CHAPTER V.
A STRANGE COINCIDENCE.
IN spite of Tait's methodical habits, circumstances beyond his controloften occurred to upset them. On the previous day the unexpected arrivalof Claude had altered his plans for the day, and after his return fromthe theater on the same evening, he had--contrary to his rule--passedthe night in reading. The invaluable Dormer had procured "A Whim ofFate" from Mudie's, and Tait found it lying on the table in company withbiscuits and wine. Excited by the performance, he did not feel inclinedto retire at his usual hour of midnight, and while sipping his wine,picked up the first volume to while away the time till he should feelsleepy.
Alas! this novel, about which everyone in London was talking, provedanything but soporific, and for the whole of that night Tait sat in hiscomfortable chair devouring the three volumes. The tale was one ofmystery, and until he learned the solution Tait, conventional andincurious as he was, could not tear himself from the fascination of theprinted page. When the riddle was read, when the criminal was hunteddown, when the bad were punished, and the good rewarded, the dawn wasalready breaking in the east. In his Jermyn Street hotel, Claude Larcherwas rising, stiff and tired, from the perusal of a tragedy in real life;in his Earls Street chambers, Spenser Tait was closing the third volumeof John Parver's work. Each had passed a wakeful night, each had beenfascinated by the account of a crime, the one real, the other fictional.So does Fate, whose designs no one can presume to explain, duplicate ourlives for the gaining of her own ends.
Rather disgusted by his departure from the conventional, and heartilyblaming the too ingenious John Parver for having caused such departure,Tait tumbled hastily into bed, in order to snatch a few hours' sleep.Dormer, ignorant of his master's vigil, woke him remorselessly at hisusual hour, with the unexpected intelligence that Mr. Larcher waswaiting to see him in the sitting room. From the telegram of theprevious night, and this early visit, Tait rightly concluded that hisfriend was in trouble, so without waiting to take his bath, he hurriedlyslipped on a dressing gown, and appeared sleepy and disheveled in thesitting room. Larcher, who looked likewise dissipated, arose to his feetas the little man entered, and they eyed one another in astonishment,for the appearance of each was totally at variance with his usual looks.
"Well," said Tait interrogatively, "I see you've been making a night ofit."
"I might say the same of you," replied Larcher grimly; "a moredissipated looking wretch I never saw. Have you fallen into bad habitsat your age?"
"That depends on what you call bad habits, Claude. I have not been roundthe town, if that is what you mean. But, seduced by the novel of a tooingenious author, I have sat up all night devouring his three volumes.Such a thing has not occurred with me since I unfortunately tried toread myself to sleep with 'Jane Eyre.' Charlotte Bronte and John Parverare both answerable for my white nights. But you," continued Tait,surveying his friend in a quizzical manner; "am I to understandthat----"
"You are to understand that my night has been a duplicate of your own,"interrupted Larcher curtly.
"What! Have you been reading 'A Whim of Fate'?"
"No, my friend, I have not. While you were devouring fiction, I havebeen making myself acquainted with a tragedy in real life."
Larcher thereupon savagely threw on the breakfast table a roll ofpapers, and looked defiantly at his friend. Tone and expression failedto elicit surprise.
"Oh!" said Tait reflectively, "then Hilliston gave you bad news, afterall. I guessed he had from your refusal to accompany me to the theaterlast night."
"You guessed rightly. He gave me such news as I never expected to hear.You will find it amply set forth in those papers, which I have beenreading all night."
"Dear me. I trust it is nothing serious. Has Mrs. Bezel----"
"I don't know anything about Mrs. Bezel," said Larcher loudly. "So faras she is concerned I am as much in the dark as ever. But myparents----"
"What of them?" interrupted Tait, uttering the first thought which cameinto his mind. "Are they alive, after all?"
"No. They are dead, sure enough," muttered Claude gloomily.
"In that case what can Mr. Hilliston or Mrs. Bezel have to say aboutthem," demanded the other, looking puzzled. "No scandal about QueenElizabeth, I hope?"
"Confound it, man, don't be so flippant! I've had bad news, I tell you.My father,"--here Larcher gulped down his emotion with somedifficulty--"my father was murdered!"
"Murdered!" repeated Tait, looking aghast, as well he might.
"Yes! And my mother was accused of having murdered him. There you haveit."
It was some little time before Tait could face the skeleton sounexpectedly produced from the Larcher cupboard. Hitherto hisacquaintance with crime had been mainly derived from fiction after thestyle of John Parver, or from the columns of the press; but now he wasbrought face to face with a tragedy indirectly connected with hisdearest friend, and naturally enough did not like the situation.Nevertheless, like the wise little man he was, he made no comment on thetruth so suddenly blurted out, but pushed his friend into a comfortablechair, and proposed breakfast.
"Breakfast!" cried Claude, clutching his hair; "I could not eat amorsel. Have you no feelings, you little monster, to propose breakfastto me, after hearing such hideous news. Why don't you give me sympathy,and try and help me, instead of sitting at your confounded rasher ofbacon like a graven image."
"I'll do all in my power later on," said Tait quietly; "but you areupset by this news, and no wonder. Try and eat a little, then you cantell me all about it, and I'll give you the best advice in my power."
Thus adjured, Claude drew in his chair, and managed to eat a morsel oftoast and drink a cup of coffee, after which he lighted his pipe, andsmoked furiously, while Tait, anxious that his friend should regain hisself-control, made a lengthened meal, and talked of divers matters.Breakfast over, he also filled his favorite pipe, and, drawing a chairclose to that of Larcher's, waited for an explanation.
"Well, Claude," said he, after a pause, during which the other showed nodisposition to speak, "tell me your trouble."
"I have told you," grumbled Larcher angrily; "if you want to know anymore about it, read those papers."
"It would take too long, and, as it happens, I am already tired withreading. Tell me about the affair as shortly as possible, and then wecan go through the papers together. You say your father was murdered.Who committed the crime?"
"No one knows! The criminal is still at large."
"After five-and-twenty years he is likely to remain so."
"No!", cried Larcher vehemently, striking the table; "I'll hunt himdown, and find him out, and put a rope round his neck, so help me God!"
"You say your mother was accused of the crime," said Tait, ignoring thisoutburst.
"Yes. But she was acquitted on the evidence of my father's valet.Shortly afterward she died in London. I don't wonder at it," said poorClaude distractedly; "the shame, the disgrace! If she survived she wasbitterly punished. I should like to see the man who would dare toasperse her memory."
"No one will do so," said Tait soothingly. "Control yourself, my dearfellow, and we will look into this matter together. I have just beenreading about a crime, but I did not think I would be so soon concernedin dealing with one."
"You will help me, Tait? You will stand by me?"
"My dear friend, can you ask? I am completely at your service, andtogether we will do all in our power to discover the murderer of yourfather and clear the memory of your mother."
"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 bereasonable, 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 _precis_ of the case."
Dominated by the superior calm of his friend, Claude related the Larcheraffair as succinctly as possible. The details of the case
had impressedthemselves too strongly on his brain for him to hesitate in thenarration, and, keeping his emotions well in hand, he managed to give afairly minute account of the tragedy which had taken place at Horristonin the year 1866.
The effect on Tait was surprising. A look of blank astonishmentoverspread his face as Larcher proceeded with his story, and when it wasfinished he looked anxiously at his friend. Apart from the details ofthe case, he was deeply interested in the matter from another point ofview. Larcher waited to hear what his friend thought of the case, butinstead of commenting thereon Tait both acted and spoke in an apparentlyirrelevant manner.
Without a word he heard Claude to the end, then rose from his seat, andwalking to the other end of the room returned with three volumes boundin red cloth.
"This book is called 'A Whim of Fate,'" said he placing the volumes atLarcher's elbow. "Have you read it?"
"Confound it, what do you mean?" burst out Claude, with justifiablewrath. "I tell you of a serious matter which nearly concerns myself, andyou prattle about the last fashionable novel."
"Wait a minute," said Tait, laying a detaining hand on his friend's coatsleeve. "There is more method in my madness than you give me creditfor."
"What do you mean?"
"The story you tell me is most extraordinary. But the information I amabout to impart to you is more extraordinary still. You say this crimeat 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 promptlycontradicted 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 theevents which took place at Horriston in 1866 for the purpose of writinga work of fiction. The story you tell me is told in these pages, andyour family tragedy is the talk of literary London."