The Third Volume

by Fergus Hume

  CHAPTER VIII.

  BOTH SIDES OF THE QUESTION.

  MAN'S life has frequently been compared to a river. In childhood it is atrickling thread, in youth a stream, in manhood a majestic river, andfinally in old age is swallowed up in the ocean of death. A very prettyparable, but somewhat stale. It is time that life was indicated by a newmetaphor. Let us therefore compare the life of man to the ocean itself.Like the ocean life has its calms and storms, its sullen rages, itscaressing moments; and like the ocean--for this is the main point of theillustration--it has its profound depths, containing a hundred secretsunknown to the outer world. Francis Hilliston was like the ocean: allknew the surface, few were acquainted with the depths below.

  A man who leads a double life need never feel dull. He may be nervous,anxious, fearful lest his secret should be discovered, but the constantvigilance required to hide it preserves him from the curse of ennui. Heever keeps the best side of his nature uppermost; his smiles are for theworld, his brow is smoothed to lull suspicion. But to continue thesimile of the ocean: in the depths lie many terrible things which nevercome to the surface; things which he scarcely dare admit even tohimself. Francis Hilliston was one of these men.

  Everyone knew Hilliston of Lincoln's Inn Fields, or thought they did,which is quite a different thing. He was widely respected in theprofession; he was popular in society; hand and glove with prominent andwealthy personages. His house at Kensington Gore was richly furnished;his wife was handsome and fashionable; he gave splendid entertainments,at which none was more jocund than the host himself; he was, outwardly,all that was prosperous and popular. In his professional capacity he wasthe repository of a thousand secrets, but of all these none was moreterrible than the one locked up in his own breast.

  Long years of training, constant necessity, had taught him how tocontrol his emotions, to turn his face into a mask of inscrutability;yet he succeeded ill at times, as witness his interview with the twoyoung men. Not all his powers of self-repression could keep his facefrom turning gray; nor prevent the perspiration beading his brow; norsteady his voice to well-bred indifference. Usually he succeeded inmasking his emotion; this time he had failed, and, worst of all, he knewthat he had failed.

  It was not Claude that he feared, for the young man was not of asuspicious nature; and even had he been so, would certainly have scoffedat the idea of attributing any evil to the one who had been to him afather. Tait, silent, observant, and cynical, was the person to bedreaded. Accustomed by his profession to read faces, Hilliston had seenthat the quiet little man was possessed of one of those inquisitivepenetrative natures, which suspect all men, and from a look, a gesture,a pause, can draw evidence to support any suspicion they may entertain.

  Certainly Tait had no reason to distrust Hilliston when he entered theroom, but during the interview he appeared dissatisfied with thelawyer's manner. That Hilliston should attempt to dissuade Claude fromprosecuting a search for his father's murderer seemed strange; but thathe should betray such marked agitation at the idea of such searchingtaking place was stranger still. Altogether Tait left the office in avery dissatisfied state of mind. Hilliston had sufficient penetration tonote this, and when left alone was at his wit's end how to baffle theunwarrantable curiosity of this intruder.

  "I don't mind Claude," he said, pacing up and down the room, "he has notsufficient brain power to find out anything. I do not want him to know.But this Tait is dangerous. He is one of those dogged creatures, whoputs his nose to the scent, and never leaves the trail till the prey iscaptured. It is with him I have to deal, not with Claude."

  His agitation almost mastered him, and he hurriedly took a small bottlefrom a drawer in his desk. Dropping the contents of this into a glass ofwater, he drank off the draught, and in a short space of time regainedhis composure, in some measure. Then he sat down to think, and plot, andplan how to baffle the vigilance of Tait.

  "That infernal woman has done it all," he muttered savagely; "she haslighted the fire. Let us see how she will put it out. But she cannot putit out," he added, striking his forehead with his clenched fist; "itwill blaze and burn. I shall burn with it unless----"

  There was a strange smile on his lips, as an idea entered his mind, andhe glanced quickly at his watch.

  "Four o'clock. Claude can't possibly call on Margaret to-day, so I haveyet time to prepare her for his visit. I must silence her at any cost.She must hold her tongue or ruin us both. Great Heavens! to think thatshe should break out like this after five-and-twenty years. It is enoughto drive me mad."

  By this time he had put on his gloves, and stretched his hand toward hishat, which stood on a side table. A glance in the glass showed him howold and gray he looked, and the sight was so unexpected that he startedin dismay.

  "Bah! I look as though I were going to fail," he said to himself, "but Imust not fail. I dare not fail. At sixty, rich, honored, respected, I amnot going to fall from the pedestal I have reached. I shall reassureClaude. I shall baffle Tait. I shall silence Margaret. The first move inthe game is mine."

  Calm, dignified, easy, he left his office, and stepped into the broughamwaiting at the door. To judge by appearance, one would have thought himthe most respectable and upright man in London. No one knew what lurkedbehind that benevolent expression. His mask had fallen for the momentwhen Tait was present; now it was on again, and he went forth to deceivethe world. Yet he had an uneasy consciousness that one man at leastguessed his real character.

  "Never mind," he thought, as the footman closed the door of thebrougham, "it will be strange if, with my age and experience andreputation and money, I cannot baffle him."

  He did not go direct home, as it was yet early, and he had one or twothings to do in connection with his new task. First he drove to Tait'schambers, and ascertained from the porter that the two young men werewithin.

  "Never mind sending up my name, I won't disturb them," he said, when theporter requested his card. "I only wished to speak to Mr. Tait about abox at the theater."

  "If it is the Lyceum you mean, sir, I have just got two stalls for Mr.Tait."

  "Ah! I may see them there," replied Hilliston negligently; and as hedrove away reflected: "Good! They have not yet been to Hampstead; nor dothey intend to go to-night. Mr. Tait has yet to learn the value oftime."

  Driving through Piccadilly he stopped at a bookshop, and with somedifficulty, for the demand was large, obtained a copy of "A Whim ofFate." He began to read it in the brougham, and skimmed its pages sorapidly that by the time he reached Kensington Gore he had nearlyfinished the first volume. He did not recognize himself in the characterof Michael Dene, and became more convinced than ever that thecoincidence of the Larcher affair forming the plot of a novel, was dueto the author's reading the case in some old provincial newspaper. Onevery page it betrayed that, to him, the story was hearsay.

  Fortunately Mrs. Hilliston was driving in the Park, so the lawyer shuthimself up in his library, and went on reading the story. He did not seehis wife till dinner, which took place at eight o'clock, and thendescended in his ordinary clothes, looking ill and pale. Something hehad read in the novel had startled him more than he cared toconfess--even to himself.

  "You must excuse my dress, Louise," he said, on taking his seat, "but Ihave been so engrossed with a novel that I did not hear the dressingbell."

  "It has not had a pleasant effect on you," replied his wife, smiling;"you do not look at all well."

  "I am not well," said Hilliston, who merely trifled with his food; "youmust excuse me going with you to the Lamberts' to-night, as I think Ishall call in and see my doctor."

  "Are you so bad as all that?" questioned Mrs. Hilliston anxiously. "Whynot send for Dr. Bland?"

  "I prefer going to see him, Louise. You will probably not be back tillthree in the morning, so I will go to bed immediately on my return. Haveno fear, my dear, it is only a trifling indisposition."

  After these plain statements it was rather stran
ge that Hilliston, inplace of driving to Dr. Bland's, who lived in Hill Street, should directthe cab, which he picked up by the Park railings, to drive to Hampstead.