would endeavor to discover if the lawyer was averse to his wife reading the novel. With his plans thus cut and dried, he spoke abruptly to his guardian:

"I am sorry Mrs. Hilliston's health is so bad."

"It is not bad, my dear fellow," replied the lawyer, lifting his head. "She is a very strong woman; but of course, the fatigue of a London season tells on the healthiest constitution. That is why I wish her to go to Eastbourne."

"Why not take her to Horriston?"

"Why should I? She connects the place with the story of your father, about whom I was forced to speak ten years ago; and, speaking personally, I have no desire to return there, and recall the horrors of the past."

"You were greatly affected by my father's death?"

"Naturally; he was my dearest friend. I would have given anything to discover the assassin."

"Did Mrs. Hilliston give you her opinion as to who was guilty?"

"No. I told her as little as I could of so painful a subject. She is not in possession of all the facts."

"At that rate why let her read 'A Whim of Fate'?"

"I don't wish her to read it," answered Hilliston quietly; "but I left the novel lying about, and she read the first two volumes. If I can help it, she shall not finish the story."

"Why object to her reading the third volume?"

"Because it would recall the past too vividly to her mind."

"I hardly follow you there," said Claude, with a keen look. "The fact to which you refer cannot exist for your wife. To her the novel can only be a second telling of the story related by you, when she wished to know who I was."

"That is very true. Nevertheless, it made so painful an impression on her excitable nature that I am unwilling that her memory should be refreshed. Take another glass of wine, my boy."

Hilliston evidently wished to turn the conversation, but Claude was too determined on learning the truth to deviate from his course. Slowly filling his glass with claret he pushed the jug toward Hilliston, and pursued his questioning:

"The American nature is rather excitable, isn't it? By the way, is Mrs. Hilliston a pure-blooded Yankee?"

"Yes," said Hilliston, with suspicious promptitude; "she was a Chicago belle, and married a millionaire in the pork line called Derrick. He died soon after the marriage, so she came to England and married me."

"It was her first visit to England, no doubt."

"Her first visit," replied Hilliston gravely. "All her former life was passed in New York, Boston, and Chicago. But what odd questions you ask," added the lawyer, in a vexed tone. "Surely you do not think that my wife was at Horriston twenty-five years ago, or that she knows aught of this crime save what I have told her?"

"Of course, I think nothing of the sort," said Larcher hastily, and what is more he believed what he said. It was impossible that Mrs. Hilliston, American born and bred, who had only been in England twelve years, should know anything of an obscure crime committed in a dull provincial town thirteen years before the date of her arrival. Hitherto his questionings had eventuated in little, so he turned the conversation into another groove, and tried to learn if Hilliston knew anything of Jenny Paynton.

"What do you think of John Parver?"

"He seemed an intelligent young fellow. Is that his real name?"

"No. His name is Frank Linton, the son of the vicar of Thorston."

"What! He belongs to the place whither you go with Tait," exclaimed Hilliston, with a startled air. "That is strange. You may learn there whence he obtained the materials for his novel."

"I know that. He obtained them from Miss Paynton."

"Who is she?"

"A literary young lady who lives at Thorston with her folks. But I fancy Linton mentioned that he had told you about her."

"Well he did and he didn't," said Hilliston, in some confusion; "that is, he admitted that the story was founded on fact, but he did not tell me whence he obtained such facts. I suppose it is your intention to question this young lady."

"Yes. I want to know how she heard of the matter."

"Pooh! Read it in a provincial newspaper, no doubt."

"I think not," replied Claude, with some point. "It is next to impossible that she should come across a paper containing an account of the trial. People don't keep such grewsome matters by them, unless they have an interest in doing so."

"Well, this young lady cannot be one of those persons. How old is she?"

"Four-and-twenty!"

"Ah!" said Hilliston with a sigh of relief, "she was not born when your father was murdered. You must see she can know nothing positive of the matter."

"Then how did she supply Linton with the materials for this book?"

"I can only answer that question by reverting to my theory of the newspaper."

"Well, even granting that it is so," said Larcher quickly, "she knows details of the case which are not set forth in the newspaper."

"How do you know this?" asked Hilliston, biting his lip to control his feelings.

"Because in the third volume——"

"Nonsense! nonsense!" interrupted Hilliston violently, "you seem to forget that the hard facts of the case have been twisted and turned by the novelist's brain. We do not know who slew your father, but the novelist had to end his story,—he had to solve the mystery,—and he has done so after his own fashion."

Rising from his seat, he paced hurriedly to and fro, talking the while with an agitation strange in so hard and self-controlled a man.

"For instance, the character of Michael Dene is obviously taken from me. It is not a bit like me, of course, either in speech, or looks, or dress. All the novelist knew was that I had given evidence at the trial, and that the dead man had been my dearest friend. The circumstances suggested a striking dramatic situation—that the dear friend had committed the crime for the base love of the wife. Michael Dene is guilty in the novel—but the man in real life, myself——You know all I know of the case. I would give ten years of my life, short as the span now is, to find the man who killed George Larcher."

This was strong speaking, and carried conviction to the heart of Claude, the more so when Hilliston further explained himself.

"On the night of the murder I was at the ball three miles off. I knew nothing of the matter till I was called upon to identify the corpse of your father. It was hardly recognizable, and the face was much disfigured, but I recognized him by the color of his hair and the seal on his finger."

"How was it that my father was dressed as Darnley?"

"John Parver explains that," said Hilliston sharply. "Jeringham—I forget his name in the novel—was dressed as Darnley, and I believe, as is set forth in the book, that George Larcher assumed the dress so that under his mask your mother might mistake him for Jeringham. Evidently she did so, as he learned that she loved Jeringham——"

"One moment," interposed Claude quickly, "my mother denies that Jeringham was her lover."

"Your mother?"

"Mrs. Bezel."

"True; I forgot for the moment that you knew she was alive. No doubt she is right; and Jeringham was only her friend. But in the novel he is her lover; Michael Dene, drawn from myself, is her lover. You see fact and fiction are so mixed up that there is no getting at the truth."

"I shall get at the truth," said Claude quietly.

"Never. After such a lapse of time you can discover nothing. Better let the dead past bury its dead. I advised you before. I advise you now. You will only torture your life, cumber it with a useless task. George Larcher is dead and buried, and dust by this time. No one knows who killed him, no one ever shall know."

"I am determined to learn the truth!"

"I hope you may, but be advised. Leave this matter alone. You do not know what misery you may be laying up for yourself. Why, you have not even a clew to start from! Unless," added Hilliston, with a sneer, "you follow the example of the novelist and elucidate the mystery by means of the scarfpin."

Again Tait was right. Hilliston had himself introduced the subject of the scarfpin. Claude immediately took advantage of the opening.

"I suppose that episode is fiction?"

"Of course it is. No scarfpin was found in the garden. Nothing was found but the dagger. You know that Michael Dene is supposed to drop that scarfpin on the spot. Well, I am the living representative of Michael Dene, and I assure you I never owned a garnet cross with a central diamond."

"Is that the description of the scarfpin?"

"Yes. Do you not remember? A small Maltese cross of garnets with a diamond in the center. The description sounds fictitious. Who ever saw such an ornament in real life. But in detective novels the solution of the mystery turns on such gew-gaws. A scarfpin, a stud, a link, a brooch—all these go to hang a man—in novels."

This assertion that the episode of the scarfpin was fiction was in direct contradiction to that of Tait, who declared it to be true. Claude was torn by conflicting doubts, but ultimately put the matter out of his thoughts. Miss Paynton alone could give a correct opinion as to whether it had emanated from her fertile brain, or was really a link in the actual case. Judging from the speech of Hilliston, and the silence of the newspaper reports, Claude believed that Tait was wrong.

The lawyer and his guest did not go to the drawing room, as Mrs. Hilliston sent word that she was going to bed with a bad headache. Under the circumstances Claude took his leave, having, as he thought, extracted all necessary information from Hilliston. Moreover, he was anxious to get back to Tait's chambers and hear what the little man had to tell him about Mrs. Bezel. Hilliston said good-by to him at the door.

"I shall see you at Eastbourne, I suppose," he said genially.

"Yes. I will drive over and tell you what Miss Paynton says."

The door closed, and Hilliston, with a frown on his face, stood looking at the floor. He was by no means satisfied with the result of the interview.

"I wish I could stop him," he muttered, clenching his fist; "stop him at any price. If he goes on he will learn the truth, and if he learns the truth—ah——"

He drew a long breath, and went upstairs to his wife. As he ascended the stairs it seemed to him as though he heard the halting step of Nemesis following stealthily behind.