THE DISCOVERIES OF SPENSER TAIT.

Horriston might fitly be compared to Jonah's gourd; it sprang up in a night, so to speak, and withered in the space of a day. In the earlier part of the Victorian era a celebrated doctor recommended its mineral springs, and invalids flocked to be cured at this new pool of Bethesda. Whether the cures were not genuine, or insufficiently rapid to please the sick folk, it is hard to say, but after fifteen or twenty years of prosperity the crowd of fashionable valetudinarians ceased to occupy the commodious lodging houses and hotels in Horriston. Other places sprang up with greater attractions and more certain cures, so the erstwhile fashionable town relapsed into its provincial dullness. No one lived there but a few retired army men, and no one came save a stray neurotic person in search of absolute quiet. Few failed to get that at Horriston, which was now as sleepy a place as could be found in all England. Even Thorston was more in touch with the nineteenth century than this deserted town.

As Tait drove through the streets on his way to the principal hotel, he could not help noticing the dreary look of the chief thoroughfare. Many of the shops were closed, some were unoccupied, and those still open displayed wares grimy and flyblown. The shopkeepers came to their doors in a dazed fashion to look at the new visitor in the single fly which plied between station and hotel, thereby showing that the event was one of rare occurrence. There were no vehicles in the street itself save a lumbering cart containing market produce, and the doctor's trap which stood at the doctor's door. A few people sauntered along the pavement in a listless fashion, and the whole aspect of the place was one of decay and desertion. But for the presence of shopkeepers and pedestrians, few though they were, Tait could almost have imagined himself in some deserted mining township on the Californian coast.

The principal hotel faced one side of a melancholy square, and was called "The Royal Victoria," out of compliment to the reigning monarch. It was a large barrack, with staring windows, and a flight of white steps leading up to a deserted hall. No busy waiters, no genial landlord or buxom barmaid, not even the sound of cheerful voices. Cats slept on the steps and fowls clucked in the square, while a melancholy waiter, peering out of the window, put the finishing touch to the lamentable dreariness of the scene. The sign "Royal Victoria" should have been removed out of very shame, and the word "Ichabod" written up in its place. The landlord was lacking in humor to let things remain as they were.

However, Tait, being hungry and dusty and tired, consoled himself with the reflection that it was at all events an hotel, and speedily found himself the sole occupant of the dining room, attended to by the melancholy waiter. The viands provided were by no means bad, and the wine was undeniably good; and small wonder, seeing it had been in the cellars for a quarter of a century for want of someone to drink it. This fact was confided to Tait by his sad Ganymede.

"We used to see a sight of company here," said this elderly person when he appeared with the claret, "but, bless you, it's like Babylon the fallen now, sir. You're the first gentleman as I have seen here for a week."

"Shouldn't think it would pay to keep the hotel open."

"It don't, sir," replied the waiter with conviction, "but master is well off—made his money in the days when Horriston was Horriston, and keeps this place as a sort of hobby. We have a club here in the evenings, sir, and that makes things a bit lively."

"Have you been here long?" asked Tait, noticing how gray and wrinkled was this despondent servitor.

"Over thirty years, sir," responded Ganymede, with a sigh as though the memory was too much for him; "man and boy I've been here thirty years."

"I'm glad of that. You're the man I want. Got a good memory?"

"Pretty good, sir. Not that there's much to remember," and he sighed again.

"H'm. Have you any recollection of a murder which took place at The Laurels twenty-five years ago?"

"That I have, sir," said the waiter, with faint animation, "it was the talk of the country. Captain Larcher, wasn't it, sir, and his wife, a sweetly pretty woman? She was accused of the murder, I think; but she didn't do it. No, nor Mr. Jeringham either, though some people think he did, 'cause he cleared out. And small blame to him when they were after him like roaring lions."

"Do you remember Jeringham?"

"I should think so, sir. Why he stopped in this very hotel, he did. As kind and affable a gentleman as I ever met, sir. He kill Captain Larcher? Not he! no more than did the wife, poor thing! Now I have my own opinion," said this wise person significantly, "but I didn't take to it for five years after the murder. As you might say twenty years ago, sir."

"Who do you think committed the crime, then?" asked Tait, rather impressed by the man's manner.

The waiter looked around, with the enjoyable air of a man about to impart a piece of startling information, and bent across the table to communicate it to Tait. "Denis Bantry was the man, sir," he said solemnly; "Captain Larcher's valet."

"Nonsense! What makes you think that?"

"I don't think it, sir. I know it. If you don't believe me, go to The Laurels and ask the old gardener, Dick Pental. He saw it," finished the waiter, in a tragic whisper.

"Saw what? The murder?" said Tait, with a startled look.

"Yes, sir. He saw the murder. I heard it all from him, I did; I forget the exact story he told me. But Denis Bantry should have been hanged, sir. Oh, there isn't the least doubt about it, sir."

"But if this Dick Pental saw the crime committed, why didn't he come forward and tell about it?"

"Well, sir, it was this way," said Ganymede, dusting the table with his napkin, "Dick aint all there. Not to be too delicate, sir, Dick's mad. He was always a softy from a boy, not that he's old now, sir. Forty-five, I believe, and he was twenty years of age when he was in Captain Larcher's service."

"And is he at The Laurels still?"

"Why, yes, sir. You see, after the murder, no one would take the house. They thought it haunted maybe, so Dick was put in as caretaker. He looked after it for twenty years, and then it was taken by a gentleman who didn't care for murders or ghosts. He's there now, sir, and so is Dick, who still looks after the garden."

"But why didn't Dick relate what he saw?"

"Because of his softness, sir," said the waiter deliberately. "You see Dick had been put into a lunatic asylum, he had, just before he came of age. Captain Larcher—a kind gentleman, sir—took him out, and made him gardener at The Laurels, so when Dick saw the murder done, he was afraid to speak, in case he should be locked up again. No head, you see, sir. So he held his tongue, he did, and only told me five years after the murder. Then it was too late, for all those who were at The Laurels on that night had disappeared. You don't happen to know where Denis Bantry is, sir, do you? For he ought to hang, sir; indeed he ought."

Tait did not think it wise to take this bloodthirsty waiter into his confidence, but rewarded him with half a sovereign for his information, and retired to bed to think the matter over. He was startled by this new discovery, which seemed to indicate Denis Bantry, alias Kerry, as the assassin, and wondered if he had been wrong all through in suspecting Hilliston. Yet if Kerry had committed the crime, Tait saw no reason why Hilliston should protect him, as he was evidently doing. Assuming that the waiter had spoken correctly, the only ground on which Tait could explain Hilliston's conduct was that Mrs. Larcher was implicated with the old servant in the murder. If Kerry were arrested he might confess sufficient to entangle Mrs. Larcher; and as Hilliston loved the woman, a fact of which Tait was certain, he would not like to run so great a risk to her liberty. But this reasoning was upset by the remembrance that Mrs. Larcher had already been tried and acquitted of the crime; and as according to law she could not be tried twice on the same charge, she was safe in any case. Tait was bewildered by his own thoughts. The kaleidoscope had shifted again; the combinations were different, but the component parts were the same; and argue as he might there seemed no solution of the mystery. Mrs. Larcher, Denis Bantry, his sister, Hilliston, and Mark Jeringham; who had killed the unfortunate husband? Tait could find no answer to this perplexing question.

In the morning he walked to The Laurels, which he had no difficulty in finding, owing to the explicit directions of his friend the waiter. It was a pretty, low-roofed house on a slight rise near the river, and built somewhat after the fashion of a bungalow. The gardens sloped to the river bank on one side, and on the other were sheltered from inland winds by a belt of sycamore trees; in front a light iron railing divided them from the road, which ran past the house on its way to the ferry. The gardens were some three acres in extent, very pretty and picturesque, showing at every turn that whatever might be the mental state of Dick Pental, he was thorough master of his business. Tait came into contact with him in a short space of time through the medium of the housekeeper.

This individual was a sour old maid, who informed him with some acerbity that Mr. Deemer, the present occupant of The Laurels, was away from home, and without his permission she could not show him the house. Perhaps she suspected Tait's errand, for she looked suspiciously at him, and resolutely refused to let him cross the threshold. However, as a concession she said he could inspect the grounds, which were well worth seeing; and called Dick Pental to show him round. As Tait had really no great desire to see the interior of the house, where he would learn nothing likely to be of service, and a great desire to speak alone with the mad gardener, he thankfully accepted the offer, and was then thrown into the company of the very man whom he most desired to see.

Dick Pental was a slender, bright-eyed man, with a dreamy-looking face; alert in his movements, and restless with his hands and feet. He did not seem unintelligent; but the germs of madness were plainly discernible, and Tait guessed that only his constant life in the open air kept him from returning to the asylum whence he had been taken by Captain Larcher. With justifiable pride this queer creature showed Tait over the grounds, but never by word or deed did he hint at the story which he had told the waiter. Still hopeful, Tait led the conversation on that direction, and finally succeeded in touching the spring in the man's brain which made him relate the whole matter. The opportunity occurred when the two men were standing on a slight rise overlooking the river. Here Tait made a remark concerning the view.

"What a peaceful scene," he said, waving his stick toward the prospect. "Corn lands, farmhouses, the square-towered church, and the ferry crossing the placid river. I can imagine nothing more homely, or so charged with pleasant memories. Here all is peace and quiet, no trouble, no danger, no crimes."

Dick thoughtfully rubbed the half crown given him by Tait, and looked dreamily at river and sky and opposite shore. To his abnormally active brain the scene looked different to what it did to this stranger; and he could not forbear alluding to the fact. Moreover, the gentleman had given him money, and Dick was greedy, so in the expectation of extracting another coin, he hinted that he could tell a startling story about this very place.

"Aint you fond of murders, sir?" he asked abruptly, turning his bright eyes on Tait.

"No, I don't think I am," replied the other, delighted to think he had succeeded in rousing the man's dormant intelligence. "Why do you ask? Murder is an ugly word, and can have nothing to do with so peaceful a scene as this."

"That's all you know, sir," said Dick eagerly. "Why, I could tell you of a murder as I seed myself in this very spot where we are now—or only a few yards from it, sir."

Tait glanced at his watch with an affectation of hurry, and shook his head. "I am afraid I can't wait," he said artfully. "I must return to Horriston in a few minutes."

"It won't take longer nor that to tell. Why, I've told it in ten minutes, I have. It's freezer to the blood. A murder at night, too," added Dick, in an agony lest Tait should go away, "with a lantern and a corpse—just like you read in novels."

"Hm!" observed Tait skeptically, not yet being sure of the man. "Is it true?"

"True as gospel, sir. I wouldn't tell a lie, I wouldn't. I've been brought up Methody, you know, sir, and scorn a falsehood as a snare of the Old 'Un. You make it worth Dicky's while, sir, and he'll give you goose flesh. Oh, that he will."

"Very good," said Tait, throwing himself on the sward. "I don't mind hearing the legend of this place. If it is as good as you say I'll give you half a sovereign."

"In gold?" asked Dick, with a grasping eagerness.

"In bright gold. See! here is the half sovereign. You tell the story and it is yours. Now, then, what is it all about?"

Dick Pental sat down beside Tait, but at some distance away, and chuckled as he rubbed his hands. He had a chance of making twelve-and-sixpence that morning, and was overjoyed at his good fortune. Resolved to begin with a startling remark, he glanced down to see that they were alone, and then brought it out.

"I could hang a man, I could," he said cheerfully. "I could hang him till he was a deader."