THE FIRST LAW

Evening Star, Issue 19803, 29 February 1928, Page 3

THE FIRST LAW

A Dramatic Serial

By C. C. Andrews

Murgalroyd,’ etc.)

CHAPTER VI IT. “ Who is that man?”

The cry came from the window. It was repeated with a yet more .piercing shrillness and intensity, and died away in a shuddering, moaning wail. The extreme of terror and horror were in it. Monique had exclaimed and come a pace' forward; with her splendid color paling Alison looked at Glyde. Ho caught tier arm impulsively. “She screamed like that when she came rushing out of the bushes—just like that! But less strongly. As I. told you, she must have been shrieking before.”

“She must have heard what 1 said,” Alison whispered. “Yes, undoubtedly. It may have brought back her memory, her reason. Oliver was of opinion that a shock might do it. Evidently you were right; she did see. It may he- ” The door opened and Peggy came darting out. “ Whatever was it-'” she cried, staring. “ I hoard the talking and you say something, Alison, but didn’t catch what. And all of a sudden she jumped up as if she was shot and yelled out like that! 1 believe she’d have remembered her name in another minute, f was making her laugh and tolling her I was sure it was something pretty, ami that 1 knew she could recollect if she liked. It did just scare me! And Mr Jarrett came flying out of the office, head over heels.” “Yes. yes; wait a minute, child!” Alis&n looked at Glyde. “I should lib;''to see her, poor girl. And don’t you think, if she has remembered, that she may be more ready to speak to me than to you?” “ It is worth trying, at any rate. Oddly enough, the only person she has been willing to speak to as yet is Jarrett. Until I tried her with Peggy, that is. To mo or to the nurses she will say practically nothing at all. Pray, come in,” said Glyde. The words no less than the grateful look were addressed only to Alison, but Monique also placidly followed; anything that promised sensation or excitement was never neglected by Miss Lamotte. A man appeared at the sitting room door as. they reached it, holding it half-closed behind him. “ I ran in when I heard the scream, sir,” he said to Glyde hurriedly. “Don’t know what can have caused it, but I fancy you’ll find her memory has come back. She seems frightened half to death—doesn’t know where she

“ All right, Jarrctt. T hope it may he so. She overheard something said by Miss Romayuc,” Clyde whispered hack. “Go in; you may bo able to help me quiet her.” Jarrctt turned back into the room obediently. Tho _ doorway was somewhat narrow; his great height and broad shoulders seemed almost to block it. A man of probably less than forty, bis bulk made him appear older, as did his stolidly-composed manner and greystreaked hair. An occasional burr that sounded in his speech—of which he was habitually sparing—suggested a Scottish origin, but whether with truth was doubtful, since ho said nothing either to contradict ar confirm it. For three years now ho had held his present post of secretary and general factotum at the Labor Camp and Hospital, and had fulfilled every duty with a scrupulous fidelity and exactness that must have satisfied a. far more exacting employer. That Martin Jarrctt was invaluable, that he would be lost, without him, was e. declaration constantly made by Adrian Clyde. Alison spoke as she followed him in. “ Did you say she seemed frightened?” she whispered. “Terrified, Miss Eomayne. As you mav see.” ho answered quietly. Ho said it with a slight gesture towards the couch that stood by the window. A girl was crouched upon it. So far as her attitude allowed it to be seen, her figure was wonderfully slight, wonderfully' small. The feet, in pointed, high-hcelcd shoes, that showed beneat h her short serge skirt might have been those of a child. Her little wrists, the hands, glittering with several showy rings, that covered her face, were on tho°same delicately minute scale. There was something almost babyish about the half-waved, half-curled short brown hair that covered her head. She looked up, showing a pair of wide, scared hazel eyes, and sprang to her feet. “ Who—who are you all? ” she demanded in a breathless quaver. “Where am 1? How—how did 1 get here? I’m frightened! 1 don’t know.” She pushed Clyde aside, and caught at Jarrett’s arm. Ho put his baud on her shoulder. “There, there,” he said, soothingly. “There’s nothing to bo frightened of. You’ll remember all about it directly, You’ve been ill, you know.” “111? 111? I’ve been ill? Ale?”

She still stared from one face to tho oilier confusedly. Her voice, sweet enough, almost childish in timbre, had a touch, no more, of tho unmistakable Cockney twang. jarrett put her gently back upon tho couch. ' “Very ill. For more than a fortnight. You have been in the hospital—this gentleman’s hospital. Ho has taken caro of you. He’ll tell you all about it. Or this lady will.” “ Presently,” said Alison. She took tho girl’s hand and quietly kissed her cheek. “ I’m sure you won’t bo afraid of me,” she said, smiling; “wid you? There’s nobody here who would frighten you for the world—wc’ro all so ’ad you’re so much better. Yes; you have been very ill. But never mind that n >v\ Before I tell you about it T want von to tell me something. Will you? ”

‘ “Tell you? Me? What?” “Something that I’m sure you can remember, if you try. Only your name.”

“My name? ” The bewildered fright upon her face was subsiding: something like faint amusement began to take its place. “Why shouldn’t I remember? It’s Laura.”

“Laura?” Alison glanced at Peggv and smiled again. “My little sister was quite right—she was sure it was something pretty Laura. What else?”

“What else?” She paused, knitting her forehead. “That’s ugly.” she said decisively. “ It’s Browne. Yes—that’s my name—Laura Browne.” “ And mine is Alison Boiuayne. That lady is Miss Lamotte, and this is my sister Pegg v v.\rThat-is Mr Jarrctt, and this is''Mr"-Clyde, who found you on the moor.” “The moor?” , “ Yes. -You remember being on the moor?” “The moor? No. What moor? I don’t remember any moor. T was in London. , What place is this?” She half-started up, looking about her with an expression of wild perplexity. Alison quietly- drew her back again, as quietly kept her tone light and easy.' “This is a place in ■ Devonshire, 1 daresay you’ll recollect why you came here presently. You live in London?” “Yes. Most of the time, that is. But I’ve been about a good bit. One has to.” . “ Yea?. Why i» that?”

(Author of ‘Beggar My Lady,’ ‘His Hour,’ ‘The House of

“ Because of engagements. Time enough to hold out for going where you jolly well like when you’re at the top of the tree.”

“I’m afraid 1 don’t quite understand. What engagements? What did you do?” “ J—danced.” “ At theatres?”

‘‘Sometimes. And at the halls. Ive been on at a good few of those. And in panto,, of course. I say, look here —I don’t want to be rude, you know, hut I wish you wouldn’t ask me all these questions—you’re making my head go round 1” She started up, both hands clasped on her temples; her voice rose with a sudden sharp shrillness that threatened hysterics; as belorc, she moved across to Jarrett. turning her back like a peluient child. Alison turned to Glyde. “She has been a chorus girl, 1 suppose?” she whispered. “Something of the kind, probably. Evidently this recovery of memory is very imperfect. Oliver warned me that it might, as it were, stop short.” “At the time, you mean, before her journey—if she took one—and the shock —if she received it?”

“ Yes, that is it exactly. Of course, it is possible that the memory may return gradually. Ur it may be entirely restored by a similar shock to the one that hi ought about this partial recovery. At present there is nothing to be done but wait.” “ Nothing. She is not fit to bear any more questions, it will be better to leave her perhaps; excitement must bo bad for her,” Alison agreed. She turned to the girl with a smile. “ Goodbye,” she said pleasantly. “ i’m so glad you are better. 1 should like to come and see you again in a day or two if 1 may.” “Will you? Do. I’d like it whom 1 don’t feel so cranky it) the head.’* The big hazel eyes, as she met the extended hand, took the other in from head to foot. “ You’ve jievcr been »uj, 1 suppose, Miss Romayne? You’ve got a splendid figure. 1 say, you seem a jolly kid. Stop with me for a bit. I’ll show you some steps, if you like. And you can stay and look on if you want to.”

The first sentence was addressed to Peggy, the. last to Martin Jarrctt, and she began to whirl gaily about the room as the others left it—Miss Ilomaync having nodded a ready consent to the child to stay—her movements as light, airy, and graceful as the sweep of a butterfly. But only for a few moments; she presently stopped to drop breathless upon the couch. She must have been awfully ill to be like this, as weak as a rat, she declared, complainingly. No: she didn’t want to talk about being ill, or about how she got on to the moor. Where was the good when sho couldn’t remember fur nuts, and to try only made her head go round. Sho had been in the hospital, had sho, Mr Clyde’s hospital? Tel! her about the hospital. He must be an uncommonly good sort, she pronounced, after listening. And Mr Jarrett was Air Clyde’s secretary', was he; she thought that room across the passage looked like an office when the door was open Just now. Whore did Peggy live ? V. ith her sister at the Crooked Cot? Oh! Miss Lomayno was awfully handsome. Didn’t care, though, fur that lanky, tallowy woman! Was that a church —that "rent grey building on the slope of the full? Oh, an abbey, was it? That was all the moor, of course? And what place was that, over there? She had turned to tho window as she talked, the big hazel eyes that vere the only real beauty of her little round, irregular face, roaming curiously over the view it commanded. What she painted at was tho old red-and-grey gables and chimneys of Llansladronc, visible here from among the trees. Peggy followed the indicating finger. “ That’s the Court, Laura.” (Already she had been informed that “Miss Browne” was “too jolly stiff.”'

“ The Court?” “ Llnnsladrone, then.” “Oh! Llnnsladrone. Docs she live there?” “ Monique—Miss La mot to ? Oh, no. tt’s the Foliott’s place.” . Peggy laughed. “ But until just latelv ” . „ , “Oh, the Foliott’s, is it? ho does It belong to?” “Mr Everard I'ohott. We re a soit of cousins—at least, Alison is. 1 m only her half-sister, you know,’ said chattering Peggy. “ Wc used to think that Gil . Why, there he isl The window commanded a view of the gate of the hospital enclosure, ami Gilbert Foliott had just entered by it. Alisou oiid GJydc liad disappoiued into the building* but Monifjuc xuiu ie* mained outside sauntering lazily to and fro. She paused now and watched lua approach, much as she had stood a little while before to watch the departure of Sir John Dunboync, a tall, gracefully indifferent, .supercilious figure, playing with the scarlet carnations at her throat. She let him take her long-gloved hand rather than olfered it, and barely glanced at him. Laura Browne from the window watched tho greeting, and gave a little laugh. , , , “ Who’s that?” she asked. , “That’s Gilbert—Gilbert I'ohott. “Ob! He would be good-looking it ho wasn’t so fair. I |jko dark men best, if I am dark myself. W bnt were you going to say about—until just Peggy giggled. “Why. that until just lately I know Monique expected to live at the Court Before we knew that Cousin Everard was a dive, vou know. She meant to marry Gilbert then. She thought he’d have Llansladrone.” . , , ~ “Did she?” Laura withdrew from the window with a gesture of weariness. “ I believe 1 shall have to be down again directly; my stupid head docs feel so queer. And now she won t marry him, you mean? ” “Well, not much,” said Peggy with scorn. “Not if she can find anybody else with more money. She’s as selfish as a pig, Monique is.” She giggled a train. “I believe she’d make love to Cousin Everard if it was any good, but it isn’t.” ' “Would film?” . I say, you seem to know lots, for a kid! Is lie—Gilbert — very much in love with her? ” “Crankv!” said Peggy decisively. “Oh, there comes Alison! Where did f put my gloves? Good-bye, Laura.” She gave an impulsive, girlish hug to tho little figure, and left a no less hiarty kiss upon the small face that was some inches below the level, of her own—something in both had taken hold of the .fancy of Miss Peggy. “Look here —d’you think Dr Oliver would let you have a drive ( to-morrow? I’ll ask him. if you like, and bring the pony carriage. I very often Hullo, Mr Jarrett, what’s the matter? I say, don’t pinch 1” Jarrett, standing by the window, had suddenly turned from it with an ejaculation and gripped her shoulder. “ What’s that? ” ho asked, pointing. That man there. Do you know. Miss Froear?” A nan on horseback had iust ridden

in through the gate and was in the act of dismounting. 1 Peggy, staring, burst into a laugh. “That?” she cried. “What, haven’t you seen him before, then? How funny! Why, it’s Mr .Everard Eoliott, of course)”

CHAPTER IX. JUSTHESB AND MAID,

“ I suppose, .1. can walk homo wita you, Monique? ” Gilbert Eoliott asked abruptly. 1 “My dear boy, 1 suppose you can—if it is worth the trouble,” Mis Lamotte answered, composedly. “The trouble? I want to talk to you.” “Yes? Not ton much, 1 hope? "My head aches.”

“It need not take long. I am thinking of going away.” “Really? That sounds very sensible. You are not looking well, you know,” said Monique. ■ The pony carriage, carrying its load of empty hampers and baskets, had driven off with Miss lioinaync and Peggy to the Crooked Cot; Clilhcroe and Adrian Glyde had disappeared into the hospital, and the two were left standing together just within the gates. The man’s face, as he looked at the woman, gloomy, contracted, fiercely set, had something like desperation _in it. Peggy, with her contemptuous ejaculations of “cranky” a few minutes before bad been nearer the truth than she had any idea of—there was .something almost akin to madness in the passion of that look. And she, half glancing at him under drooped eyelids, wondered languidly if there were going to be a scene. Well, if it came it came, but it , would be very absurd. If he went away it would he really a very good thing, she thought. Provided, of course, that he went without trying to make any preposterous proviso about her waiting for or following him. Ho was almost certain to do something of the kind. W'hich would bo sure proof that he possessed no sense whatever. Since why in the world should she marry him now that it was quite certain that he had lost Llanshidrono? He could hardly rave going through the village, she reflected, and so moved away at his side with an air only a shade more utterly indifferent than it had always been. Jn the days when she had intended to marry him lie and his slavish adoration lead jointly amused her.. Now that she no longer intended to marry him they frankly bored her. That was all the difference it made to Monique. She had managed to stave off all but a few banal sentences that meant nothing when they reached Black Watch House, a grey, square-built place of moderate size standing on the lower slope of the great hill a little below St. Cuthbert’s Abbey, it had a big garden round it, with sloping lawns and flower, beds, and was enclosed by a low wall of moor stone. A great, glittering motor car waited outside the gate, and at sight of it Miss Lamotte uttered an ejaculation.

“ Why, that is Sir John’s! He must have called already,” she said. “Sir Jotin’s?” Gilbert questioned.

“Sir John Dunboyne’s,” Monique returned, and proceeded in a fcw_ indolently detached phrases to explain who was the financier and what had brought him to tho neighborhood. Evidently he had lost no time in presenting his letter of introduction to the colonel, which was rather a bore, since ho was a distinctly detestable man. Ju lact—• Oh! there he was coming!

Sir John’s thin, tall figure, looking as much younger at a little distance than it had any right to look, had, in fact, appeared in the path that led to the gate. Not in the act of departure, it seemed, for he paused at sight of the two figures and awaited their approach. Aliss Lamotte spoke the necessary words of introduction, and the men shook hands and exchanged a sentence or two. Then Gilbert, with a face still more set and darkened, moved away. It liacj needed no plain word from Alonique to tell him that ho «as expected to go. She did not glance after him as ho .vent down the road. And Sir John looked at her. There was a caustic glitter of amusement, in the dark eyes under their black-barred brows.

“ Yes,” be said coolly. “ 1 have positively called already! As yon expected, my pretty lady.” He met the sudden supercilious questioning turn of her long throat wit it a laugh. “ Von did expect it, you know.” “Really?” said Alonique. “ i'cs, really. And I’m happy to report that Uncle Hector lias not yet quarrelled with mo.”

“In his own house? My dear Sir John! if you disparaged the whole British Army, tho sacred Black Watcn included, he would hardly do that.”

“ No? 1 admire his loyalty. That’s a most charming pose! I. thought so when I saw it iu the hospital yard. Nothing could show off the eyelashes better.” He laughed again. “My dear girl, surely you don’t suppose that there’s a single trick in the whole feminine battery that will take me in at this time of day? I’m too old, mademoiselle. And too rich not to have had them all tried on me SU,OUU times over.”

“ I was quite right in what 1 said a little while ago. You really are absolutely horrid,” said Monique calmly.

Under u big tree dose by were a few rustic seats round a tabic upon which a maid was just placing some champagne cups and glasses. Whatever might be the private opinion of the old soldier on the subject of financiers and speculators, the Colonel was the most hospitable of men. He appeared in a moment; it was Jiis idea that no one could successfully prepare his own particular drinks but himself. Sir John had been looking alter Gilbert’s slowly-moving figure, which was still iu sight. He addressed Monique again—a dry chuckle had been Ids only acknowledgment of her last speech. One of the Foliotts of Llaiishulroue Court, no doubt? be asked. Yes. Ah! Friend Clyde, iu speaking of the different principal families in the neighborhood, had mentioned something about a rather romantic story as to the succession of the estate. Was this the heir who had turned up from the other side of the world? No. Tho Colonel, busily tilling his tall glasses, interposed, perhaps wondering to find his niece suddenly monosyllabic. No, he explained. This was Gilbert, son of old Squire Bichnrd’s second sou. The heir of JJandsladroue —owner, rather—sou ol the eldest sou, was Everard. Seemed a good fellow, very good, fellow. A bit hardgrained and rough-hewn, perhaps, lor a Foliott, the result, no doubt, ol Ins life out* in Canada. But none the worse for that —none the worse. Yes, his coming back, in fact, tho whole thing, had made a bit of a sensation in our quiet little place. But it had been discounted, eh, Monique?—a good deal discounted by another sensation that happened to occur at the same time. What was that? Oh, one of those wretched convict fellows had bolted from Prince Town. And been recaptured, of course? Why, no—no time for that. Had pitched headlong into an old quarry on the moor and cut himself to pieces and broken his neck, it had happened on tho very _ night ol Everard Foliott’s home-coming. And the warders had brought the body to Llamlsladrone for an hour or wo while they fetched a conveyance from the prison to take it away. Was there an inquest in such cases now ? Oj, j es, merely a formal affair, \ eidict m this was accidental death, ol I cour ? e no other possible. What were the chances now, if this fellow had not been killed —what were the chances of his getting off the moor and clear away? Jhe Colonel launched in reply upon a theme in which he was wont to was eloquent, was checked in his pleasant. garrulity. Monique, giving it but a languid nalrattention, interrupted suddenly. “ Here comes Miss Camilla, uncle, she said. • . , . , Two figures had appeared in the road thta wound gentlv downwards from the abbey—Miss Foliott and her constant attendant, Dorcas It was a

saint’s day, and- there had been some special service at St. Cuthbert s. Camilla, moving at her usual steadilyunhurried pace, her long black chess flowing smoothly, her head draped in its folds of black lace, was a little in advance. She passed, never turning hei calm face towards Black Watch, or seeming to see the three figures under tho great tree; Dorcas, following, her stout hands folded before her, looked only at her mistress. Sir John looked at both, with beetling brows drawn together over keen eyes—a trick of his sometimes. He glanced at the Colonel. “ Who did T understand the lady

is! The other made the little courteous gesture which lie used for no one else. “Miss Camilla Foliott, daughter of the late Squire, and aunt of our two young men,” he answered. “Ah. indeed! Not a nun, surely? “Certainly not. But a very devout Catholic.” , , . “Is that so? A striking looking woman. She must have been handsome when young.” “Handsome?” Tho Colonels tanned face Unshed; he held up his whitehead. No boy could have cherished lor his sweetheart a more fervent admiration than was his lor tho woman who, for more than thirty years, ho had loved with an unshaken devotion and fidelity. “ At twenty-five Camilla Foliott had not her match in the county. She was without a peer, sir—without a peer! “Ah!” Sir John’s tone was absent; lie still watched tho two retiring figures. “ Miss Foliott has never married?” . “To my deep regret, no, said the Colonel quietly. He could not have made more simply and plainly manliest what had been apd still was his attitude towards’ Camilla Foliott. Miss Lamotte ro.se. Possibly she considered that the financier had been punished .sufficiently ior his rudeness, for she addressed him graciously. “Miss Foliott doesn’t look nearly ucr age, of course,” she said, “and f daresay won't really seem any older in another ten years: some of those verv fair women wear awfully well. All the” fnmilv are good-looking—it's part or the inheritance. You noticed the maid, Dorcas Wade, I’m sure, John; you will hardly ever see the one without the other. She scarcely c-ts her mistress out of her sight; 'ea ,y, she is more like a slave than a seivan;. 1 must own, were 1 Miss Camilla, 1 should not quite care for so uncomlon; ably-devoted an attendant. She would get on my nerves.” “ She has been in the family some years, possibly?” Sir John suggeseo 'picstiomngb. heard she was Miss Foliott s mil <i. Something like that. .By the way. Uncle .Hector, I am going ; o D'au* ladrone for tea. Alison will be tiieie. indeed, she’s dining, Fverard .“oA t* roda over to the Crooked Cot on propose to ask her; Miss Camilla rvaiui m" consult her about something, I sup pose. Alison is Miss Romaync, you understand, Sir John.” To whom he had had the pleasure of being presented at the hospital, k.ir John responded—a very handsome gnl —a verv charming young lady ! An encomium at which the Colonel beamed. Ho had, he declared in his courtly fashion, the warmest regard, the highest admiration for Miss Romayne. Then, a sudden thought striking him, brought a suggestion. Had Sir John the next hour or so at liberty. Jt so, what did he think of accompanying himself and his niece to the Court and making the acquaintance of Miss Foliott 9 He was proud to know that anyone -whom he might introduce was sure of a welcome at Llansladrone. Sir John’s moment of natural hcsitation had Ijnrdlv time to he- followed by Sir John's word of thanks and accentancc, -He “would be delighted d 3>Jiss Foliott would excuse so unceremonious an appearance,” he began. Miss La motto interrupted. Glancing towards the road she uttered n exclamation. “Why, there is Dorcas Wade coming back!” she said. Dorcas indeed was almost at the gate. Outside it she paused, aware, perhaps, of a strange figure. Monique wont down the .siopmg path. “ AVo saw you and Miss Foliott pass a few minutes ago, Dorcas. There is nothing the matter?” , "The matter? Oh, no, ma am. t am sent back with a message—fo Colonel Strickland, if you please. Miss Camilla’s compliments, and she will be glad to see him on a little matter of business as soon as convenient. This afternoon, if he is at liberty.’ The woman spoke with her usual grave stolidity. The voting lady smiled graciously. Monique was always gracious to what she termed persona, ft paid, she declared. “How very lucky, Dorcas! As it happens, you need not ha\c biought the message, .The Colonel and 1 were just deciding to come up to Llansladrone and beg ten. Toll Miss I'oliott so. Oh, and please add that we are going to presume upon her kindness, and "bring a gentleman with us to be introduced to her.” “Certainly, ma'am. J hat gentleman?” , “Yes, Sir John Dunboyne. Miss Foliott may have heard ol him. Don t forget, the name.” Miss Lamotte turned away with a little nod. Joining the two men under the tree she gave the message. And then, glancing towards the road again she exclaimed again; . “ AVhy, look at Dorcas! Sh eis almost running, , The silly creature! You see, Sir John, her mistress is out of her sight, and that's quite a tragedy. She will overtake her long holoro she reaches Llanshulronc.” Dorcas Wade, however, did not overtake her mistress before she reached Llanshulronc. That unhurried pace of Camilla. FolioU’s was, when she chose, swifter than it looked. She was in her sitting room, slowly loosening the lace wrap about her head, when, in an.swci to a roughly-fumbling hand, the door (lew open. At sight ol tho entering figure she rose to her foci. “Dorcas!” ~, “Miss Camilla! Mistress. ihe woman’s great body swayed, her face was grey; breathless, all heaving with haste, she panted, speechless; Mistress—Miss Camilla', It has come!’ “Come?” ~ . , „, “Yes—yes! At last. He is here. “He 9 Dorcas, arc you mad?” “No" no! No, no! I saw him, Miss Camilla, lie is here! Sir John Duubovncl” _ , ~ Camilla Foliott stood without stirring. And Dorcas AVadc, sinking down, clutched at her feet, (To ho .continued.)