"No. I told her as little as I could of so painful a subject. She is not in possession of all the facts." "At that rate why let her read 'A Whim of Fate'?" "I don't wish her to read it," answered Hilliston quietly; "but I left the novel lying about, and she read the first two volumes. If I can help it, she shall not finish the story." "Why object to her reading the third volume?" "Because it would recall the past too vividly to her mind." "I hardly follow you there," said Claude, with a keen look. "The fact to which you refer cannot exist for your wife. To her the novel can only be a second telling of the story related by you, when she wished to know who I was." "That is very true. Nevertheless, it made so painful an impression on her excitable nature that I am unwilling that her memory should be refreshed. Take another glass of wine, my boy." Hilliston evidently wished to turn the conversation, but Claude was too determined on learning the truth to deviate from his course. Slowly filling his glass with claret he pushed the jug toward Hilliston, and pursued his questioning: "The American nature is rather excitable, isn't it? By the way, is Mrs. Hilliston a pure-blooded Yankee?" "Yes," said Hilliston, with suspicious promptitude; "she was a Chicago belle, and married a millionaire in the pork line called Derrick. He died soon after the marriage, so she came to England and married me." "It was her first visit to England, no doubt." "Her first visit," replied Hilliston gravely. "All her former life was passed in New York, Boston, and Chicago. But what odd questions you ask," added the lawyer, in a vexed tone. "Surely you do not think that my wife was at Horriston twenty-five years ago, or that she knows aught of this crime save what I have told her?" "Of course, I think nothing of the sort," said Larcher hastily, and what is more he believed what he said. It was impossible that Mrs. Hilliston, American born and bred, who had only been in England twelve years, should know anything of an obscure crime committed in a dull provincial town thirteen years before the date of her arrival. Hitherto his questionings had eventuated in little, so he turned the conversation into another groove, and tried to learn if Hilliston knew anything of Jenny Paynton. "What do you think of John Parver?" "He seemed an intelligent young fellow. Is that his real name?" "No. His name is Frank Linton, the son of the vicar of Thorston." "What! He belongs to the place whither you go with Tait," exclaimed Hilliston, with a startled air. "That is strange. You may learn there whence he obtained the materials for his novel." "I know that. He obtained them from Miss Paynton." "Who is she?" "A literary young lady who lives at Thorston with her folks. But I fancy Linton mentioned that he had told you about her."