IN THE CHURCH.

Thorston Manor, built in broad meadow land, about a quarter of a mile from the village, was now the property of Spencer Tait. He had purchased it lately at a small price from old Miss Felcar, the last representative of that ancient family. She, unable to maintain the house in its original splendor, got quit of it altogether in this way, and shortly afterward took up her quarters at Eastbourne, leaving the house of her ancestors in the possession of a stranger.

The house itself was of no great pretensions, or age, dating only from the second George—a square, red-brick mansion, only redeemed from actual ugliness by the mellow beauty of its hues. The grounds themselves were better, and the trees best of all. An avenue curved nobly to the gate, which gave on the highroad, and to the right of this, fronting the house, was a delightful garden, laid out in the Dutch fashion. There were yew trees cut into quaint shapes, stiff and formal hedges running in straight lines, and beds of old-fashioned flowers. A fountain, a summer house, and a statue or two completed the furniture of this pleasant ground, to which Tait introduced his friend with unconcealed pride.

"I paid for this," he said, looking round as they paced the broad walks. "By itself the house is a monstrosity, only rendered endurable by its years; but you must confess that the garden is worth the money."

"It is certainly quaint," replied Larcher, looking around with an absent air, "but I do not care for nature in buckram. The formality of this place offends my eye."

"Ah, my dear fellow, you have been used to the wildness of New Zealand woods of late. You will find these grounds grow on you. I shall leave you alone this afternoon to make the attempt."

"Indeed," said Larcher, in some surprise at this cavalier treatment, "and what do you intend to do?"

"I am going to church."

"To church—on a week-day?"

"Oh, I am not bent on devotion, Claude. But Miss Paynton is the organist of the parish. To-day is Wednesday, when she is accustomed to practice between three and five. I propose to see her there."

"Why?"

"Can't you guess? To forestall her with Hilliston. That gentleman is at Eastbourne, and will probably come over to-day or to-morrow to ask Jenny to hold her tongue. As we can't afford to run such a risk, I must get all I can out of her to-day."

"Can I come also?"

"No!" replied Tait promptly. "It would be necessary for me to introduce you."

"What of that? Does it matter?"

"It matters a great deal. Miss Paynton has, we believe, obtained the plot of Linton's novel from a report of the trial. She will know the name of Larcher, and when she hears that you are called so, she will probably take fright and hold her tongue."

"But why should she think I have anything to do with the case?"

"Your own name. Your guardian's," answered Tait quietly. "Both are mentioned in the report of the trial. Oh, I assure you, Jenny is a clever girl, and knows that two and two make four. She will put this and that together, with the result that nothing will be gained by the interview."

"Well, well, go alone," said Claude crossly; "though I envy you the chance. She is a pretty girl, from the glimpse I caught of her."

"And as wise as she is pretty," laughed Tait. "I will need all my wits to deal with her. Now, is it settled?"

"Yes. You go to your organist, and I'll potter about these green alleys and think myself an abbe of Louis XIV.'s time."

Having come to this amicable understanding, they went in to luncheon, after which Tait gave Claude a sketch of the people in the neighborhood. Later on he sent him into the Dutch garden with a cigar and a book, then betook himself by a short cut through the park to the Church of St. Elfrida. Shortly after four he entered by the main door, and found himself in the aisle listening to the rolling notes of the organ.

There was no attempt at decoration in that church, for the vicar was broad in his views, and hating all ritualism from his soul, took a pride in keeping the edifice bare and unadorned. The heavy arches of gray stone, the white-washed walls, with here and there a mural tablet, the plain communion table under the single stained-glass window; nothing could be less attractive. Only the deep hues of roof and pews, the golden pipes of the organ, and the noble lectern, with its brazen eagle, preserved the church from looking absolutely irreverent. Through the glazed windows of plain glass poured in the white light of day, so that the interior lacked the reverent gloom, most fitted to the building, and the marks of time were shown up in what might be termed a cruel manner. Of old, St. Elfrida's had been rich in precious marbles, in splendid altars, and gorgeous windows, many-hued and elaborate; but the Puritans had destroyed all these, and reduced the place to its present bareness, which the vicar took a pride in preserving. It seemed a shame that so noble a monument of Norman architecture should be so neglected.

The red curtains of the organ loft hid the player, but Tait knew that it was Jenny by the touch, and sat down in a pew to wait till she had finished her practising. One piece followed the other, and the stately music vibrated among the arches in great bursts of sound, a march, an anthem, an offertory, till Tait almost fell asleep, lulled by the drone of the pipes. At length Jenny brought her performance to an end, and having dismissed the boy who attended to the bellows, tripped down the aisle with a music book under her arm. She looked as fresh and pink as a rose, but quite out of place in that bare, bleak building. Toward her Tait advanced with a bow.

"Here I am, you see, Miss Paynton," he said, shaking her by the hand. "I heard your music, and could not help coming in to listen. I hope you do not mind my intrusion."

"Oh, the Lord of the Manor can go anywhere," said Jenny demurely. "I am glad to see you again, Mr. Tait. The second time to-day, is it not?"

"Yes; I drove past you in the market place, if I remember rightly. Won't you sit down, Miss Paynton, and give me all the news. I am terribly ignorant of local gossip, I assure you."

Nothing loath, the girl seated herself in a pew near the door, and occupied herself in fixing her glove. Remembering the conversation with Linton, she was slightly uneasy at Tait's very direct request, but thinking that it could not possibly have anything to do with the plot of Linton's novel, resigned herself to circumstances. Before the conversation ended she wished that she had refused to speak to Tait at that moment; but it was then too late.

"News," she repeated with a laugh, "do we ever have any news in this dreary place. I should rather ask you for news, Mr. Tait, who are fresh from London."

"Oh, but no doubt our young author has already told you all that is worth hearing," said Tait, deftly leading up to his point; "he has been quite the lion of the season."

"Yes. He has been very fortunate," replied Jenny carefully. She did not relish the sudden introduction of this forbidden subject.

"And he owes it to you, I believe."

"To me. Good gracious, Mr. Tait! what have I to do with Frank's success?"

"According to what he says, everything."

"What do you mean," she said, sitting up very straight, with a deeper color than usual on her cheek.

"Why," said Tait, looking directly at her, and thereby adding to her confusion, "Frank told me that you supplied the plot of 'A Whim of Fate.'"

"And what if I did, Mr. Tait?"

"Oh, nothing, only I must compliment you on your—shall we say selection or invention?"

"The former," replied Jenny, with extraordinary quickness. "Since Frank makes no secret of it, why should I? The plot was told him by me, and I found it set forth as a trial in a newspaper of 1866."

"H'm! In the Canterbury Observer, I believe?"

"How do you know that is the name of the paper?" she asked in a nervous tone.

"I learned it from the same source that supplied me with the history of the Larcher affair."

"What! You also know the name of the case?"

"As you see."

"Frank does not know it. I did not show him the papers. I suppressed all names when I told the story," she said incoherently; "but now you—you——"

"I know all. Yes, you are right," observed Tait complacently. "I am better acquainted with the plot of 'A Whim of Fate' than John Parver himself."

Jenny sat looking at him in a kind of wild amazement. From the significance of his tone, the extent of his knowledge, she vaguely felt that something was wrong. Again, the anger of Kerry, the conversation of Linton, came into her mind, and she saw into what difficulty the chance telling of that ancient crime had led her. Tait noticed that she was perplexed and frightened, so dexterously strove to set her more at ease by making a clean breast of it, and enlisting her sympathy for Claude.

"You saw the friend who was with me in the cart, Miss Paynton?"

"Yes. Who is he?"

"Claude Larcher!"

"Claude La—— What do you mean, Mr. Tait? I am in the dark. I do not understand. Have I done anything wrong in—in——"

"In telling the case to Linton?" finished Tait smoothly. "By no means. As a matter of fact you have done my friend a service."

"He is called Larcher! Who is he?" she asked again with an effort.

"He is the son of George Larcher, who was murdered at Horriston in 1866."