A STRANGE THING HAPPENS.

The next morning Claude received a second letter from Hilliston, stating that as his wife was ill he would be unable to come over to Thorston, but directing the young man to go to Rose Cottage at noon, when Mr. Paynton would be ready to receive him. Tait regretted that he had not been included in the invitation, and carefully instructed Claude how to act during the interview.

"I believe Paynton can settle the matter," were his parting words, "so put love out of your head for the time being, and do your best to extract the truth."

Anxious to oblige one who took so much interest in his private affairs, Larcher promised to do what he could, and shortly after eleven started for Rose Cottage. As a matter of fact, he need not have gone so soon, but he did so in the hope of meeting with Jenny. Well acquainted as he was with her movements, his surmise proved correct, for he met the young lady at the end of Nightingale Lane. She blushed, and expressed surprise at the meeting. But such feigning is part of love's comedy.

"I did not expect to see you here, Mr. Larcher," she said, after the first greetings had passed between them. "Where are you going?"

"I am about to call on your father."

"Really!" said Jenny, with some perplexity and more doubt. "I am afraid you go on a useless errand. My father sees no one."

"He will see me," replied Claude quietly. "I come by appointment. Mr. Hilliston spoke to your father, with the result that he has agreed to see me."

"Has your visit anything to do with—with that novel?"

"It has everything to do with it. I wish to ask Mr. Paynton some questions in connection with my father's death."

"But he knows nothing—nothing!" cried Jenny vehemently; "he can tell you nothing! It is worse than useless for you to speak to him on the subject. You will only make him ill."

"But I have to speak to him on another subject," said Claude artfully.

Jenny looked up inquiringly, remarked the passion in his gaze, and turned away her face with a blush. Much as she would have liked to, she found it impossible to appear ignorant of his meaning.

"It seems to me that I am the person to be first consulted," she said, with a pout.

"Jenny, I——"

"Hush! Here is Kerry. See my father first, and then see me. Till then good-by."

She flitted rapidly away, and turned the corner of the lane as Kerry, more crabbed-looking than ever, came up to where Claude was standing. It was then that Larcher saw that the old servant was suffering under some strong emotion. His eyes were brighter than usual, his lips quivered, and he was so nervous that he could keep neither limbs nor body at rest. Rightly connecting this agitation with his visit, Claude wisely held his peace, and waited to hear what Kerry had to say.

"You'll be after seeing the master, sir," said Kerry, in breathless anxiety. "He is waiting for you, sir, in the garden."

"I was just on my way there, Kerry, and stopped to speak for a few minutes to Miss Jenny. I am very glad that Mr. Paynton has consented to see me."

"And you may well be glad, Master Claude."

"Master Claude!" echoed the young man, stopping short.

"Oh, blazes! 'twas a slip of the tongue, sir," cried Kerry anxiously. "Don't notice it, sir. Sure, it's old I am, and my mind wanders."

"Then you deny that you are Denis Bantry?"

"Say nothing of that, sir. Let the master speak his own mind to you. You'll know soon enough who I am, and that's a fact, anyhow."

"I am convinced in my own mind that you are my father's old servant," said Larcher, as he resumed his walk, "but who your master is I am not so clear."

Kerry shook his head, and pursed up his lips, as though determined to let no information escape him. They walked along in silence, and it was only when he unlocked the gate in the red brick wall that Kerry again opened his mouth.

"Keep silent, sir, if you love me," he said, in a low tone. "Don't agitate the master. He'll do the speaking, and tell ye all ye wish to know. Begad, and more too."

Larcher nodded, and passed into the garden. The morning was warm and sunny, and the colors of the flowers were dazzling in the warm glow, against the white walls of the cottage. With his hands clasped behind his back, Paynton paced meditatively up and down the path before the house, but stopped as he caught sight of his visitor. Taking off his hat in tribute to the venerable looks of the old gentleman, Claude bowed, and waited to be addressed. For some moments Paynton looked at him in silence, with much emotion, then controlling himself with some difficulty held out his hand.

"I am glad to see you, Mr.—Mr.——"

"Larcher," suggested Claude, seeing his host at a loss for the name.

"Larcher!" gasped Paynton, with an effort, "yes—yes! My friend, Mr. Hilliston, advised me of your coming. Let us enter the house. We will have more privacy there."

As Claude knew no one was about in that walled place but Kerry and the deaf old housekeeper, he wondered what further privacy was necessary; but considering that Paynton had doubtless good reason for his action, he bowed silently and followed him within, as requested.

In a few minutes they were in the bookroom. Paynton seated himself in such a position as to place his back to the strong light shining through the window, and asked Claude to be seated in a chair which lacked this advantage. In this way Paynton could observe every change in the face of his visitor, while his own, being in the shadow, was more difficult to read. Larcher saw the maneuver, but did not think it necessary to make any objection. In his place Tait would have acted differently.

"I am greatly obliged that you have consented to see me," said Claude, breaking the silence, "for I am informed that you live a very secluded life."

"That is true. I accord you this interview at the request of my friend, Mr. Hilliston, but at the same time I may tell you that I have my own reasons for granting it."

"I think I can guess your reasons, Mr. Paynton."

"No doubt," replied Paynton, touching a book on the table; "they are not unconnected with this novel. You know, of course, that my daughter—that Jenny supplied young Linton with the material for his plot."

"I do. She found the report of my father's murder in some old newspapers in this house."

"Did you not think it strange that I should be in possession of such a report?"

"Naturally I did," answered Claude, replying to this direct question with marked embarrassment, "and it is on that account that I ask you to help me."

"Do you think I can do so?"

"I am sure of it."

"Why?" asked Paynton, in an unsteady voice.

"Because you know about the matter. You retained the report of the trial. Denis Bantry is in your service under the name of Kerry, and——"

"How do you know that?"

"Why, in the third volume of that book there is an episode of a scarfpin which is not mentioned in the report of the trial, but which was told to Miss Paynton by the man you call Kerry. Now, only two persons knew that a scarfpin was picked up in the grounds of The Laurels after the murder. One was Hilliston, the other Denis Bantry. You must see, Mr. Paynton, that I can only come to one conclusion."

"I presume you got this information from Hilliston," said Paynton, in an altered voice.

"Mr. Hilliston spoke of it," replied Claude cautiously.

He did not intend to reveal that he had heard it from his mother, or indeed to reveal the existence of Mrs. Larcher until he was sure of his ground, and positive of Paynton's identity. Accepting his diplomatic answer in the affirmative, Paynton nodded, and went on with his questioning.

"You spoke to Kerry on the subject?"

"I did. But, as you may guess, I failed."

"Naturally. Kerry is a faithful servant. I owe more to him than I can ever repay. But here we are talking about the murder," added Paynton irrelevantly, "when you wish to speak about Jenny, at least so Hilliston informed me."

"I do wish to speak of your daughter later on," said Claude, with a flushed cheek; "but in the meantime I am anxious to come to an understanding about this crime."

"Why?" said Paynton, rather disconcerted at his failure to turn the conversation.

"Because I have sworn to avenge the death of my father."

"That is what a good son should do," said Paynton thoughtfully. "But after twenty-five years the chances are small. You wish to find the murderer—so do I."

"You!"

"Yes. I am more deeply interested in this matter than you suppose. Who do you think I am?" he asked.

"I cannot say, unless you are Jeringham."

"Jeringham?" said Paynton in a faltering tone. "No, I am not Jeringham, poor soul! Do you think him guilty of the crime?"

"I do and I don't. Sometimes it seems so, at others I fancy Hilliston to be guilty."

"Hilliston guilty!" said Paynton, rising. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, it is only a theory," said Claude hastily. "But my friend Tait, who was at Horriston a few days ago, found out all kinds of things which implicated one person and another. He found——"

"Don't tell me—don't tell me," said Paynton hastily. "I cannot talk to you longer or else I shall be ill. This interview has already tried me too much. Here," he added, unlocking a drawer in his desk, "take these papers. You will find in them a full account of all I know of the matter."

"You were, then, an eye-witness?" said Claude, joyfully slipping the roll of manuscript into his pocket. He had been more successful than he had hoped to be.

Paynton pressed his hands together, and looked eagerly at Claude. "I can bear it no longer," he said impatiently, laying his hands on the shoulders of the astonished young man. "Boy—boy, can you not guess who I am?"

"No," replied Larcher, rising to his feet in some wonder, "I do not know who you can be, unless you are Jeringham."

"I am not Jeringham. He is dead."

"Dead!"

"Aye, murdered. Can you not see—can you not guess? Claude, the man who was killed at Horriston was not George Larcher, it was Mark Jeringham!"

"But you—you——"

"I am your father!"