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Next day he continued to brood over his puzzle, and no fresh light came; but having a matter on which his firm and Scrivens’ were in touch, he decided to go over in person, and see if he could surprise something out of them. Feeling, from experience, that any really delicate matter would only be entrusted to the most responsible member of the firm, he had asked to see Scriven himself, and just as he had taken his hat to go, he said casually:

“By the way, you do some business for old Mr. Heythorp, don’t you?”

Scriven, raising his eyebrows a little, murmured: “Er–no,” in exactly the tone Mr. Ventnor himself used when he wished to imply that though he didn’t as a fact do business, he probably soon would. He knew therefore that the answer was a true one. And non-plussed, he hazarded:

“Oh! I thought you did, in regard to a Mrs. Larne.”

This time he had certainly drawn blood of sorts, for down came Scriven’s eyebrows, and he said:

“Mrs. Larne–we know a Mrs. Larne, but not in that connection. Why?”

“Oh! Young Pillin told me–“

“Young Pillin? Why, it’s his—!” A little pause, and then: “Old Mr. Heythorp’s solicitors are Crow & Donkin, I believe.”

Mr. Ventnor held out his hand. “Yes, yes,” he said; “goodbye. Glad to have got that matter settled up,” and out he went, and down the street, important, smiling. By George! He had got it! “It’s his father”–Scriven had been going to say. What a plant! Exactly! Oh! neat! Old Pillin had made the settlement direct; and the solicitors were in the dark; that disposed of his difficulty about them. No money had passed between old Pillin and old Heythorp not a penny. Oh! neat! But not neat enough for Charles Ventnor, who had that nose for rats. Then his smile died, and with a little chill he perceived that it was all based on supposition–not quite good enough to go on! What then? Somehow he must see this Mrs. Larne, or better–old Pillin himself. The point to ascertain was whether she had any connection of her own with Pillin. Clearly young Pillin didn’t know of it; for, according to him, old Heythorp had made the settlement. By Jove! That old rascal was deep–all the more satisfaction in proving that he was not as deep as C. V. To unmask the old cheat was already beginning to seem in the nature of a public service. But on what pretext could he visit Pillin? A subscription to the Windeatt almshouses! That would make him talk in self-defence and he would take care not to press the request to the actual point of getting a subscription. He caused himself to be driven to the Pillin residence in Sefton Park. Ushered into a room on the ground floor, heated in American fashion, Mr. Ventnor unbuttoned his coat. A man of sanguine constitution, he found this hot-house atmosphere a little trying. And having sympathetically obtained Joe Pillin’s reluctant refusal–Quite so! One could not indefinitely extend one’s subscriptions even for the best of causes!–he said gently:

“By the way, you know Mrs. Larne, don’t you?”

The effect of that simple shot surpassed his highest hopes. Joe Pillin’s face, never highly coloured, turned a sort of grey; he opened his thin lips, shut them quickly, as birds do, and something seemed to pass with difficulty down his scraggy throat. The hollows, which nerve exhaustion delves in the cheeks of men whose cheekbones are not high, increased alarmingly. For a moment he looked deathly; then, moistening his lips, he said:

“Larne–Larne? No, I don’t seem—“

Mr. Ventnor, who had taken care to be drawing on his gloves, murmured:

“Oh! I thought–your son knows her; a relation of old Heythorp’s,” and he looked up.

Joe Pillin had his handkerchief to his mouth; he coughed feebly, then with more and more vigour:

“I’m in very poor health,” he said, at last. “I’m getting abroad at once. This cold’s killing me. What name did you say?” And he remained with his handkerchief against his teeth.