rles 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.

Mr. Ventnor repeated:

"Larne. Writes stories."

Joe Pillin muttered into his handkerchief

"Ali! H'm! No--I--no! My son knows all sorts of people. I shall have to
try Mentone. Are you going? Good-bye! Good-