"I can't say, unless your surmise is correct, and he is Jeringham." "I am sure he is," said Claude emphatically. "Why was the bundle of newspapers containing an account of the murder found in his house? What is Denis Bantry doing there if Paynton is not Jeringham?" "The shoe is on the other foot," remarked Tait dryly. "What is Denis Bantry doing there if Paynton is Jeringham? You forget, Claude, that we suspect Jeringham as the criminal. If this were so, or if Paynton were Jeringham, I hardly think your father's devoted servant would be at his beck and call, unless," added Tait, as an after thought, "Denis Bantry is also implicated, as we imagine." "I can't understand it," cried Claude, catching up his hat; "in place of growing clearer, the matter seems to become more involved. How do you intend to proceed? It seems to me that we are at a dead stop." "By no means, my dear fellow. There is Kerry, alias Denis Bantry, to be examined. We must learn the truth from him." "He won't tell it! Particularly if our suspicions are correct." "Perhaps not, but I have provided against that failure. You must appeal to him as the son of his old master, while I am absent." "Absent! Where are you going?" "Can't you guess? To Horriston, of course, in order to pick up what information I can. There are sure to be people still alive who remember your father and mother; who recollect the trial, and are still acquainted with Mr. Hilliston. I expect to learn a good deal about that gentleman there; and perhaps something about Jeringham and his disappearance." "Humph! I doubt if you will be successful," replied Claude gloomily; "however, there is no harm in trying. Where are we going now?" "I told you before we set out. To call on the vicar. As we can't see Jenny at her father's house we must meet her in another person's. She is like a daughter to Mrs. Linton, and is constantly at the vicarage." "And no doubt young Linton loves her." "I'm sure he does. Have you any objection?" demanded Tait slyly. "None! None!" said Claude hastily. "I have only met her for a few minutes, you know. But she is a remarkably pretty girl, and from what you say seems to be clever. Too good by half for that idiot." "Idiot! John Parver, novelist, the lion of the season, an idiot? You forget he wrote the book of the year." "So he says," responded Larcher dryly. "But for my part, I believe Jenny Paynton has more to do with it than he. I have no doubt she wrote it."