s restored, he could sound
him upon the result of his journey to Laufingen. But Vincent, from a
vague feeling of distrust, was on his guard. Caffyn got nothing out of
him, even by the most ingenious pumping; he gathered that he had met
Mark at Laufingen; but with all his efforts he was not able to
discover if that meeting had really been by accident or design. He
spoke casually of 'Illusion,' but Vincent showed no particular
emotion.

'I suppose you don't know,' he added, 'that Mrs. Featherstone has done
it the honour of making a play of it--it's going to be done at the end
of the season at their house, before a select party of distinguished
sufferers.'

Holroyd had not heard that.

'I've been let in for it,' Caffyn continued; 'I'm playing that stick
of a poet, "Julian," the beggar's name is; it's my last appearance on
the boards, till I come out as Benedick--but that won't interest you,
and it's a sort of secret at present.'

Vincent was not curious, and asked no questions.

'Who do you think is to be the Beaumelle, though?' said Caffyn; 'the
author's own wife! Romantic that, eh? She's not half bad at
rehearsals; you must come and see us, my boy!'

'Perhaps I shall,' said Vincent, mechanically, and left him, as much
at fault as ever, but resolved to have patience still.

Caffyn's was a nature that liked tortuous ways for their own sake; he
had kept his suspicions to himself hitherto, he was averse to taking
any direct action until he was quite sure of his ground. He had those
papers in Holroyd's writing, it was true, but he had begun to feel
that they were not evidence enough to act on. If by some extraordinary
chance they were quite compatible with Mark's innocence, then if he
brought a charge against him, or if any slanderous insinuations were
traced to him, he would be placed in an extremely awkward and
invidious position. 'If I'm right,' he thought, 'Master Vincent's
playing some deep game of his own--it may be mine for all I know; at
all events I'll lie low till I can find out where the cards are, and
whether an ace or two has got up my sleeve.'

Vincent had been able to speak with perfect calmness of his lost book,
because he had almost brought himself to a philosophic indifference
regarding it, the more easily as he had had consoling indications
lately that his creative power had not been exhausted with that one
effort, and that with returning health he might yet do good work in
the world.

But now,