"Ah!" said Hilliston with a sigh of relief, "she was not born when your father was murdered. You must see she can know nothing positive of the matter."
"Then how did she supply Linton with the materials for this book?"
"I can only answer that question by reverting to my theory of the newspaper."
"Well, even granting that it is so," said Larcher quickly, "she knows details of the case which are not set forth in the newspaper."
"How do you know this?" asked Hilliston, biting his lip to control his feelings.
"Because in the third volume——"
"Nonsense! nonsense!" interrupted Hilliston violently, "you seem to forget that the hard facts of the case have been twisted and turned by the novelist's brain. We do not know who slew your father, but the novelist had to end his story,—he had to solve the mystery,—and he has done so after his own fashion."
Rising from his seat, he paced hurriedly to and fro, talking the while with an agitation strange in so hard and self-controlled a man.
"For instance, the character of Michael Dene is obviously taken from me. It is not a bit like me, of course, either in speech, or looks, or dress. All the novelist knew was that I had given evidence at the trial, and that the dead man had been my dearest friend. The circumstances suggested a striking dramatic situation—that the dear friend had committed the crime for the base love of the wife. Michael Dene is guilty in the novel—but the man in real life, myself——You know all I know of the case. I would give ten years of my life, short as the span now is, to find the man who killed George Larcher."
This was strong speaking, and carried conviction to the heart of Claude, the more so when Hilliston further explained himself.