"Why?" said Paynton, rather disconcerted at his failure to turn the conversation. "Because I have sworn to avenge the death of my father." "That is what a good son should do," said Paynton thoughtfully. "But after twenty-five years the chances are small. You wish to find the murderer--so do I." "You!" "Yes. I am more deeply interested in this matter than you suppose. Who do you think I am?" he asked. "I cannot say, unless you are Jeringham." "Jeringham?" said Paynton in a faltering tone. "No, I am not Jeringham, poor soul! Do you think him guilty of the crime?" "I do and I don't. Sometimes it seems so, at others I fancy Hilliston to be guilty." "Hilliston guilty!" said Paynton, rising. "What do you mean?" "Oh, it is only a theory," said Claude hastily. "But my friend Tait, who was at Horriston a few days ago, found out all kinds of things which implicated one person and another. He found----" "Don't tell me--don't tell me," said Paynton hastily. "I cannot talk to you longer or else I shall be ill. This interview has already tried me too much. Here," he added, unlocking a drawer in his desk, "take these papers. You will find in them a full account of all I know of the matter." "You were, then, an eye-witness?" said Claude, joyfully slipping the roll of manuscript into his pocket. He had been more successful than he had hoped to be. Paynton pressed his hands together, and looked eagerly at Claude. "I can bear it no longer," he said impatiently, laying his hands on the shoulders of the astonished young man. "Boy--boy, can you not guess who I am?" "No," replied Larcher, rising to his feet in some wonder, "I do not know who you can be, unless you are Jeringham." "I am not Jeringham. He is dead." "Dead!" "Aye, murdered. Can you not see--can you not guess? Claude, the man who was killed at Horriston was not George Larcher, it was Mark Jeringham!" "But you--you----" "I am your father!" CHAPTER XXXVII. A VOICE FROM THE GRAVE. IT was close on two o'clock, and, weary of waiting for Claude, the master of the Manor House had seated himself at the luncheon table. He was curious to know what had taken place between his friend and Mr. Paynton, as he judged from the length of time the interview had lasted that some important communication must have been made. Had Claude discovered the identity of Paynton with Jeringham? If so, had Jeringham confessed to the crime? These questions so annoyed and perplexed Tait that he could not swallow a mouthful of food. Throwing aside his napkin he rose from the table to see if Larcher had returned. As he pushed back his chair the door opened and Claude, with a roll of papers in his hand, made his appearance. Tait turned to greet him with a smile, but it disappeared from his face and the words died on his lips when he saw the white and haggard countenance of his friend.