"Yes; I was with her for two hours." "Ah!" said Tait, with great satisfaction; "she must have told you a good deal in that time." "She did. She told me more than I expected." "Did it concern your parents?" "It did." "Good! Then you no doubt heard her version of the crime." "Yes!" These unsatisfactory replies, which dropped so strangely from Larcher's lips, at once puzzled and irritated the questioner. "You don't seem anxious to confide in me," he said, in a piqued tone. "I will tell you all. I am anxious to tell you all," replied Larcher, finding his tongue, "but I do not know how to begin." "Oh, I shall save you that trouble by asking you questions. In the first place, who is Mrs. Bezel?" "My mother!" Tait bounded from his chair with an expression of incredulity. This unexpected information, so abruptly conveyed, was too much for his self-control. "Your mother!" he stammered, hardly thinking he had heard aright. "Are you in earnest? I cannot believe it. According to the notice in the newspapers, according to Hilliston, your mother died in London in 1867." "She did not die. Her death was a feigned one, to escape the notoriety gained by her trial at Canterbury." "Did Mr. Hilliston know she was alive?" "Yes. It was by his advice that she changed her name." "Oh! Oh!" said Tait, with marked significance; "Hilliston knew, Hilliston advised. Humph! John Parver may be right, after all." "Tait, be silent! You are speaking of my mother." "I beg your pardon, my dear fellow, but I really do not understand." "You will shortly. I will tell you the story of my mother's troubles, and Hilliston's kindness." "Hilliston's kindness," repeated Tait, in a skeptical tone. Nevertheless he resumed his seat, and signified his willingness to hear the narrative. The wine had done Claude good, and restored his self-possession; so, now master of himself, he related all that had passed between himself and Mrs. Bezel. Gifted with a retentive memory, and no mean powers as a narrator, he succeeded in giving Tait a vivid impression of the conversation. The little man, with his head slightly on one side, like a bright-eyed sparrow, listened attentively, and not till the story was finished did he make an observation thereon. To this capability of listening without interruption Tait owed a great deal of his popularity. "Truth is stranger than fiction, after all," said he, when Claude ended; "and the novel is less dramatic than the episode of real life. John Parver did not dare to insinuate that the supposed dead widow of the murdered man was alive. Humph! this complicates matters more than ever." "At least it clears the character of Hilliston." "Yes," assented Tait doubtfully; "I suppose it does."