"It is clear. She was acquitted by the jury. Don't you dare to——"
"I don't dare to say anything," interrupted Tait impatiently. "Do be reasonable, my good fellow. So long as I am ignorant, I can say nothing. Tell me the particulars and we may arrive at some conclusion. Now then, give me a précis of the case."
Dominated by the superior calm of his friend, Claude related the Larcher affair as succinctly as possible. The details of the case had impressed themselves too strongly on his brain for him to hesitate in the narration, and, keeping his emotions well in hand, he managed to give a fairly minute account of the tragedy which had taken place at Horriston in the year 1866.
The effect on Tait was surprising. A look of blank astonishment overspread his face as Larcher proceeded with his story, and when it was finished he looked anxiously at his friend. Apart from the details of the case, he was deeply interested in the matter from another point of view. Larcher waited to hear what his friend thought of the case, but instead of commenting thereon Tait both acted and spoke in an apparently irrelevant manner.
Without a word he heard Claude to the end, then rose from his seat, and walking to the other end of the room returned with three volumes bound in red cloth.
"This book is called 'A Whim of Fate,'" said he placing the volumes at Larcher's elbow. "Have you read it?"
"Confound it, what do you mean?" burst out Claude, with justifiable wrath. "I tell you of a serious matter which nearly concerns myself, and you prattle about the last fashionable novel."
"Wait a minute," said Tait, laying a detaining hand on his friend's coat sleeve. "There is more method in my madness than you give me credit for."
"What do you mean?"
"The story you tell me is most extraordinary. But the information I am about to impart to you is more extraordinary still. You say this crime at Horriston was committed five-and-twenty years ago."
"Yes, you can see by the date of those newspapers."
"It has very likely faded out of all memories."
"Of course! I don't suppose anyone is now alive who gives it a thought."
"Well," said Tait, "it is certainly curious."
"What is curious? Explain yourself."
"The story you tell me now was known to me last night."
Larcher looked at his friend in unconcealed surprise, and promptly contradicted what seemed to be a foolish assertion.
"That is impossible, Tait. I heard it only last night myself."
"Nevertheless, I read it last night."
"Read it last night!" repeated Larcher skeptically.
"In this book," said Tait, laying his hand on the novel.
"What do you mean?" demanded the other impatiently.
"I mean that John Parver, the author of this book, has utilized the events which took place at Horriston in 1866 for the purpose of writing a work of fiction. The story you tell me is told in these pages, and your family tragedy is the talk of literary London."
CHAPTER VI.
TRUTH IS STRANGER THAN FICTION.
This astonishing statement was received by Claude with a disbelieving smile; and so convinced was he of its untruth that he affected anger at what he really believed to be the flippancy of Tait's conduct.
"It is no doubt very amusing for you to ridicule my story," said he, with cold dignity, "but it is hardly the act of a friend. Some matters are too serious to form the subject of a jest; and this——"
"I am not jesting," interrupted Tait eagerly. "I assure you that the tragedy which concerned your parents forms the subject-matter of this novel. You can read the book yourself, and so be convinced that I am speaking the truth. The names and places are no doubt fictional, but the whole story is narrated plainly enough."
Larcher turned over the three volumes with a puzzled expression. That a story with which he had only become acquainted within the last twenty-four hours should be printed in a book, and that the book itself should be brought so speedily under his notice, seemed to him quite inexplicable. The strangeness of the occurrence paralyzed his will, and, contrary to his usual self-dependence, he looked to Tait for guidance.
"What do you think of it?" he asked irresolutely.
"Ah! That requires some consideration, my friend. But before we go into the matter let us understand our position toward each other. You believe this story of your father's death?"
"Certainly. Mr. Hilliston would not tell me an untruth, and moreover this bundle of extracts from provincial newspapers confirms his statement. I truly believe that my father, George Larcher, was murdered at Horriston in 1866 by—and there you have me—I know not by whom. My own opinion is that Jeringham is——"
"One moment, Claude! Let us settle all preliminaries. Are you resolved to take up this matter!"
"I am! I must clear the memory of my mother, and avenge the death of my father."
"Would it not be better to let sleeping dogs lie?" suggested Tait, with some hesitation.
"I do not think so," replied Claude quietly. "I am not a sentimental man, as you know; and my nature is of too practical a kind to busy itself with weaving ropes of sand. Yet in this instance I feel that it is my duty to hunt down and punish the coward who killed my father. When I find him, and punish him, this ghost of '66 will be laid aside; otherwise, it will continue to haunt and torture me all my life."
"But your business?"
"I shall lay aside my business till this matter is settled to my satisfaction. As you know, I have a private income, and am not compelled to work for my daily bread. Moreover, the last four years have brought me in plenty of money, so that I can afford to indulge my fancy. And my fancy," added Claude in a grim tone, "is to dedicate the rest of my life to discovering the truth. Do you not approve of my decision?"
"Yes, and no," said Tait evasively. "I think your hunt for an undescribed criminal, whose crime dates back twenty-five years, is rather a waste of time. All clews must have disappeared. It seems hopeless for you to think of solving the mystery. And if you do," continued the little man earnestly, "if you do, what possible pleasure can you derive from such a solution? Your father is a mere name to you, so filial love can have nothing to do with the matter. Moreover, the criminal may be dead—he may be——"
"You have a thousand and one objections," said Larcher impatiently, "none of which have any weight with me. I am in the hands of Fate. A factor has entered into my life which has changed my future. Knowing what I now know, I cannot rest until I learn the truth. Do you know the story of Mozart?" he added abruptly.
"I know several stories of Mozart. But this special one I may not know."
"It is told either of Mozart or Mendelssohn! I forget which," pursued Larcher, half to himself. "When Mozart—let us say Mozart—was ill in bed, one of his friends struck a discord on the piano, which required what is technically known as a resolution for its completion. The omission so tortured the sensitive ear of the musician that, when his friend departed, he rose from his bed and completed the discord in accordance with musical theory. Till that was done he could not rest."
"And the point of your parable?"
"Can you not see? This incomplete case of murder is my discord. I must complete it by discovering the criminal, and so round off the case, or submit to be tortured by its hinted mystery all my life. It is not filial love, it is not sentiment, it is not even