OUT OF DARKNESS; -OR- The Priory Mystery.

King Country Chronicle, Volume III, Issue 111, 30 November 1908, Page 4

OUT OF DARKNESS; -ORThe Priory Mystery.

<AII Rigbta Reserved.)

By HEDLEY RICHARDS, Author of "A Day of Reckoning," "From the Mill to the Mansion," Etc., Etc.

PART ?,. CHAPTER IV. URSULA .MEETS JOHN L'ESTRAXGE.

The warder looked angry and disappointed. "Couldn't you tell from the sound of his footsteps ?" he asked. "I was terribly upset, and — and I didn't look or listen."

"Is it a convict you're asking about?" said Silas, coining up in a leisurely fashion, with a rake in his' hand.

"Yes. Po you know which way he went '?" said the ofheer, sharply. "Why couldn't you come to me at first, instead of bothering missie about it ! She's been nearly frightened out of her senses," sa.i,d Silas, in an aggravated tone. "If you've seen the man, speak out. We've no time to waste." "Wasn't I speaking out ? Of course, I saw him. Is it likely I could miss seeing a chap rigged out as the convicts are ?" "Why didn't you stop him ?"

Silas laughed. "Fm not anxious to have my head split open, and there's no telling what a desperate man will do, so I just stood still.

"Which way did hego?" thunder■d the otlicer, who's patience was exhausted.

"He came, over "by the summer hou e and cut across the 'garden, then jumped the wall. I guess he'd null e for the three cross-roads, or he m'ght go down to the river. He •' cemed pretty desperate," said Silas.

Tie warder touched his cap to Mr. Johnson. Tiie-ii he rind his"m< n went, through the kitchen and' into the garden.-evidently intending to follow the convict. "Poor fellow !" said Mrs. Johnson. "1 wonder what he was in for?" -aid her husband. "A lifer, and that means murder." Silas called out, as he went down the garden path. Ursula shuddered. ,; "Poor child, you're frightened to death," said her foster-mother, as she put her arm in the girl's and they went towards the sitting-room where breakfast was waiting.

"Fin sorry it happened .to-day. I s-je Hetsy has made the anniversary cakes," said Reuben Johnson, as i hey seated themselves at the table.

Ursula smiled faintly. Every year since she came to the farm, on the .anniversary of the date, Betsy—who had taken wonderfully to the child, —had made a particular kind' of hot cakes. They were very rich, and only made on that occasion, which caused Reuben to christen them anniversary cakes. It had always been kept as a sort of gala day, but they were so busy with the hay that Reuben had said there could be no holiday that day, but next year—when Ursula was twentyone —they would have a grand time. "You'll come to the field my lass," said Mr. Johnson, after breakfast. So it happened that Ursula and her foster-parents spent the day in the hayfekl, the girl and her mother busy with their fancy work, while Reuben helped the men. Dinner was sent to them, and it was after five o'clock when they returned to the house. The summer night, however, was closing before Ursula found a chance of speaking to Silas.

"Is he safe ?" she asked. "Couldn't be safer," replied the old man.

Where is he ?" she whispered

"I'm not going to tell- you that, missie. Hc'lf have to stay where he is for some time, so it's best you shouldn't know, especially as them police have been here again asking questions."

Ursula had to be satisfied with this. As the days passed' Silas kept telling her that Mr. L'Estrahge was quite :; comfortable, and thought, as he didr that it would; liefoolish to venturo out of his hiding-place at present. After a talk with the old man she would puzzle her brain to find out where the convict was hidden. That ho was near at hand she felt sure, but his whereabouts was a mystery. The da\s passed into weeks, still all she knew was that the man who had escaped was safe. Then one afternoon, six weeks, later, when Mr. and Airs. Johnson had driven some distance to see a friend who was ill, Silas came to tho sitting-room door. "I want to speak to you, missie," ho said. '

Ursula looked up from the book she was reading as she said, "Come in, Silas."

Ho stepped into the room, arid spoke in a low- tone. "Missie, Mr, L'Estrange is going at daybreak to-morrow. I have to drive to Tremearne on some business for the master, and he'll drive with me ; but he wants to .see you before he goes, and I've promised to take you. We're to hear the story. of the murder from his own lips. He's told mo a lot,but he said he should like you to hear the truth from him. Will you come? I can take you safely. One of the maids. has got the afternoon off. and Hctsy lias gut her eye on the other in tho kitchen." Ursula rose-. "Yes. Silas, 1 should like to see the- poor man." Silas smiled, and opening the door ho said. "Follow me, missie," and led the way upstairs. It was a roomy old house, and many of the chambers on the first landing were not used, though furnished in an old-work! style. Another steeper flight of stairs led to the attics. Soinu of these were used as bacon chambers. in others apples were stored, and at the further end was the mail's' bedroom, while Silas and his wife occupied the one near the top of the staircase. At this door Silas paused. Opening it, he let Ursula enter, and followed her, lock-

ing the door behind them

Ursula looked at him in amazement, and the oid man chuckled :

"I'm going to show \ou a room that neither the master or mistress know anything about. T lived here seven years before Mr. Reuben was born. I took service with his father when I was only thirteen, and the old master showed me the secret room once when he was up here. 1 don't know what made him, but he did. and he (old me he'd never shown his boy the room. A day or two afterwards lie died suddenly, when Mr. Reuben was on a visit to some 'friends, and somehow' I've kept the >eercl from every one but P.etsy, and Hie'd worm anything out of a man," said Silas as he opened a cupboard door. Hi-moving a dress and some coats. Ik; touched a peg. and a panel slid back, revealing an opening just wide enough to admit a man.

"Step through, missie." he said. Che girl did so. and found herself in a very small room that contained a folding bedstead, a chair, ami a small.-table, on which stood a lamp. By its light she saw a tall. gen-tlemanly-looking man dressed in tweeds, who was standing with his arm resting on the high, narrowledge of the mantel piece. Ursula felt bewildered. He was not the 'mail she had come to seeWhere was the convict ?

".I .se > you don't recognise me, Miss Ursula.," ho, said, with a smile.

"Arc you the" Then she stopped abruptly. "I am the escaped convict, but, thanks to my good friend there, I look different from the poor, hunted wretch who frightened you," *he said, as Silas closed the panel and :amc forward.

"I don't deny you've improved, -iir," he said, glancing in quite a fatherly manner at the young man. "Yet vou have lived here without daylight," said Ursula, glancing round.

"It has been paradise compared to ny cell. I'm a man"- here, not a umber, and whenever Silas has had he chance he has come and chatted vth mo, and I've had a few books ;nd papers. Altogether I've had piito a good time. Then there was the prospect of freedom," he Said, speaking in a low but clear tone. Silas looked round with a satislied air.

"It's a first-ratc ; hilling place. It' 9 snug, and there's ventilation. The same chimney serves my room and this, and, of courser there's no one sleeps under here, so there's no danger of being overheard. All the same, I'm pretty sure..the; floor is different, to most of 'em. as Retsy's listened in the room under, and she .ouldu't hear either steps of voices. The old master told me that this house had at one time been a genileman's residence, but the other ..•ml had fallen into ruins. Then it was sold to one of his ancestors for a farmhouse, and he reckoned that this chanfber would have been used in war times for hiding hunted foiks."

"I expect it was used at the time >f the war between Charles and the "ommonweallh. Rut won't you sit :lown. Miss Ursula? And Silas, as con know', that bed serves for an iasy-ehair in the day-time, so sit down. I like standing," he said, with the easy courtesy of a gentleman.

"Well, if missie doesn't mind, I'll sit down. You see, I've been busy since cock-crow, and I'm not as young as I was." "Of course" you must sit down, Silas." exclaimed Ursula. Then she glaired at the man whom the world -ailed a murderer, and she told herself that the verdict was false. He met her look with a smile. "I see you think I am very much hanged, but clothes make a great •li(Terence. Then my moustache and hair have grown. If you saw' me tonight there would* be another transformation. I'm going: U> dye my hair ami moustache, which I hope, with the aid of a pair of spectacles, will prevent me being recognised."

"Where are you going .?" she ask-

"I shall take the train to London, then travel steerage to Australia. Silas is lending me money for the ourney. He's been a friend in need. I hope to bo able to return the money with interest, but the ness 1 never can. And now, Miss ''rsifa. I want to tell you the lory of the crime oT which I have een found guilty, though (!od knows hat J am innocent of it. That n'g when I landed in your garden I saw>the look of terror with which ou regarded me, and I want to .now that when I leave here you will not think of me as a criminal. I've a. longing to stand well in the sight of an innocent girl." She looked full at him as she -aid : " ■-■ ■-.'.

"1 feel pure you ; "are innocent. Your face ip not the face cC a wicked, man'-, - Remember I did not see vou prolperly that other day, and that hideous dress would alter any one's appearance."

"Yes, I think a less repulsive attire might be chosen for his Majesty's prisoners. Rut you are mistaken. A man may be guilty of murder, yet not be an habitually wicked man. Murder may be the outcome of passion. The jury took that view of it in my case. The counsel for the prosecution held that I had in tho heat of passion, under great provocation, killed my cousin. That'induced.;the jury to recommend ino to inercy, and was the means of saving my neck —a cruel inercy, save .hat it gives the chance of my innocence being proved." "Oh, I hope it will be. I wish! -oulil help you," exclaimed I'rsula, impetuously. "Who knows, but what it may be n your power some day ? I have a strange longing to tell .vou the

-tory, and, believe me, I shall tell vou the whole truth." "If I might just hint. sir. you'd belter hurry up. It's a pretty longstory, and Miss Ursula mustn't be missing when the master and mi£' tress come, home," said Silas.

1/Estrange nodded, and at once :>eo-an. CHAPTER V. Till-: STORY OF THE CRTME. "if was on the Bth of last August, just ii year last Friday, that the event (hat has darkened my life happened, but to piake you understand i must go a little into dptail. I am an only son. My father died when J was a lad. and my mother lived to see pie of age. Then

she died, leaving in the house myself and the aunt of my father's—a most peculiar woman. Some people snv she is of weak intellect, others that she is very cute, but peculiar. Anyway, she is singular. She would sii nearly a day without speaking, and you never knew what she noticed! or wheiher she was oblivious to passing matters and. lived in a world of 'h«r own. The other member of the family was a niece of my mother's, a pretty girl, who was, when my mother died, being educated in a convent in France. "Four years later she came to live nt Myiheinroyd Hall, which was the name of my home. My father was squire of Methemroyd. and he kO me an estate that brought in five thousand a year, and I inherited a thousand a year from my mother. Annette Finiayson. my cousin—ol Nettie, as we usually called her— Had tin' same fortune from her mother. Her father had been a ne'er-do-well who died young soon after her mother, so that her home had been at the Hall from 'lie 1 inu■die was a wee child. My father had been her guardian, and at my mother's death I assumed the responsibility.

■\]t'v return from school made a great difference : the old Hall became ever so much brighter. Nettie was an attractive girl, though at times dreamy. One person, however, seemed- to think her perfect ; that was my cousin, James Pewhirst. His mother was my father's sister. Hike me, he was without parents. and was immensely rich ; two of the Mythemroyd coal-pits belonged to him. His parents had died when he was a youngster : but everything had been well managed, and during a long minority the money had accumulated, so that when he came of i age he stepped into a huge fortune. The two years following he spent in London, leading a fast life ; then he came down to the Priory, which was about a couple of miles from the Hall. I believe he only intended to stay a wi elc or so, but he saw Nettie —the first time they had met since she was a child—and he fell in love with her, or thought he did, and she lost, her heart to him.

"A month later Jim asked my consent to their engagement. I did not exactly approve of it. I knew my cousin was an unstable sdK of fellow—not the man to trust with a girl's happiness ; still, she loved him, and it was a splendid match for her. So f gave my consent, but I stipulated there should be a year's engagement, and as Nettie wa# only eighteen, it was a reasonable thing. "Jim grumbled, but acquiesced, and for t'i'ce months he nearly lived at Iho Hall ; then his visits became less frequent, and by the end of six months he did not come to see NetLie above onfe a week ; even then he avoided being alone with her. I should have understood it if he had returned to London, but the puzzle was that he should remain at the Priory if his feelings had changed. Three months before the time of the marriage Nettie showed me a letter she had received from him, saying he wished to break off the engagement, as they could never be happy together. It was an abrupt, cruel letter, and the poor girl was nearly heart-broken. Nettie was of the type who would cling to the man she loved in spite of anything. She might know he w r as unworthy, that his love for her had died ; but it did not affect her love. She was still faithful, and assured me she couldn't give him up.

"It was after dinner when she showed me the letter. The poor child had not appeared at dinner, but sought me afterwards. Her misery made me very angry with Jim, though 1 was vexed that she had not sufficient pride to send him back the answer he deserved ; but instead of that she pleaded with me to see him, and tell him that if he forsook her it would kill her. Hardly knowing what I did I put on a light overcoat and set off for the Priory. It would be about a quarter to nine o'clock when I started. and on the way my thoughts were busy with a rumour 1 had heard that my cousin had been several times seen with a girl whose father worked in his pit. Report said she was very beautiful, and knowing Jim's weakness for pretty women. I came to the conclusion that the girl's face had made him forget his allegiance to Nettie, and I resolved to talk plainly to him. "Walking quickly, i soon reached the Priory, and the butler told mc his master was in the Red Room, This was a sitting-room he had appropriated to his own special use, and I went direct there. "As I entered the room my cousin looked round, and taking the pipe out of his mouth, he said, with a sneer :

" 'I suppose Nettie's sent you ; but it's useless, my dear fellow —I'm not going to marry her." '' 'We'll see a'mut that. I suppose vou won't like the wprld to call you aii unmitigated cad V I said. "lie laughed in an exasperatinu way as ho said : "'1 don't care what the work! calls me so long as 1 get my own way.'

" 'You scoundrel ! I know you've been caught by the pretty face of a titman's daughter ;' and 1 raised my voice in anger.

"A passionate look disfigured his 'ace as he said : " 'She's worth a hundred such a.' Nettie.' and I'll let all the world know that I think so. Why don't vou marry your pretty cousin yourself if you think so much of her ?' (To be Continued;.