A NEW ASPECT OF THINGS.

Tait folded over the last sheet of this long letter with a sigh. Although he was pleased for Claude's sake that George Larcher was still in the land of the living, yet he was distinctly disappointed that no communication had been made likely to elucidate the mystery. Yet the result of this confession was an entire displacement of the point whence it was necessary to survey the case. The motives which had caused the supposed death of Larcher would not suffice to explain the death of Jeringham. The case had assumed a new aspect, but nevertheless it was as complex and inexplicable as ever. Tait thought of all this with inconceivable rapidity, but did not give utterance to his opinion in the presence of his friend.

"The letter is wonderful, so far," was his sole remark, "but it is a great pity that it ends so abruptly. I suppose your father will personally relate all other details, Claude, when you see him again."

The young man assumed a sitting position, and deliberately finished his wine before replying to this remark. He looked anxious and disturbed, and, now that he had recovered from the overwhelming surprise at finding his father alive, seemed less delighted than he should have been. A miracle had been wrought in his behalf; the dead had been restored to life; but he was by no means gratified by the occurrence.

"I don't know whether I shall see my father again," he said shortly.

"But, my dear friend——"

"Oh, I know all you would say," interrupted Claude hastily, with a frown; "but I am not prepared to admit your arguments. My mother is alive, my father is in existence, yet for twenty-five years I have looked on them as dead. Can you, then, wonder that I feel awkward toward them both; that I am by no means disposed to render them that filial affection which, you must admit, they but ill deserve?"

"The question is so delicate that I can only hold my peace," said Tait, after a pause. "I admit what you say. Still they are your own flesh and blood."

"I might answer you as Hamlet did on a like occasion," replied Claude, with a bitter smile; "but a quotation will not mend matters. What I have to consider is the advisability of seeing my father again."

"You must certainly see him again," said the other promptly.

"Why?"

"In the first place he is your father, whatever you may say, and in the second you had better tell him personally that you abandon further investigation of the case. After all, your object is gone; for though you might want to avenge the death of a parent, the murder of a scamp like Jeringham can matter nothing to you."

"Oh, that I abandon the case goes without speaking," said Claude quickly, "and you——"

"I act in the same way. The further we go into the case the more perplexing does it become. It is beyond me. Only at the Last Day will the mystery be solved. Still," added Tait meditatively, "I must admit a curiosity yet exists on my part to know who struck the blow. Of course your father's story corroborates Dicky Pental's, but the gardener mistook him for Jeringham by reason of the fancy dress."

"Does this letter suggest anything to you?"

"It narrows the field of inquiry, that is all. Your mother, your father, and Denis Bantry must necessarily be innocent, as they were in the house when the murder took place in the garden."

"If they are innocent, who is guilty?"

"We have a choice of two who were outside at the time. You can choose between Hilliston and Mona Bantry."

"Mona Bantry kill her lover! How do you make that out?"

"You forget your father's account of the scene in the sitting room," said Tait significantly; "then Mrs. Larcher asserted in the presence of Mona that she had come with Jeringham, furthermore, that he was in the garden. Mona, also jealous, acts as any other woman would have done in such a position. She goes into the garden to demand an explanation; there is a quarrel between her and Jeringham, and she kills him, then flies, not to hide her disgrace, but to evade the consequences of her act. That is a feasible theory, I think."

Claude shook his head. "I don't agree with you," he said emphatically. "You forget that we have my mother's account of the matter to place against that of my father's. If you recollect she also admitted finding my father and Mona in the sitting room; she also admits fainting, but there all resemblance between the accounts ceases. My mother distinctly says that she threatened her husband with the dagger, that it fell on the floor when she lost her senses. When she recovered them the dagger was gone. Now," continued Claude slowly, "if you remember, the crime was committed by means of the dagger, for it was found red with blood in the grounds, and then was taken possession of by the police. If my mother's account is the true one, Mona Bantry may certainly have picked up the dagger and have murdered Jeringham, as you suggest. But if my father's story is to be believed, Mona left the room before my mother fainted, and consequently could not have gained possession of the dagger. It follows as a natural consequence that she could not have committed the murder."

Tait nodded several times during this explanation, to show that he agreed with the points raised; but when Claude concluded he rubbed his chin in some perplexity.

"Here we come to a dead stop," said he impatiently. "It was asserted by the police that the murder was committed with the dagger worn by your mother as part of the fancy dress."

"Yes! If you remember, it was on that evidence she was arrested."

"Well, if she wore that dagger in the sitting room, Jeringham could not have been killed with it, because the murder must have taken place while your father was trying to pacify your mother."

Claude glanced at the letter again. "My father makes no mention of the dagger in this," he said, with a puzzled look.

"No. I should like to hear what he has to say on the subject, the more so as I incline to his story rather than to your mother's."

"For what reason?"

"In her conversation with you, Mrs. Bezel—or rather your mother—said that she had threatened your father with the dagger in the sitting room of The Laurels."

"Yes. Well?"

"If you remember the evidence given by her to the police at the time of the arrest was that she had lost the dagger at the ball, and knew not into whose hands it had fallen."

Claude looked nonplussed, and knew not what answer to make. That his mother had made two different statements he was compelled to admit. He further remembered that his father had made no statement whatsoever about the dagger. Yet on the possession of that dagger turned the whole of the case. Whoever picked it up, whether at the ball or in the sitting room, must have killed Jeringham. Assuming his father's account to be true, and Claude saw no reason to doubt its accuracy, Mona could not have committed the murder, nor could Mr. or Mrs. Larcher be guilty. It therefore followed that his mother had spoken truly to the police, and for some inexplicable reason falsely to him. The dagger must have been lost at the ball, and picked up by—whom?

"I can make nothing of it," he said, after due consideration. "The only way to get at the truth is to tell my father that his wife still lives, and bring them together. Out of their meeting good may come."

"You will then call and see your father," said Tait encouragingly.

"Yes. I must. I see no way out of it. He must be informed that my mother lives, and I am the proper person to tell him so. Though it is strange," added Claude suddenly, "that Hilliston never told him."

"Humph! That gentleman seems to serve both sides," said Tait gruffly. "Your mother speaks well of him, your father thinks no end of him, and both trust him, yet for what I can see he has deceived both."

"How?"

"Why, by keeping back the truth from each. He has let your father think your mother dead, and vice versa. What do you make of that?"

"I tell you I can make nothing of the whole confusion," said Claude crossly. "I will see my father and abandon the case, for I am sick of the affair. It is maddening. What a pity your lunatic did not wake up a few minutes earlier so as to see who struck the blow and thus have settled the matter? But it is not that which troubles me."

"No? What else disturbs your mind?"

"Jenny."

"Jenny?" echoed Tait, with feigned simplicity. "I am afraid I am dull. I don't see."

"You must be blind, then," retorted Claude, in an exasperated tone. "You know I love Jenny."

"Well?"

"Well, I can't love her. She is my half sister."

"Indeed!" said Tait, in nowise astonished at this announcement. "How do you make that out?"

"Why, isn't Jenny the daughter of Paynton, and isn't he my father?"

"He is your father, certainly, but I assure you Jenny is not his daughter. She is no relation to him."

"Tait! what do you mean?"

"Can't you guess?"

"No. Out with it, man! Don't keep me in suspense."

"Why," drawled Tait, enjoying the situation. "Jenny is the niece of Denis—in other words, she is the child of Mona Bantry and Jeringham."