THE FIRST LAW

Evening Star, Issue 19800, 25 February 1928, Page 13

THE FIRST LAW

A Dramatic Serial

By C. C. Andrews

CHAPTER VI. ONE OK THE FAMILY. “I know!” cried Peggy. “1 know where I’ve seen you before!” Her finger pointed straight at Ciitlieroe —the gesture seemed accusatory. He met it without any outward flinching or change of feature. Was he lost? Did the pit gape at his feet after all? ho wondered, with the calmest face then; Alison exclaimed; Adrian Clyde looked astonished; Miss Lamotte faintly amused. Hut Gilbert swung round and stared with wide -'S— hope, triumph, terror,' all were in his look. Miss I’omayne spoke with a laugh.

“What on earth do you mean, child?” she demanded. “What am 1 to look at? And what should 1 remember? ” “You don’t?” cried Peggy. “And you’re supposed to have such a good memori’ for faces! Well, I never! •’ Bhe, too, laughed. “ You’re as black as coal. Cousin Everard, and ibj Foilotts are as fair as flax, but all the sanm you’re awfully like one of them! You must see it, Alison—look at him—it’s only the coloring that’s different. Don’t you know who 1 mean. Gilbert? Don’t yon. Monique? Then yon, Mr Clyde? No? Oil, what a lot of bats! Why. Roderick Foliott. of course!”

“ Why—why, yes!” exclaimed Alison. “Of course, Peggy, you’re right! ” Her tone was ono of eager surprise. With a fierce intake of breath Gilbert looked away. And Clitberoo laughed easily.

‘‘Miss Peggy’s eyes aro sharp, evidently,” he said. “Am I really like one of the family after all, then', Miss Homaync? ” “ Very much, as Peggy says, only the colering is different. I can’t think how it escaped my notice. I must certainly have seen it before long. You do now, Mr Clyde, surely? And you, Monique, don’t you? ” “Yes, certainly.” With the lazily sinuous grace that marked every movement of her sliin, long body, Monique rose to her feet; the movement turned hr: back on Gilbert. “ It’s awfully striking. Clever little minx, Peg! But Mr Foliott is considerably elder than his original. Alison.” “Of course. When that portrait of Roderick was painted he was only a boy—not nineteen,” said Alison. “ Aunt Camilla has told me.” She looked at Clitheroe. “ Yon mayn’t feel particularly, flattered—probably you won’t. The fact is, you know, that Roderick was the family ■‘black sheep. But perhaps you know it. if your father ever mentioned him?” “ I think not. The black sheep? Indeed? And ‘was? ’ He is dead, then? ’’ “That is more than I can tell you. Or anybody else, I fancy. Certainly no one at Llansladrono could. Ho may be alive—if so, he must be getting an old man now. Ho vanished under a cloud—one of many, I’m afraid—when he was quite a young man. His father was a cousin of your grandfather.”

“I see. And was never heard of again? ” “Never. He—well, 1 believe lie could not have come back, you know. Not without risking unpleasant conseYes, you are really, in features, quite wonderfully liko him I You will see it when you see his portrait.” “ It is certainly odd how these family likenesses have a tendency to crop up,” said Clitheroc coolly. “And to disappear, for that matter. For it seems that I am not in the least like my father.”

“No. But you might be Roderick’s brother.”

“Not in blaek-sheepism, let us hope,” said Clitheroc lightly. He did not glance at Gilbert with the words, but turned composedly to reply to some questions put by Miss Lnraottc. The pit did not gape! flape? Why, he was safer than ever! Could anyone have believed in such bewitched luck as this last stroke? Glyde in a moment hurried away, and Gilbert followed him. Peggy ran off with her dog, and Alison presently left the room with Monique—she must see Aunt Camilla before the Colonel came for her. she declared, and he, Clitheroe, looked more exhausted than ever; he must really' try to rest until the luncheon bell rang. She went out, smiling back at him with her brown, friendly eyes, a figure almost commonplace beside the marvellous serpentine, undulating grace of the one that moved beside her, and he was alone again. But ho tried to rest no more than he had tried before. Anxiety was for the moment almost asleep, but Ids thoughts ran riot. So ho was like Roderick Foliott, was he, the man who had vanished under a cloud when lie was young who, if alive, would now be growing old. Queer, that! And lucky. Nothing could be luckier. Queer still about that woman. Dorcas Wade! Why had she shown that emotion, agitation, at the sound of his. Miles Clitheroe’s name? Why secretly stolen to look, as she had believed, upon Ids dead and mutilated face? Why, instantly, palpably lied about it? Roderick Foliott and Dorcas Wade—mysterious both, it seemed! How came it that ho boro the face of the one? What hidden interest in him had the other? Had they by any chance known each other before? The blending of the two thoughts was like the resistless rushing together of two streams of water. It swept him white face dto his feet. Words broke from him without any conscious volition of his own.

“Good heavens!'’ lie cried. “Can that be the answer to botii questions? Am I like my father? Did my mother Come to look upon her son’s 'face? ” He dropped into the chair again, sat staring with clenched hands from the great window. Roderick Foliott, black sheep, had vanished when he was a young man. And five-and-thirty years ago Dorcas Wade, in a large and buxom way, had probably been a handsome young woman. And be, Miles Clitheroe, had never known his parents. Not only had he never know them, but ho possessed no clue to them. The charitable asylum that had brought him up, extricated him, launched him in life, had told him, probably could tell him, absolutely nothing beyond the one bare fact that he had been received into the institution an infant of a year old. That had been his beginning. Following there bad come years of effort, study, struggle, into which be had thrown bis utmost strength, perseverance, and energy, until success, high success, had seemed within his erasp. And then, in the reaching of his hand to take it, honestly, ns he had believed, lie -had fallen into the irtfully-baited trap whoso snare he had never seen. Then had followed his trial uid sentence, and then the years of igony in the prison from which he had festerday broken away. That was his ttory. And fate had brought him here, where, for all he knew All that was sold, reckless, daring in the man rose in him now, as, still staring before him, he got upon his feet. As he had done on the moor last nighty he set his strong jaw and laughed. “ I am parentless, friendless, nameless,” he said-slowly. “ I have never

(Author of ‘Beggar My Lady,’ ‘His Hour,’ ‘The House of Murgatroyd,’ etc.)

had a chance. The trick of a villain threw mo into prison. 1 am Everard Foliott. There is not a. person in the house who would not swear to it hut one. Go out of it, leave all that it means, to give place to a murderer, a fellow who struck down a helpless man from behind, and that man ids own kinsman? I, who may have the family blood in my veins? No! Self-preserva-tion is the first law! Everard Foliott I. am, and, hy the Lord, Everard Foliott I stay!” It was not his way, having once made up liis mind, to waver or look back; the reflection of hours would not have altered his resolution now. He was Everard Foliott—that was a settled thing. There presently came the sound of a motor and wheels upon gravel. Ho looked out and saw what it was—the. van Irom Prince Town. They had come to fetch away the body of convict ‘247. Goodl It vanished round an angle of the house just as Gilbert, coming into view outside tbe window, glanced into the room. Had he come to see if he, Glitheroc, was alone? It seemed so, for he stepped in. Ciitlieroe glanced at him carelessly, smiling. Fur it promised to be amusing, this. “They have sent to take away that poor wretch, I. see,” he said. “ Glad they have lost as little time as possible. Not a pleasant business. Tbe sooner it is over the better. Do they, in the circumstances, hold an inquest, by tbo way, cousin?” Gilbert answered only by a look. He moved over to tbo table and stood moistening bis dry month. When he •spoke the words came through clenched teeth.

“ I suppose,” lie said slowly, “ I suppose it lias fallen to your lot to be poor (now and then?” “Faith! it has probably fallen to the lot of most of us—now and then,” said Clitheroe airilv. “That means that you know the value of money?” “ I hope so—as well as the next man •—cousin,” said Clitheroe as before. “You would find a little useful. A journey—to London, tor instance is expensive. And when there to be peniless would, for many reasons, be awkward. Still more so, should you tiecido to leave tlio country, n J oriel you a hundred pounds—two hundred—vou understand, of course, upon what conditions —mutual conditions it is given ?” t , , - “Yon aro most generous. But 1 could not so far impose upon your kindness, cousin, bvon were it ncccssan, said Clitheroe coolly. “Necessary ” “ Precisely. Surely the Foliott bankers will honor the I‘oliott cheques, said Clitheroe. Peggy had come into the room by the window, her arms lull of a great mass of flowers. She dropped them in a heap on the table and to put them together in bundles. They were tor the Labor Hospital. Sho would take them down after lunch, she explained volubly. Gilbert dared not speak. Ho stood with clenched hands, a spectacle of helpless, bewildered rage. Clitheroe looked at him and rose with a yawn. There was a writing table in the room. Ho sat down to it, took a sheet of paper and dated it—it was headed already.

“You recollect a certain article that I showed you, cousin?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder. “ Yes,” said Gilbert. “ A valuable possession—you will agree with me, very valuable. So much so that i hardly think it prudent to keep it iu my own private custody. Miss Romayne mentioned a little while ago that wo had an account with the bank at Oakhampton. I fancy my best plan will ho to send it there lor consignment to their strongroom, together with a full account as to how it came into-my hands, and so on. ’ Not forgetting, of course, where the missing portion may be found. You’ll excuse mo while i write, I’m sure ” He turned back to the table. Gilbert made one step towards him and stopped; ho gripped at a chair back ami stood wreiuaiing at tlie wood as if he would have ground it to powder. Glitheroo glanced at him again presently, when, having finished his writing, lie drew the dagger head from his breast pocket. Ho made it and the paper into a packet and tied and scaled it. Then he wrote a note of a low linos, rose, and rang the boll.

“I wish one of tho men to take the motor and go to the bank at Oakhampton at once,” he said to the servant who answered it. “Ho will give this packet and note to the manager, and bring mo back a receipt.” “Yes, sir—certainly, sir.” The man. a young footma'u, not much more than a * boy, looked questioning—doubtful. “ 1 beg your paulon—from Mr Foliott, sir?”

“Certainly; from whom else? From Mr Evcrard Foliott,” said Glitheroo calmly. Fie looked at Gilbert as the man withdrew, and glanced at Peggy. Then lie addressed some light remark to the child about her flowers. Gilbert flung himself into a chair and sat with grinding teeth. No words passed between the two. CHAPTER VII. THE MYSTERIOUS PATIENT. From every gable of its thatched and lichcn-crusted roof to the lowest of its footworn doorsteps the Crooked Cot—the shell of it had started life as four laborers’ cottages—deserved and suited its name. Its original transformer and owner—a retired London lawyer with an eye for the picturesque, who had seldom troubled himself to stop beyond tho wall of its garden—had rebuilt practically every other portion of it. if its rooms were low they were large, and its view was beautiful. The village lay so deep in the valley that only a few of the clustered old roofs that faced all ways could from this point bo seen, but upon the lower slope of the great wooded hill that rose behind it was the huge grey mass of St. Cuthbert’s Abbev and convent. To the right of the abbey, at the foot of tho hill, were the rows of huts and tents, and the little red-roofed hospital of Adrian Clyde’s labor camp, and beyond that again the sheds and other buildings of the granite works which for the most part kept its inhabitants busv. And, backing all, a grand living picture, was the vast rolling stretch of the moor. Alison Romavne loved the view, and probably quite meant her often repeated declaration that as a place to live iu she preferred the Crooked Cot to Llansladrone Court any day. The pony carriage stood at the door of the Crooked Cod. and a maid, bustliugly assisted by Peggy, was stowing various baskets and hampers into it. It was the day upon which Miss llomayne paid her regular weekly* visit to the Labor Hospital, and on such occasions the carriage never made the journey empty. Her cook, a Frenchwoman, was an excellent one. and employed her best skill in the concoction of delicacies and dainties for the patients there. The long window of the

morning room was open, and Ciitlieroe, in riding dress, stood by it; his 'horse was waiting outside the gates. Just within the room were Alison and Monique Lamotte —the one in an ordinary coat and skir tof blue linen, the other wearing a straight-cut frock of white serge that accentuated her height and slenderness, a big black bat shadowing her small scarlet-lipped face. A knot of carnations as scarlet lay at the base of her long throat. Ciitlieroe was speaking to Alison. “ You may bo expected, then—a thousand thanks,” he said. His eyes turned to the pony carriage, and his tone changed with his smile. “ May I ask, does not Llansladrone assist you in your role of Lady Bountiful, Miss Ilomayne?” “To the hospital?” Alison shook her head, smiling, too. “ Well, no, To tell the truth, I’m afraid your grandfather chose to consider Air Clyde as too much of a crank. Indeed, I know ho forbade Aunt Camilla to have anything to do with the hospital, or to go there.” “ Did he? As I. don’t share Ins views, might I be permitted to contribute, do you think ?” “Of course. But perhaps it would be as well to ascertain just what things are most wanted.”

“Thanks for the hint; i will. I’ll take the opportunity when I see Air Clyde in reference to engaging the workmen Irom the camp for those repairs; later on in the day, possibly.” “That is the best help of all,” said Alison quietly. “Giving work? Poor wretches; yes, I suppose it is,” said Ciitlieroe composedly. “Good-day, Miss Lamotte. Good-bye for the present, Miss Romayne.” The dead Everard Foliott himself could have spoken no more easily, could have mounted and ridden off with no more matter-of-fact self-possession. He had taken Alison’s band in farewell, but lie had only bowed to Alonique. Looking after him,' she laughed her little rippling sweet laugh and shrugged her shoulders lazily. “It is the first time that 1 ever knew a man’s complexion really matter,” she said. “ Why in the name of patience could not lie have been like the rest of the Eoliotts, i wonder?” “Complexion?” Alison echoed. “ Precisely, my child. Air Foliott is loan and dark and pale; consequently my lanky length and sallow cheeks don’t appeal to him, as 1 knew quite as well a month ago as I'do to-day. Consequently again, which is very annoying, I shall never be mistress of Llansladrone.” “Alonique!” said Alison indignantly. Aliss Lamotte laughed again. “Of course, 1 meant to marry him,” she affirmed composedly, and as if in answer to a question: “No girl in my position--! loathe poverty, Alison—loathe it! —would be fool enough to throw away such a chance if she could snatch it. But being—l know yon won’t believe this—totally without vhnity, 1 realise that I’m by no means clever enough to bring it about. Aly belief is that the man doesn’t_so much as admire me. You can ask him if you like, and report tbe result. I’ll bear it, J promise you, without turning a hair. As 1 shall have to do when your delicious curves and lovely apricot skin capture him, I suppose! Oh, well then, they won’t—and he never looks at you —there!” She made a rapid deprecatory gesture with her long gloved hands in answer to the other’s impatient turn and vexed ejaculations. “To go hack to my question, why in the name of illluck could not the man have had the same colored hair as Gilbert?” Peggy shouted a good-bye, climbing into the pony carriage; she was going to drive to -the hospital. Alison,_ repl>ing to it. did not speak for a minute—she was busy putting on her gloves. “ Are yon engaged to Gilbert, Alonique?” she asked quietly, “ Engaged ? Aly dear, of course not.” . , “You have never promised to marry him ?”

“ Ccrtainlv not!” “ But if ho and not Evcrard had had Lliinsladronc you would, I suppose? said Alison bluntly. “ Naturally. Not, you know, that ho has ever asked me. He has waited, 1 suppose, for me to lilt mv finger,’ “ And now you won’t lift it? Docs he know?” “Know?” “That you intend to jilt him? It amounts to that, you know.” “Does it? If he has any sense he does. But really T couldn’t say.” She vawned; her little teeth showed like ’milk between the scarlet lines of her lips. “I’m sure I hope so; T detest scones. You arc walking to tho hospital, aren’t you? I’ll come, too, I think, ft is less boring than doing nothing, at any rate.” “Very well.” Alison, as she often did, surveyed the other with a sort of wonder. “ Don’t you think lie looks" very ill? ” “Gilbert? Does lie? 1 haven’t looked at him lately. I’ll notice and tell you,” said Monique. The walk to tho hospital, Jving through the village, was not long. The pony-carriage had been emptied of its contents when the two girls reached it; it stood waiting before the entrance to the kitchens. Miss Romayne would drive back to the Crooked Cot. Peggy was not visible, but her voice sounded from the open window of a small separate building close at hand. This was Adrian Clyde’s private residence; since the erection of the hospital it had been his only home, and no tmn iu tho convent of St. Cutlibert’s Abbey was more barely and poorly lodged. A servant’s room, a couple of other chambers, a sitting room, a slip of a dining room not much bigger than the same min’s cell, and another room used as an office were all its contents. Peggy’s voice came, it seemed, Irom the sitting room—she was chatting volubly. Not to Clyde, lor he appeared at an open doorway, and seeing, advanced quickly. “ You have not been waiting, i hope, Miss Romayne? ” He looked, perhaps he was, a little discontented at the sight of Monique; liis bow to her was a trifle stiff. “The fact is 1 have a visitor whom 1 was showing over the hospital.” “Have you? Then please don’t let us take 'you away,” said Alison, smiling. “Oh, not at all; he’ll he here directly,” Clyde returned. His _ lair face was flushed, his blue eyes bright; be looked eager, excited. “An old acquaintance of my father’s, whom I have not seen for the last ten years. You will have hoard of Sir John Dunboy ne?” “I think so. A financier, speculator, is be not? ” “That is as good a way to describe him as any other—yes. At -any rate, he is engaged upon a speculation now. You know that Newsliam Place has been in tho market since old Lady Newsluuii’s death? Dunboync has bought it.” “Really? That huge old barracks? To live in? Dear Mr Clyde, what abominable taste be must have! And how frightfully rich he must be! ” Miss Lamott remarked lazily.

“To live in? No; that would hardly he a speculation.” Glyde looked at Alison again. “The whole place is to bo pulled to pieces, reconstructed, turned into a sanatorium; it is pur--chased for that purpose. And Dunboyne—which is what brings him to me —will engage the necessary workmen, as far as may be possible, from the camp. May 1 introduce him? He intends to stay in the neighborhood more or less, it seems, until the work is well under way. By the way, Miss Lamottc, I fancy I understand him to say that he had a letter of introduction to Colonel Strickland.” “ Indeed? I wonder who was so impudent as to write it? In his heart of hearts, you know, I believe Uncle Hector considers people who make money as almost beyond the pale. So quaint, isn’t it? They’re quite certain to quarrel. Introduce him? To me? Elease do. I’ll take him home with me if you like. Here he, comes,

doesn’t he?; Why, I. thought all speculators were fat! Didn’t you, Alison ?” said Monique. . The man who appeared at .the door and now advanced was certainly pot fat—was indeed, rather remarkably lean, and of a figure carried with such an erect ease that he looked, at .little distance; of no more than bare middle age. Near at hand, the lines that scored the high, narrow forehead and marked the cheeks and under the eyes betrayed Sir John Dunboyne as nearer sixty-five than sixty. The eyes were dark and bright still, and formed, with their heavy black brows, an odd contrast to quite while hair, in both voice and manner he was sufficiently pleasant, and he responded to Clyde’s words of introduction gracefully enough. “ 1 am honored to know you, Miss Bomayne,” he said. “I have, I think, the pleasure of a slight acquaintance—a business one, merely—with your cousin, Sir Charles Cardigan-” And then he looked at Monique—not for the first time. “ Unhappily, Miss Lamotte, my efforts to be other than a skeleton have never been crowned with success. And allow mo to assure you that I won’t quarrel with Uncle Hector if it is by any means avoidable.”

He smiled a smile grimly caustic. Perhaps he expected some sign of discomfiture. Monique looked back at him with her little fatigued air and stifled a vawn.

“ I tliink that’s perfectly horrid of yon,” she said calmly. She had not looked at or addressed Sir John again when presently he went away. His motor was waiting at the hospital gate to take him back to Llansladrone Arms, his headquarters for the present. But he looked back at her, standing tall and subtly insolent in the early afternoon sunshine, fingering the scarlet carnations' at her throat. And he smiled again rather queerly. A burst of laughter from Peggy came from the open window of the little house, and Alison glanced that way. “Peg seems very merry,” she said. “ Yes. I’m glad to hear it. I sent her in on purpose. It is that poor girl.” “Oh! Your mysterious patient! She is in there?” “Nurse Bay ley and I took her in this morning- 1 Imped that the change of scene might prove beneficial. Oliver thought it might.” “She is no better, then?” ‘‘in mere bodily health,, yes. Mending fast, wonderfully fast; remembering that she is.such a frail little creature. But there is no other improvement, unfortunately.” “She still seems able to recall nothing.” “ Absolutely nothing.” “Not even her name? ” “Not even that, it is extraordinary to me that no inquiry of any kind should have been made after the poor little creature. “ Strange enough; but, after all, I’m afraid there are only too many practically friendless women in the world; that the case is really common enough,” said Alison soberly. “Mr Foliott was saying so only yesterday when Dr Oliver was speaking of her. He seems to think it quite possible that she may never recover her senses at all. Gilbert suggested that in that case you might' find yourself saddled with her permanently.” “ Time enough to consider that later. She is safe here for the present. Possibly, if she recovers her strength, 1 may turn her into a nurse. We want them badly,” said Glyde. There was a pause in Peggy’s chatter and laughter- He glanced towards the window'. “ Unluckily, wo work in the dark.” “You mean in knowing nothing of the shock from which she must have suffered? J can’t help thinking that the first surmise was possibly the correct one. If she was near the old quarry that night, saw that wretched man fall over, knew that it had killed him—perhaps even went down and found him lying dead ”

The sentence was never finished. Stopping the words upon her lips, a piercing shriek rang out from the window.

“Dead!” a voice sc reamed wildly. “Dead—dead! Ho is dead! Who did it? Who did it? All—li—h—h!”

(To be continued.)