“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-bye!  I’m sorry; ah! ha!  My cough—­ah! ha h’h’m!  Very distressing.  Ye-hes!  My cough-ah! ha h’h’m!  Most distressing.  Ye-hes!”

Out in the drive Mr. Ventnor took a deep breath of the frosty air.  Not much doubt now!  The two names had worked like charms.  This weakly old fellow would make a pretty witness, would simply crumple under cross-examination.  What a contrast to that hoary old sinner Heythorp, whose brazenness nothing could affect.  The rat was as large as life!  And the only point was how to make the best use of it.  Then—­for his experience was wide—­the possibility dawned on him, that after all, this Mrs. Larne might only have been old Pillin’s mistress—­or be his natural daughter, or have some other blackmailing hold on him.  Any such connection would account for his agitation, for his denying her, for his son’s ignorance.  Only it wouldn’t account for young Pillin’s saying that old Heythorp had made the settlement.  He could only have got that from the woman herself.  Still, to make absolutely sure, he had better try and see her.  But how?  It would never do to ask Bob Pillin for an introduction, after this interview with his father.  He would have to go on his own and chance it.  Wrote stories did she?  Perhaps a newspaper would know her address; or the Directory would give it—­not a common name!  And, hot on the scent, he drove to a post office.  Yes, there it was, right enough!  “Larne, Mrs. R., 23, Millicent Villas.”  And thinking to himself:  ‘No time like the present,’ he turned in that direction.  The job was delicate.  He must be careful not to do anything which might compromise his power of making public use of his knowledge.