The Splendid Sacrifice

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 223, 9 December 1927, Page 5

The Splendid Sacrifice

By

J.B. Harris-Burland.

Author of; •* The Half-Closed Door,° '* The Black Moon,” " The Felgate Taint ” " The Poison League.” Ac., 4c

CHAPTER VII. (Continued) She made no reply, but she rose to her feet, and bending over him, kissed* his forehead. “I—l don’t know what is the matter with me,’* she said, “but I think I will go upstairs to bed.” She left the room hurriedly, and Arthur Britton stared at his newspaper with a puzzled frown. He knew very little about women, but he did know that they were subject to sudden waves of emotion that do not throw a man off his mental balance. No doubt, he thought, Mary was still suffering physically as well as mentally from the loss of her mother, for whom she had worked so long and so unselfishly. Yet it seemed to be Sir Richard Pynson—something connected with Sir Richard Pynson—that had changed her, in an instant, from quiet argument to furious anger and grief. “I think,” he said to himself, “that sh© ik simply jealous of the man.” That seemed to .him to be the foundation of her hatred for a highly esteemed and honourable gentleman. Mary resented the marriage of her sister, the taking away of the sister she loved. It was unreasonable, of course, since Mary herself was now a married woman. “There might be something else,” he thought. But nothing else occurred to him. One thing, at any rate, was certain. Mary had not been at all her usual self. She was tired and ill.

CHAPTER VIII. •I see.’* said Sir Richard grimly, when Mary had made it quite clear that her hands were no longer/ tied. “Well, I daresay, from your point of view you are right. Your mother is dead’, and I can’t hold you through vour love for your mother. And you’ve got a little income. But I wouldn’t make a fool of myself if I were you.” Mary turned over the pages of a book that was lying on the table in front of her. She had travelled down to Came Court to see her brother-in-law and the interview was taking place in the library. Joan was not even in the house. She had gone out to lunch with some friends twenty miles away, and it was not likely that she would return until four o’clock. “What do you mean exactly by that?” said Mary, after a pause. “Well I expect your conscience worries you now that you're married. I daresay at times you feel inclined to make a confession. That w °uJ d ruJ *J vour husband, because if you tell him, 1 might be tempted to let our friend, the blackmailer, come down upon s'ou. Then all the fat would be in the lire, mv dear Mary. Britton would simply have to give up his living and you—well. I wouldn't care to be in your Mary smiled. "My dear Dick, she .aid "I am not going to make a fool of myself. But I'm going to see Joan as often as.l like. And no doubt you’ll

ask me to stay here, and you'll let Joan come over to see me.” “I don’t like the idea at all.” "No? Well, you’ll get used to it. You musn’t get into your head that I’m a born thief. I was mad just for a few moments. I’m not likely to lose my head again. Joan and I are very fond of each other. You’re hurting her nearly as much as you’re hurting me.” Sir Richard lit a cigar and leant back in his chair. And then, after a long pause, he said: “Was Joan ever engaged to be married to anyone before she met me?” “Not that I know of.” “Was she in love with anyone?” “I daresay. Young girls like Joan fall in love pretty often.” “You’re evading my question,” said Sir Richard sharply. “Do you know of any definite love affair?” Alai*y laughed. “Oh come, come, Dick,” she said. “Isn’t that a question you’d better put to Joan herself? I’m afraid you don’t understand women although you are so old.” “Old? I’m not a bit old. Rubbish! Well, you’ve told me all I want to know. Joan has been in love?” “You'd better ask her.”

“I have asked her, and she has always said: ‘No—no —no —l never cared for any man until I met you, Dick.’ ” Again Mary laughed. “We all say that,” she replied. “I daresay you said the same thing to Joan, and I’m sure I said it to my husband. Don’t you worry about Joan, Dick. She’s your wife, and she's forgotten everything else.” “I wonder—if she has forgotten.” “Oh, don't be foolish, Dick. Look here, you’ve got to let me see Joan—as often as I like. We’re sisters and even our husbands can’t separate us. I don't see why we shouldn't all be friends. Try it—for a little while. People are talking about us, saying that you're a snob, and that you think Arthur and I are too poor for your society. I wouldn’t make people talk if I were you, Dick. One bit of gossip leads to another. Why can’t we all four live as friends and relations should live?” Sir Richard shook his head. “I am not going to argue the matter,” he said. “Of course. I’ve no hold over you now. You told me you were free, and—well, you are free. But I’m free as well. You must do what you like, Mary.” Mary pleaded with him, but it was only a waste of words. He was a hard man, and nothing she could say made any impression on him. She left the house with flushed cheeks and her blood still tingling at his insults. She refused the offer of the car to take her to the station. It was not until she was in the train that she felt ashamed of herself.

“I ought to have kept my temper,” she said to herself, “right up to the very' last.” But Sir Richard was that sort of person. lie tried his opponent's patience to the utmost limit. More than once, as he had told Mary exactly what he thought of her, she had actually’ been tempted to rise up and crush him with the truth—say to him:

“You obstinate fool! Joan was the thief.”

Alary shuddered as she thought how near she had been to that horrible tragedy*. “Joan will never live with that man,” she said to herself when she was in the train. “However much lie loves her, she can never live with him. She will need my help—one of these day’s.” She was tired with her long walk to the station, and she was hungry, for she had had no food since she had left Alirchester at half-past eleven. She had been so tired —so absolutely occupied with her thoughts—dier memories of the interview—that she had not noticed a man who had passed her on the way from Carne Court to the station. Yet it was this man who held Joan’s happiness in his hands.

Sir Richard Pynson looked up from his half-covered sheet of paper, when the door of the library opened, and Daniels came into the room. “Gentleman to see you, Sir Richard,” said the young footman. “He

says that he has an appointment. He j wouldn't give a name.” “That’s all right, Daniels. Show j him in here —but not for five minutes. | I am busy*. Let him wait in the hall, j I will ring.” The servant left the room, and Sir Richard put away his sheets of paper in a drawer. He closed it, halfopened another drawer, felt the butt of an automatic pistol, smiled, and rang the bell. The visitor, shown into the room by* Daniels, seemed to be quite at ease. He was a tall, soldierly* man of about thirty, with black hair and a small black mostache. He was extraordinarily good-looking. and smartly dressed. He carried a leather-lined j overcoat on bis arm. and tossed it on ! to the back of a chair, when the door was closed. Sir Richard said: “Good afternoon. Mr. Smith.” but he neither rose from I his seat, nor did he ask the visitor to j;

sit down. His face and manner would have quelled the spirit of most young men,, but this particular young man seemed rather to enjoy the situation. He seated himself in a chair, took out a cigarette from a case, lit it and said, “Well, Sir Richard?” “Well, Mr. Smith?” was the curt reply. The man laughed. “I’ve gone in for a little car,” he said. “It saves one a lot of trouble.” “But adds to your expenses, eh? I hope you’ve paid for it.’’ “Yes —the first instalment. I am hoping you will help me to pay the rest.” Sir Richard shook his head. “The game’s up, my dear fellow,” he said. “The goose that laid the golden eggs is dead. Not another five-pound note Mr. Smith—not another penny*.” The man laughed uneasily. “Oh, very* well,” he said. “You know what to expect.” “A little peace, I hope, ATr. Smith. You’ve been overpaid already. You see, you are • not in possession of a valuable secret. Thei'e must have

been so many people at that trial. I : couldn't very well support all of them.” “Pity* I bought that car,” muttered ! Air. Smith. “Yes. One should never be too certain of an income earned by—well, by peculiar talents. I’m afraid you must look elsewhere for your money.” The man rose to his feet. “Is this your last word on the matter?” he asked. “Not quite the last. I'd suggest that you go to Mrs. Britton—Aliss Alary* Eden that was—and perhaps she may have pity* on you. I’m sure your story* of the motor-car would touch her heart. She can’t bear to see people suffer. That’s all I have to say to i you, Air. Smith.” “A penniless woman.” sneered Mr. Smith. “No, thank you.” “She has about three thousand pounds of her own,” Sir Richard re- ]

plied. “And, after all, it is her affair and not mine.” He leant forward and touched one of the bell pushes on the desk. "You'll be sorry for this,” said the handsome young man. Sir Richard made no reply, and Mr. Smith began to put on his leatherlined coat. Daniels entered the “Show this gentleman to his car,” j said Sir Richard. “Good-bye, sir. i And a pleasant journey to you.” The man left the room, and the door •

closed behind him. Sir Richard shut the half-open drawer in his desk. “I shall not see that gentleman again,” he thought. And then he wondered if Mr. Smith would tackle , Mary, and what the result of the encounter would be. “He’ll bleed her of every penny she has in the world.” he said to himself. And the idea did not displease him. « A penniless Mary would be easier to deal with. She would come back *o him and ask him to save her Horn j

this handsome brute. And. later on. lie would pay her back the m »ney« “And that.” he said aloud, “will even things up a bit.” (To be continued.)