CHAPTER VII.—THE SNARE OF THE FOWLER.

Otago Witness, Issue 2817, 4 March 1908, Page 71

CHAPTER VII.— THE SNARE OF THE FOWLER.

EAELESS, but with her sweet face showing the strain of the last two days, and with her head held' proudly high, Mildred Harden entered the library, and bowed slightly to the young man who hotv, by reason of his mother's infir-

mity, stood to her in the relation of an employer. The girl had always hated this upstart supplanter of her lover, but she had never hated him so much as when, at the inquest an hour ago. his curtailed evidence had narrowly averted a verdict against her of "Wilful murder."

Her instinct had told her why that curtailment had. been made, and it told ncr now that payment was to be demanded forthwith. Every nerve in her body tingled at the revolting prospect, and on a sudden impulse she decided to take the ■wind out of Paul's sails by precipitating a couT&e which she would have had to adopt , anyhow, in a few days. Monkswood Cifase had been no proper place for a/ friendless girl in the wicked old baronet's time, but his age had at least provided her residence there with an outward show of protection ; now that he was gone it was impossible for her to remain under the same roof as the new master of the house with, no more responsible chaperon, than a mad woman under restraint.

"I am glad you sent for me, Mr Blythe, because, it furniahe* an opportunity for me to give notice," she- began before he couM speak. "I shall be very thankful if you can see- your way to releasing me immediately*

Paul regarded her with a stare of insolent amusement. "It would have to be three months' notice under the terms of your engagement," he said in his thin, strident voice. "But," he added, taking a step towards her, "I hope to persuade you not to leave the Chase at all. By all means stop playing the governess as soon as you like, provided you> remain as the mistress of the house. I have tojd you a score of times that I love you ; there isn't anything you couldn't do with me if you'd only consent." Mildred returned his gaze with open disgust, alike for his detestable per^n and the uncouthness of his words. There | was, however, a confidence in his mannji* which caused her vague uneasiness. Hitherto he had slunk like a whipped cur from her repulsion of his unwelcome advances. "Whether it is a score or a hundred times I know not, but my answer hits always been the same — that I would have nothing to do with you," she repHed hotly. "Oh, if you, only knew what I thought of you you would not persecute we like this." "T am not in love with your though:-?, bu. -'th your charming and delightful perst- ~r> I don't mind a bit how rude you. arc retorted Paul, still with that disquieting -m- of mastery. "But before I go on I a.n <ioing to give you an item of news, Mildred — -yes, I'm so sure of winning you that I may safely call you Mildred— an item of news that will make you pause and consider, as the parsons say. Mv half-brother, Norman, is in England." He had thought to take her by surprise Tvith the fact that he announced, and II was well that it was so, for he mistook the source of the startled cry with which she received it. The fact she knew a!- ! ready from John Benjafield, and the knowledge had caused lier hours of secret misgiving. Her present astonishment was due to the discovery that Paul shared that knowledge. Quick-witted in face of her lover's danger, she recovered her presence of mind on the instant, and set herself to confirm Paul's surmise that she was ignorant of Norman's return from, abroad. "You don't mean that!" she exclaimed, with perfectly simulated incredulity "I have not seen Mm, but I hear on goou authority that he was in London yesterday. That "being so, it is not beyond the bounds of probability that he was ait Monkswood the night before last," Paul replied, with a significance that there was no mistaking. The girl lost every vestage of colour, intuitively foreseeing the base use he w.u» about to make of his knowledge, but sho preserved her dignity and her self-com-mand. "Why should you desire -do gsve me tins information?" she asked quietly. Paul Blythe* quailed before the cold ensdain of her tone, but at the same time it stung him to join issue in the conflict he was so confident of winning. I "I tell you because lam going to make a oargain witli you, my lady," he said sneeringlv. "I don't think that I am far out in believing that you would be sorry to see my beloved half-brother tried, and afterwards hanged, for killing his father. ! But that is precisely what wall happen to him, unless you receive my overtures favourably." . "But I despise and loathe you! cried Mildred, her fair youm* face all aflame now in the intensity of her Tage. Paul laughed harshly. The anger of his victim was a sign of weakness, and to his mean nature the impotent resistance of a woman came as an added zest. " Your unflattering opinion of me is quite immaterial : indeed, it will be good sport to alter it," he made brutal answer. "You mean that you will inform the police of your half-brother's return to England and denounce him as the probable murderer of Sir Bevys, Blythe unless I consent to your proposals?" said Mildred. Her persecutor was taken aback by tne j business-like calm of her statement of his demand. "That's how it stands," he replied sullenly. . '„ "I will give you my answer in writing within an hour," Mildred eaid quietly. And without another word she averted her eyes from him as from some deadly thing, and so' left the room. But up in the solitude of her own bedchamber her brave self-control broke down, and for a fourth of the stipulated time she sat with her head buried in her hands, the prey "of dull despair. To yield to Paul Blythe's demand! would be equivalent, to condemning herself to death, for her consent would only be nominal. She would die by her own hand before she really surrendered herself to him. To openly defy him with a refusal would be to bring' trouble and disgrace upon her beloved, possibly an undeserved doom upon the scaffold. * Her Norman was as innocent a* an infant, she was assured; but by some strange prank of Fate he nrast have become liable to suspicion, or he would not be keeping out of the way. ' It is my life or his !" she sobbed, as the future iooni-xi a black and solid wall jliead, {Oio-.vingj no way out but by one or other of those two dread alternatives. For a moment the clouds seemed to lift as it occurred to her that she might run away, leaving no trace behind. But she soon saw that that would be no guarantee that Paul would not denounce Norman to the authorities. He would he as likely to avenge himself upon her absent as present — more so, in fact, for he would be enraged at being baulked of his bargain. And yet out of this wild desire for flight, as her brain grappled more clearly with the dilemma, tiliere grew an idea that was to bear fruit of a kind. Slowly it came to her, holding out no great promise of ultimate escape, but proffering a means for avoiding the loathsome touch of Paul for a while at least, and for sealing. his treacherous lips from proclaiming Norman's presence in London. Abandoning her attitude of despair, she sat down to ncr writing table and penned the following note, weighing each word carefully: —

My answer is that I consent to yoiar proposal, on condition that for the present you treat me quite formally. You will understand that if any premature disclosure of my engagement were made while your father is lying dead in the house a grave scandal would ensue which would affect us both equally and render my future position unendurable. — M. H. Having addressed the envelope, she put on her hat and jacket and went downstairs, intending to go to the morning rcom to ask her pupil, Katie Blythe, to deliver the note to Paul. But as she was crossing the hall, the sight of Caspar Sturge, gliding with that stealthy trend of his towards the library, caused her to change her mind. Beckoning to Sturge, she entrusted th« note to him instead, and passed out of the front door without perceiving that the man's polite bow as he took the missive concealed a curious smile. " Just as well not to have made use of Katie ; she would 1 have wanted to come out with me,'' she murmured, as she staitsd to walk at a rapid pace' towards the village, choosing a footpath across the park that avoided a view from the windows. When she oame to the green she slackened her steps and passed the Blythe Arms slowly, hoping that John Benjafield would see her and guess that she had some I communication for his private ear. But she had to saunter by three times before J ; she succeeded in attracting the old innkeeper's attention and in bringing him j to his door-step, whence he signed to her in dumb show to turn into a lane that left the bigh road a quarter of a mile beyond the confines of the village. i She had waited in the seclusion of thelane some while when John Benjafield joined her, scanning her face anxiously. "News of Mr Norman?" he whispered. " Paul knows he is in England, and hints that he was down here the night before last," Mildred replied. And she went on to describe the bargain which the new master of the Chase desired to make with her, and the terrible price she was asked to pay ior his silence as to Norman being in London. Benjafield heard her to the end, and then, after one shrewd glance at her face, he said : " I can see you're going to sacrifice ■ yourself, missy ; you're not goinfr to let j our boy be took?" " You must help me about that sacrifice, Mr Benjafield," Mildred replied, with a proud smile. "I am certainly not goir,^ to allow my Norman to be betrayed, but I want to escape the sacrifice, and I think that I have hit upon a way." And, bending close to him. she disclosed | the broad lines of the plan that had evolved itself from hex first frantic longing for escape — escape from Paul Blythe, and from the finger of suspicion which the coroner's none coo friendly handling had directed at her. The plan was to disappear, but in such a fashion as to leave it in doubt whether she was dead or alive. There was a convenient stream, swift and deep, almost broad enough to be called a river, a mile away. It would be easy to leave her hat or sunshade on the bank, thus suggesting that she had fallen or thrown herself in and been drowned. Since no body would be recovered it was quit© likely that her ruse would be suspected, especially by Paul Blythe, but he would not be absolutely sure that she had escaped hiiti by deatli, and he would therefore not throw away the trump card he held against her by disclosing Norman's return from abroad. "So far all is plain sailing, Mr Benjafield," she continued. "But where am I to hide myself for as long as it may be necessary for me to seem to be dead? That is where I thought you might advise." The innkeeper did not answer directly. His first feeling was an abundant joy that the course she proposed would b& accepted by the authorities amd the public as tantamount to a confession of guilt — as either suicide or flight to avoid the awful consequences of slaying Sir Bevys Blythe. So, should Paul reveal the secret that had mysteriously come into his keeping, would Norman's innocence be established. But John Benjafield, great as was his love for his foster-son, was not the man to j-ield to that temptation. One dance at the girl's sweet, eager face decided that she must not, unwarned, incur the risk of embarking in such a deception. He laid it before her in a few simple words, softening as best he could the hideous construction that might be put upon it. "I know all that, you dear old man, Mildred cut him short "It was what mostly inspired! the idea, I think — that it would draw Paul's sting so far as Norman is concerned." "Then." replied the innkeeper, I can tell you. the very place where you can stay as snug as a cricket under the hearth till this cloud has rolled by. And it's not so J very far off either." He paused, to look up the lane and down | the lane, before mentioning the secret refuge that he had in his mind. There was no one in sight between the high hedgerows, and he could not know that behind one of those leafy screens, close to where they stood, Caspar Sturge was crouching. j So John Benjafield imparted the name I and the locality of " the very place" in accents designed to carrx-Tiofc beyond the bend in the lane, but quite loud enough I to penetrate three feet of hazel twigs and J briar. i ' ' CHAPTER VIII.— "BLACK ART/ The night after his consultation with the fair oracle in her Bond street temple found the young man calling himself. Hector Dallas again occupying the corner table in the pillar ha.ll of the Hotel Ducal. He had hardly settled himself in his chair when Gloria Carrington threaded her crraceful way down the vast apartment and took the other place. He looked up at her apprehensively at first, but when she began to treat him as an ordinary acquaintance, making no reference to their transaction of the previous night, he fell in with her mood, and did his best to make himself agreeable. She in her turn paid him back in like coin.

and for Gloria Carrington to make herself agreeable was a very large order indeed. It meant that the person subjected to the process had to undergo the blandishments of a fascinating woman who knew how to make every trick of voice and gesture almost a caress. The lights and the music and the charm of his brilliant companion had their due effect on Mr Dallas. The splendidlyserved meal had" not progressed through many courses before he had thawed under the combination of influences and had lost much of the gloomy preoccupation that had been so noticeable. He did not, on this occasion, evince an interest in successive editions of the evening papers, but gave himself up to a youthful enjoyment of the moment. They parted that evening at the doors of the restaurant, Gloiia to get into a cab that had! been called for her, and Dallas to go up to his rooms in the hotel ; but both went their ways with a tacit understanding that they would meet at the corner table on the morrow. So it fell out, and also on the two following days, by the end of which time they were, on free and easy terms of intimacy. Friq^dship it could scarcely be called, or, if so, a one-sided one, because in their I intercourse Dallas was always silent as to his private affairs. On the other hand, one of the principal shafts in Gloria's quiver was the seemingly frank abandon with which she talked of herself, her aspirations, and her loneliness by reason of the queer trade she practised. But always, wlidle exciting her companion's pity by referring to her need to earn her living by an uncongenial and, as some thought, scare© reputable occupation, she was careful not to show any want of faith in her calling. On the contrary she often indirectly professed that faith by expressing her gratitude to Providence for what she called her " gift." "If I hadn't been a born sorceress I should have starved, I suppose, or have had to go to a workhouse," she would rem ark pathet ically . Dallas listened gravely and sympathetically, answering sometimes with such boyish warmth that Gloria's dark eyes would flash with a sudden gleam of something very like triumph. But the next moment the young man would spoil the effect of his sympathy by abruptly changing the subject to less intimate matters. It was as though he felt himself falling under the spell, and had no wish to succumb. Gloria on these occasions would show no resentment, but rather a wonderful patience, which to a sophisticated spectator might Save suggested a confidence of ultimate success born of some reserve power not quite ready to be exercised. On the fourth evening Gloria arrived rather earlier than usual at the hqtel, and instead of passing at onoe through the great swing doors into the restaurant, she crossed to the bureau at the end of the entrance-hall. As a regular diner, as well as a West End celebrity, the fashionable fortune-teller was well known to the clerk in charge, and seeing her approach he bandied her a telegram across the counter. "It only came about ten minutes ago, madame," he said politely. Gloria read the wire at a glance. It contained but the single word "Right," and was unsigned, but it caused a scarcely perceptible flush to tinge her fine complexion. "Thank you so much, Mr Hargreaves, though I oughtn't really to be grateful," she said sweetly. "Tliis means another new client, and I have more than I know how to attend to already." Sh& was moving away, but turned back to the counter, as though struck by an afterthought. "By the way, you know all about youT resident guests, and you are always the perfection of courtesy," she said to the nattered clerk. "I am sure that if you can you will reassure an unprotected woman who is a little doubtful about a gentleman who always comes to her table — a Mr Dallas. He professes to have made a fortune in gold or diamonds or something. He isi rather obtrusive, don't you know, which makes poor little me suspicious." The urbane Mr Hargreaves waved his hand in horrified protest. "You need have no apprehensions m that quarter, madame,' he exclaimed. "The gentleman you name is quite beyond reproach, with credentials that should satisfy a duchess." And, lowering his voice to a confidential whisper, he added: "In our interests we always take precautions to assure ourselves of the position of new patrons. We have a sort of secret service attached to the hotel for the purpose. Through a convenient bank official our agent has been able to verify the account Mr Dallas gave of himself to the very letter. His wealth is something fabulous — well over a million." "A thousand thanks!" Gloria purred gently, and rewarding her informant with one of her bewitching smiles she sailed away into the restaurant and took her accustomed seat. But when presently Dallas put in his appearance there was a perceptible change in her manner of welcoming him. In place of her usual informal nod and playful badinage, he received a chilling^ bow and a conventional "Good evening," followed by absolute silence. So marked was the alteration in her behaviour that Dallas, after regaiding her in grave surprise for some minutes, asked what he had done to offend her. For a moment the quivering lip and brimming eyes as she raised her face to him seemed" to be heralding a breakdown and a, flood of tears. But a waiter was handing her an entree dish at the time, and she made as though the pretext of helping herself served to stifle heT emotion. "Offended me? Ah, if you only knew!' she murmured, when she had profited by the delay. "It is nothing you have done, Mr Dallas, and yet it is on your account that I am, not offended, but very, verysad." Dallas was instantly moved with, a vague disauiet. '

"Why should you be sad on- my account?" he asked quickly. Gloria toyed nervously with her chant* pagne glass. "I .hai'dly like to tell you, but perhaps it will be kindest in the end," she re-, plied. "One of the properties of the cTystal globe — the large one which you consulted at my rooms four nights ago — is a sort of reflex action which even in the absence of the consultant, yields to a good medium.' faint indications of matters concerning the persons involved., Forgive me, Mr Dallas, but I am very much — very much interested in you, not professionally, but — but as- ai woman is interested in a man she likes. t This evening before coming here I asked 1 my crystal how things were going witbi you, and it told of trouble." "What sort of trouble?!' demanded' Dallas almost fiercely. "That I cannot say." Gloria replied.: "It was all blurred "and uncertain. Iti would be necessary for you to be present! to gain a clear view of what the crystal really means." "I will come over to yoair rooms, i£you will permit me, immediately aftec dinner," said Dallas shortly. And then,-' realising that he was taking foT granted* what he should have asked for as a; favour, he added : "1^ am presuming on' your kindness, I know, but you have been so nice to me that I am tempted to trespass on your private leisure." Gloria made no answer in words, buti there was a world of gentle meaning in her little nod of assent. It said plainly thtft < / a good deal more than half an hour of her>' "private leisure"' was- at his disposal if he wished. They finished dinner almost in silence,and then, so eager was Dallas to pry) into the secrets_of the crystal, they took a cab for the short distance to the Bono*-' street rooms. On this occasion Gloria walked without hesitation into the cori-« suiting room, nor did Dallas, following close at her heels, catch sight of another visitor. As before, Gloria took the crystal g'obe from its case, set it in the silver bowl", and joined hands with the young man; across the table. Her burning eyes seemed' to plumb the dazzling depths of the crys« tal, till with a startled cry she fixed her gaze on the face of Dallas. "There is death here — violent and 7ud> den death. Shall Igo on?" she sked irtf her natural voice. "Yes, for God's sake, and quickly,'" came the hoarse answer. "It is death by dTowning that I see," 5 , the beautiful sybil went on, falling into! her professional sing-song. "The victim is. she for whom you feaTed. in connection.' with the tragedy at Monkswood. The body is borne swiftly away, sinking' lower-,, and lower till it is tangled in 4 h» weeds^ " ! She stopped abruptly, for Dallas nadl dropped her hand and risen to his feet. "This is horrible!" he cried. "Does that, infernal thing never lie?" Gloria Carringfcon rose and faced him. "I have never known it waver by s( hair's breadth from the truth," she replied'J "I cannot bid you hope that it has played u& false to-night." The young man walked out of the room? like one in a dream, and co across the' meretricious lounge, with its fountain 'Aid' exotic flowers, to the head of the stair* case. There lie turned 1 and looked backf at Gloria, who was gazing pitifully after, him from the doorway. "I ask your pardon, but this has un* , nerved, me. I—lI — I will apologise for mv\ • rudeness to-morrow," he faltered, andl stumbling down the richly-carpeted stairs to the house door he unlatched it and let/ himself out into the street. Still dazedi and almost unconscious of his surroundings,he began to drift slowly along the pave-* ment in the direction of his hotel, but hef bad not taken half a dozen steps when ai band was laid upon his shoulder and ai voice whispered in his ear: "What have you to say about that affaw at Monkswood, my friend?" (To be continued.)