"Yes. A pretty girl she is, who inherits his literary tastes. It is my impression that she wrote the most part of that novel. From all I know of Frank Linton he is given more to poetry than to prose. Jenny has the brain, not Frank." "Ho, ho!" said Claude, smiling. "Is it the skeptical misogynistic Tait I hear speaking?" "Himself. I admit that I do not care for women, as a rule, but there are exceptions to every rule, and in this case Jenny Paynton is the exception." "Is she in love with our author?" "No. But I rather think he is in love with her, as you will be when you see her." "I! What are you talking about, Tait? I have more to do than to fall in love with country wenches, however pretty." "Jenny is not a country wench," said Tait, with some displeasure; "she is a highly educated young woman." "Worse and worse! I hate highly educated bluestockings." "You won't hate Jenny, at all events. Especially as it is probable you will see a great deal of her." "No; I shall keep away from her," said Claude doggedly. "That's impossible. We must maneuver to get at the truth. By asking her straight out she certainly will not gratify our curiosity. We must plot and plan, and take her unawares. She is not a fool, like Linton, remember." "What! Do you call a lion of the season by so opprobrious a name?" "I do," replied Tait serenely; "because I don't believe he wrote the book." "Well! well! Never mind Linton. We have pumped him dry. The next thing is to tackle the fair Jenny. How do you intend to set about it?" "I can't say, at present. We must be guided by circumstances. I will introduce you to the rector and to Mr. Paynton. There will be musical parties and lawn tennis _fêtes_, so in some way or another we may find out the truth?" "Does anyone else live with Paynton; his wife, for instance." "No. His wife died before he came to Thorston, where he has been for a long time. An old servant called Kerry lives with him." "Man or woman?" "Man. A queer old fellow, rather morose." "H'm! A flattering description. By the way, he bears the same name as the ancient retainer in Boucicault's play." "Why shouldn't he?" "It may be an assumed name." Tait threw a surprised glance at his friend, and laughed quickly. "Who is suspicious now?" said he, smiling. "You blame me for suspecting Hilliston, yet here you are doubtful of people whom you have never seen." Before Larcher could answer this home thrust, a waiter entered with a letter for him which had just arrived. "From Hilliston," said Claude, recognizing the writing. "I wonder what he has to say?" "It's only another move in the game," murmured Tait; then as Claude, after glancing at the letter, uttered an ejaculation of surprise, he added: "What is the matter?" "Hilliston is going down to Eastbourne." "Impossible!" cried Tait, holding out his hand for the letter. "He is surely not so clumsy as to show his hand so plainly." "He does, though. Read the letter yourself."