curiosity, it is simply a desire to complete a matter hitherto left undone. Till I know the sequel to the Horriston tragedy, I shall feel in a state of suspense—and suspense," added Claude emphatically, "is torture to men of my temperament."
"Your reason is a trifle whimsical," said Tait, smiling at the application of this musical theory to the present instance, "but I can understand your feelings. Indeed, I feel the same way myself."
"You!"
"Why not? In reading 'A Whim of Fate,' I could not go to rest without knowing the end, and I feel a like curiosity toward this tragedy of real life. I shall not be content till I learn the truth. My feelings are precisely the same as your own. Therefore," pursued Tait, with emphasis, "I propose to assist you in your search. We will discuss the matter calmly, and see what is best to be done. In spite of the lapse of five-and-twenty years, who knows but what we may lay hands on the murderer of your father, who is no doubt now living in fancied security."
"Unless he is dead."
"Who is making the objections now?" said Tait, smiling. "Well, Claude, will you accept me as your brother detective in this matter?"
"Willingly, and I thank you for this proof of your friendship."
"I am afraid there is an element of selfishness mixed up in my offer," said Tait, shrugging his shoulders. "It is not every day that one can find an interesting case like this to dissect. Excitement is the joy of life, and I rather think we will be able to extract a great deal from this investigation. Come! We now understand one another."
Larcher grasped the hand held out to him, and gratefully accepted the aid thus offered. From that moment the two dedicated themselves to hunt down the criminal at whose hands George Larcher had met his death. It was as strange a compact as had ever been made. Halting Nemesis, who had rested all these years, once more resumed her stealthy progress, and before her ran these two young men, as ministers of her long-delayed revenge. This junction of unforeseen circumstances savored of the dramatic.
"The first thing to be done," said Tait, when the compact was thus concluded, "is to read both cases."
"Both cases!" repeated Claude curiously.
"Yes! You remember how Browning gives half a dozen aspects of the same case in his 'Ring and the Book.' In a minor degree we benefit in the same manner. There," said Tait, pointing to the roll of newspapers, "is the case from the real point of view, and here, in these three volumes, we will find the same case as considered in a fictional fashion by the novelist. By reading both we may come to some conclusion whence to start in our talk. Last night you read the newspapers; I the novel. To-day we will reverse the process. I will view the affair as set forth by the provincial press, and you will devour the three volumes of John Parver as I did last night."
"And afterward?"
"Eh! Who can say?" replied Tait, shrugging his shoulders. Several sojourns in Paris had left their trace in Gallic gestures, and possibly in Gallic flippancy. "We must know what foundation we have before we build."
Claude nodded. He was of the same way of thinking himself, and commented on his friend's speech after his own fashion.
"Yes," said he a trifle vindictively, "we must build our gallows stanch and strong. You can proceed with your toilet, and afterward we will read novels and newspapers, as you suggest. The result of 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