our reading must appear in our actions. I rather think," he added slowly, "that the result will be a visit to Mr. Hilliston."
"Without doubt. He was an eye-witness, and it is always preferable to obtain evidence first hand."
"Then," said Claude reflectively, "there is Mrs. Bezel."
"Quite so! The enterprising lady who started the whole thing. Was she also an eye-witness?"
"I can't say. Her name does not appear in the newspapers."
"Humph!" muttered Tait, scratching his chin. "Nor in those three volumes can I find a character likely to develop into Mrs. Bezel of Hampstead."
"I wonder who she can be," said Claude curiously, "or what she can have to do with the case."
"That we must find out. Depend upon it, there is more in this case than in newspapers or novel. We must find out all about Mrs. Bezel, and," said Tait, with emphasis, "we must learn all that is to be learned concerning John Parver."
"Who is John Parver?"
"Who was the Man in the Iron Mask?" replied Tait, in a bantering tone. "I cannot say. But whomsoever he may be, he knows all about this case."
"There is that possibility, certainly," assented the other smoothly, "but I think it hardly likely. A man of to-day would not readily come across the account of a tragedy occurring in a little known town twenty-five years ago. Do you know," he added, after a pause, "that it occurs to me that the publication of this book, containing an account of the case, may have been the cause which incited Mrs. Bezel to write the letter."
"I thought so myself. Mrs. Bezel may think that John Parver is a nom de plume assumed by Claude Larcher."
"Or another alternative. Mrs. Bezel may be John Parver herself. It is the fashion nowadays for women to write under the names of men."
There was a few minutes' silence, during which each man was intent on his own thoughts. Tait, whose brain turned quicker than that of Larcher, was the first to break the silence.
"Well," said he, moving briskly toward his bedroom door, "before we can say or do anything we must learn the facts of the case."
As he vanished into his room Claude laid his hand on the first of the three volumes.
CHAPTER VII
"LET SLEEPING DOGS LIE."
On the journey of life we sometimes come to a dead stop. Obstacles arise which bar our further progress, and circumstances, impossible to do away with, confront us on all sides. We cannot go back, for in life there is no retrogression; we cannot proceed, owing to blocked paths, and so stand hopeless and powerless, waiting for the word or action of Fate. She, unseen but almighty deity, alone can remove the hindrance which prevents our progress, and until she speaks or acts, we can do nothing but wait. It is on such occasions that we feel how truly we are the puppets of some unknown power.
Francis Hilliston had arrived at some such stoppage. Hitherto his keen brain, his strong will, his capability for decisive action, had carried him onward from past to present, through present to future. When obstacles had arisen they had been easily swept away, and with his own life in his hands, he was perfectly satisfied of his power to mold it to his liking. Possibly Fate, who is a somewhat jealous deity, felt angered at the egotistic self-reliance of the man; for without warning she brought him to a dead stop, then grimly waited to see how his boasted cunning would outwit her. As she probably foresaw, the man did nothing but await her decision. It was the only thing he could do.
For five-and-twenty years the Horriston tragedy had been unmentioned, unthought of; Hilliston deemed that it was relegated to the category of unknown crimes, and having in mind his friendship for the parents, and his love for the son, was not unwilling that it should be so. He did not wish Claude to know of the matter, he was not desirous that he should come in contact with Mrs. Bezel; and hitherto had managed so well that neither contingency had eventuated. Congratulating himself on his dexterity, he remained lulled in fancied security, when Fate, observant of his complacency, sent a bolt from the blue, and brought him up short. Now, Hilliston, forced by circumstances to tell the truth to Larcher, did not know what to do. He could only wait for the fiat of the higher power.
Grimly satisfied that she had brought home his fault, and had shown him his moral weakness, Fate made the next move, and sent Larcher and his friend to Lincoln's Inn Fields to again set Hilliston on his former journey. The paralysis of will which had seized the elder man did not extend to the younger; for Claude arrived full of anxiety to begin the search for the undiscovered criminal. The first result of his compact with Tait was this visit to the lawyer.
"Claude Larcher; Spenser Tait," muttered Hilliston, glancing at the cards brought in by his clerk. "I thought as much; the matter is out of my hands now. Show the gentlemen in," he added sharply.
The clerk departed, and Hilliston walked quickly to the window, where he stood biting his nails. All geniality had vanished from his face; he looked older than his years, and an unaccustomed frown wrinkled his expansive forehead. A crisis had come which he knew not how to meet; so, after the fashion of men when they feel thus helpless, he left the decision in the hands of Fate. Which was precisely what Fate wanted.
"Good-morning, Claude! Good-morning, Mr. Tait!" said Hilliston, welcoming the young men with artificial enthusiasm. "I expected to see you today."
"Surely you did not expect to see me?" said Tait, in a silky tone, as he placed his hat on the table.
"Indeed, I did! Where Damon is Phintias is sure to be. That Claude's perusal of those papers would result in your accompanying him to this office, I felt sure. I was right. Here you are!"
Mr. Hilliston affected a cheerfulness he was far from feeling. With increasing age a distaste had come for violent excitements, and with one of Claude's temperament he knew that the chances were that the ensuing quarter of an hour would be somewhat stirring. Contrary to his expectations, however, Larcher was eager, but calm, and Hilliston, assuring himself that the calmness was genuine, began to hope that the interview would pass off better than he expected. Still, none of us like to reopen a disagreeable chapter of the book of life, and this Mr. Hilliston, against his will and inclination, was about to do.
"Well, sir," said Claude, when they were all seated, and the hush of expectancy was in the air, "I have read those papers."
"Yes," said Mr. Hilliston interrogatively; "and what do you think of the matter?"
"I think it is a very black case."
"You are quite right, Claude. It is a very black case indeed. I did all in my power to bring the criminal to justice, but without success."
"Who is the criminal?" asked Larcher, with a keen glance at his guardian.
Hilliston shuffled his feet uneasily, by no means relishing the directness of the question.
"That is a difficult question to answer," he said slowly; "in fact an impossible one. My suspicions point to Jeringham."
From this point Tait made a third in the conversation.
"That is because Jeringham disappeared on the night of the murder," he said leisurely.
"Yes. I think that circumstance alone is very suspicious."
"He was never found again?"
"Never. We advertised in all the papers; we employed detectives, inquired privately, but
