A GLIMPSE OF THE PAST.

Hilliston remained a considerable time with his friend, and it was not until sunset that he left the house. He had a satisfied look on his face, as though the interview had answered his expectations; and so lifted up in spirit did he appear that he stepped out into the lane as jauntily as though he were quite a young man. It was over three miles to the railway station, and he would be obliged to walk back; but the prospect did not annoy him in the least; on the contrary so great a load had been removed from his mind by the late conversation that he felt fit to walk twice the distance. Yet such unusual light-heartedness might have recalled to his mind the Scotch superstition regarding its probable reason.

As he walked smartly to the end of the lane, the sun had just dropped behind the hills, leaving a trail of red glory behind him. Against the crimson background rose the gables and chimney of the Manor House, and the sight recalled to Hilliston the fact that young Larcher was staying in the mansion. He paused doubtfully, not certain whether to go in or pass on; for in his many schemes the least slip might prove prejudicial to their accomplishment.

"If I call in I can say my visit here was to do so," he thought; "but it is too late; and though Claude might believe me, the little man would certainly be suspicious. Besides they are sure to find out from Jenny Paynton that I have seen her father. No! I shan't go in, but to-night I will write a letter stating that Paynton is a client whom I called to see about business. I have made it all right there, and it will take a cleverer man than Tait to upset my plans this time."

His meditations were interrupted by the rattle of wheels, and he turned to see Kerry driving a dappled pony in a small chaise. The old man distorted his withered face into a grotesque grin of welcome, and jumped out with extraordinary alacrity, when he came alongside Hilliston.

"Augh! augh, sir!" said Kerry, touching his hat in military fashion. "It's a sight for sore eyes to see ye. Miss Jenny told me you had walked over from the station, so I just borrowed the trap of his riverence, the vicar, to take you back."

"That is very kind of you, Kerry," replied Hilliston, in his most genial manner; "I am glad to accept your offer and escape the walk. You drive and I'll sit beside you."

Kerry did as he was told, and in a few minutes the trap containing the pair was rattling through the street at a good pace. Shortly they left the village behind and emerged into the open country. The road wound to right and left, past farmhouses, under bending trees, behind hedgerows, and occasionally passed over a stone bridge spanning a trickling brook matted with cresses. All this time neither of them had spoken, as each was seemingly wrapped up in his own thoughts, but as a matter of fact they were thinking of each other. Kerry wished to speak to Hilliston, but did not know how to begin; while Hilliston was in the same predicament regarding Kerry.

It was the latter who finally began the conversation, and he did so in a way which would have startled a less brave man than the lawyer. At the moment they were crossing a rather broad stream with a swift current, and Kerry pulled up the pony midway between the parapets of stone which protected the sides of the rude bridge. Rather astonished at this stoppage, for which he could assign no reason, Hilliston roused himself from his musings and looked inquiringly at Kerry. The man's eyes, significant and angry, were fixed on him in anything but a friendly manner.

"Do you know what I'm thinking, sir?" he said, coolly flicking the pony's back with the whip.

"No, Kerry," replied Hilliston, with equal coolness. "Is it of anything important?"

"It might be to you, sir," replied Kerry dryly. "I was just thinking whether it wouldn't be a good thing to send horse and trap and you and I into the water. Then there would be an end to your black heart and your black schemes."

"That is very possible, Kerry," said Hilliston, who knew his man, "but before going to extremities you had better make certain that you are acting for the best. Without me your master is ruined."

"We'll talk it over, sir," answered Kerry, and with a smart flick of his whip sent the pony across the bridge. When they were over and were trotting between hedgerows he resumed the conversation. "Why have ye come here again, sir?" he asked abruptly. "We were quit of you five years ago, and now you come to harry the master once more."

"I come for his own good, Kerry."

"Ah, now don't be after calling me Kerry. There's no one here, and it is Denis Bantry I am to you, Mr. Francis Hilliston."

The lawyer winced at the satirical emphasis placed on the name, but judged it wise to humor the old man. Kerry, as he called himself now, could be very obstinate and disagreeable when he chose, so knowing his powers in this respect Hilliston wisely conducted the conversation on as broad lines as was possible. Nevertheless, he carried the war into the enemy's camp by blaming Kerry for not taking better care of the bundle of papers which, through his negligence, had fallen into the hands of Jenny.

"And how was I to know, sir?" retorted Kerry querulously. "The papers were safely put away in the garret, and Miss Jenny had no call to go there."

"Well, Kerry, you see what it has led to. The account of the tragedy is all over London."

"And what of that, sir? Wasn't the account of it all over Horriston twenty-five years ago?"

"No doubt," said Hilliston coolly; "but that is all over and done with. It is useless to dwell on the past and its errors. But now Captain Larcher's son is bent on finding out the truth."

"And why shouldn't he, sir?"

"I don't think you need ask the question, Kerry," replied the lawyer, in so significant a tone that the old servant turned away his head. "It is not desirable that Claude Larcher should be enlightened. We know what took place on that night if no one else does, and for more reasons than one it is advisable that we should keep our knowledge to ourselves."

"Augh," said Kerry gruffly, "you don't want it known that you were in the garden on that night, sir?"

"I do not," answered Hilliston, with hasty emphasis. "I spoke falsely at the trial to save Mrs. Larcher. I rather think you did so yourself, Kerry."

"For the master's sake—for the master's sake! As for the mistress she brought all the trouble on our heads. I lied, sir, and you lied, but she wasn't worth it. But is there to be trouble over it now, Mr. Hilliston?"

"No. Not if you baffle the inquiries of those young men at the Manor House. They will meet you and question you, and get the truth out of you if they can. Whether they do or not all depends upon yourself."

"You leave it to me, sir," said Kerry confidently. "I'll manage to send them away without being a bit the wiser. And now, Mr. Hilliston, that this is settled, I would speak to you about my sister Mona."

Hilliston changed color, but nevertheless retained sufficient composure to fix his eyes on the man's face with a sad smile. "What of her, Kerry?" he asked, in a melancholy tone; "you know she is dead and gone."

"Augh! Augh! But her grave, sir. You must tell me where it is, for I have it in my mind to go and see it."

"What would be the good of you doing that," said Hilliston disapprovingly.

"Because I was harsh with her, sir. If she did wrong, she suffered for it, and it was wicked of me to let her go as I did. Where is her grave, sir?"

"In Chiswick Cemetery," said Hilliston, as the chaise stopped at the railway station; "if you come up to London and call at my office I will tell you where to find it."

Kerry was profuse in his thanks, and, touching his hat gratefully, accepted the shilling which Hilliston put into his hand; but when the train containing Hilliston started for Eastbourne, he threw away the money, and shook his fist after the retreating carriages. Not a word did he say, but the frown on his face grew deeper and deeper as he got into the trap again, and drove slowly back to Thorston. Evidently he trusted Hilliston no more than did Tait or Jenny.

It was now quite dark, for the daylight and afterglow had long since vanished from the western skies, and the moon was not yet up. Only the stars were visible here and there in the cloudy sky, and finding their light insufficient to drive by, Kerry got down and lighted the carriage lamp. Heaven only knows of what he was thinking as he drove along the dusky lanes. The past unrolled itself before his eyes, and what he saw there made him groan and heave deep sighs. But there was no use in so indulging his memories, and thinking of his master, Kerry braced himself up to see what could be done toward meeting the dangers which seemed to threaten on all sides. When he delivered the trap again to the groom of the vicar, he hit on an idea which he proceeded to carry out.

Instead of going back at once to Rose Cottage, he borrowed a piece of paper and a pencil from the groom, and laboriously traced a few lines by the light of the stable lantern. Putting this missive in his pocket, he went off in the direction of the Manor House; but leaving the public road he skirted the low stone wall which divided it from the adjacent fields. Kerry knew every inch of the ground, and even in the darkness had no difficulty in guiding himself to his destination. This was a vantage point at the end of the wall, whence he could see into a sitting room of the house. In a few minutes Kerry was perched on this wall, busily engaged in tying his letter to an ordinary sized stone.

Almost immediately below him the mansion stretched in a kind of abrupt right angle, in which was set two wide windows overlooking a bed of flowers. These were open to the cool night air, and the blinds had been drawn down, so that Kerry from his lofty hiding-place could see right into the room. A tall brass lamp stood at one end, and under this sat Claude Larcher, smoking and thinking. The glare of the lamp fell full on his fresh-colored face and light hair, so that Kerry felt as though he were gazing at a phantom out of that dread past.

"He's as like his father as two peas," muttered Kerry, devouring the picture with his eyes; "a fine boy and an honest gentleman. Augh! augh! To think that I have nursed him on my knee when he was a bit of lad, and now I'm here telling him to go away. But it's better that than the other. A curse on those who brought him here and put sorrow into his heart."

Thus muttering, Kerry threw the stone lightly through the window. It fell heavily on the floor within a few feet of Claude, who sprang to his feet with an exclamation. Not waiting to see the result, Kerry hastily tumbled off the wall, jumped the ditch, and made off in the darkness. By a circuitous route he regained Rose Cottage, and entered into the kitchen worn out in body and mind. He had done his duty so far as in him lay, and mentally prayed that the result might tend to remove the threatened danger.

Meanwhile Claude had picked up the stone and ran to the window. He could see nothing, for Kerry was already halfway across the fields; he could not even guess whence the stone had been thrown. All was silent, and though he listened intently, he could not hear the sound of retreating footsteps. With some wonderment he untied the paper from the stone and smoothed it out. It was badly written and badly spelled, and ran as follows:

"Bewar of danger, Claude Larcher, tak a frind's advise and go quick away."

There was no signature, and the young man was looking at it in growing perplexity when Tait entered the room.

"What did you shout out about?" he asked carelessly. "I heard you in the next room."

"You would have shouted also," replied Larcher, holding out the paper. "This was flung into the room tied round a stone."

"You don't say so! Who threw it?"

"I can't say. I rushed to the window at once, but saw no sign of anyone. What do you think of the hint therein contained?"

Tait read the anonymous communication, pondered over it, and finally delivered his opinion by uttering a name. "Hilliston," he said confidently, "Hilliston."

"Nonsense!" said Claude sharply; "why should he deal in underhand ways of this sort. If he wanted me to go away, he could have called and urged me to do so. But this—I don't believe Hilliston would condescend to such trickery."

"When a man is in a fix he will descend to anything to get himself out of it," replied Tait, placing the paper in his pocketbook. "I'll keep this, and, perhaps, before many days are over I'll have an opportunity of proving to you that I speak truly. Who else wants you to go away besides Hilliston."

"Kerry—Denis Bantry might!"

"I doubt whether Kerry knows that you are here. You must give matters time to develop themselves, as the inmates of Rose Cottage can't know all about us within twenty-four hours."

"What between your confessions to Jenny, and Hilliston's own knowledge, I think they'll know a good deal in one way or another."

"They can know as much as they like," said Tait quietly, "but we know more, and if it comes to a tug of war I think you and I can win against Hilliston and Co. But come outside and let us examine the top of the wall."

"Do you think the stone was thrown from there?" asked Claude, as they went out into the garden.

"I fancy so from your description. Light this candle."

The night was so still that the flame of the candle hardly wavered. Tait gave it to Claude to hold, and easily climbed up the wall by thrusting the toes of his boots in among the loose stones. He examined the top carefully, and then getting the light tied it to a piece of string and lowered it on the other side. In a few minutes he came down again with a satisfied look.

"As I thought," he said, blowing out the candle. "Someone has been on that wall and thrown the stone from there. I saw the marks of feet on the other side. The man who delivered the letter jumped the ditch and made off across the fields."

"You don't think it is Hilliston?" said Claude doubtfully.

"No; but I think it is an emissary of Hilliston. Perhaps Denis Bantry."

"Tait!" said Larcher, after a pause, "from Hilliston's visit to Paynton, from the way in which Paynton persistently secludes himself from the world; and from the knowledge we possess that the information for Linton's book came out of that cottage, I have come to a conclusion."

"What is that?"

"I believe that Ferdinand Paynton is none other than Mark Jeringham, who killed my father."