THE SPLENDID SACRIFICE

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 231, 19 December 1927, Page 5

THE SPLENDID SACRIFICE

V

J.BJiarrts-BarJand.

CHAPTER XV. (Continued) ‘Do you think I can’t see through it all?” he said. “You’re not a guilty woman—any fool could see that. You went to prison, so that Joan could marry Sir Richard. It was Joan who stole the jewel.” "You’re mad,” she cried. “You’re ■luite mad,” and she freed herself from his embrace. “Joan! What are you talking about? Joan, with her twenty thousand a year! You think Joan would want to steal a jewel worth a lew hundred pounds?” i( A dark shadow came into his eyes. 'At any rate I don’t believe you took it,” he muttered. “Then why should I have confessed? Arthur—you must be sensible. That's what you told me just now. We must both be calm and sensible.” 4 “Joan is the thief.” he said quietly. ‘But that only touches us two, Mary. 1 cannot prove that Joan is the thief. And if the story of your confession <tnd imprisonment comes out, we shall have to suffer just the same. Do you deny that Joan is the thief?” “How can you be so absurd, Arthur? Do you really think ” "Yes, r do think—and I know. And mok here, Mary, you may just as well 1611 me the truth—all the truth. It won’t be betraying Joan, because I know you are not capable of being a i-uef. And besides, you brave, foolish •nary, if you had been the thief you’d ne « er confessed.” Everything had happened just as -lary had feared. The giving away of ’■er own secret had, so far as her bushand was concerned, been simply the JJtrayai oC Joan. Hut she was glad hat sho herself had kept silence. After ‘J*was her husband who had forced „ toith out of this Mr. Smith. , * a ft likely I should betray Joan?” queried, lighting up to the very

les, dear, sine© you know that noling can be proved against her. i *!?*’ w ** en all this scandal comes out, shall not drag Joan into it. You dim 8 c k° Ben your path, and a splendid, rugged path it has been, and hi be yet. We are going to travel

w rftwj Author of. “ The Half-Closed Door,'* '* The Black Moon,” " The Fclflate Taint.’* ** The Poiion League. '* Ac.. &c

it together, you and I, Mary. But there must be complete trust and confidence —each in the other. Mary —my dearest —oh, why didn’t you tell me long ago?” He caught her in his arms and held her closely to him. “Yes, yes,” she sobbed. “I did it for Joan —for poor little Joan. She would have lost everything—it would have ruined her life.” * * • It was a little while before they could talk calmly again. Then, after they had decided that it would be useless to pay Mr. Smith any money, and that it would be far better to “face the music,” and make the best they could of a bad job,” there was a loud knocking on the hall door. “I’ll see who it is,” cried Mary. “You stay here, Arthur—you can’t see anyone with your face like that. I won’t let anyone see you. I’ll tell them you’re out —even if someone who is dying wants you.” “Nonsense, of course I shall go. But it may be nothing of the sort.” Mary unlocked the door, and, to her surprise, found Joan in the hall. The girl was in her dressing gown. “I came down to get my cigarettes,” 1 said Joan. “What is that knocking? It frightened me.” Mary opened the door, and found hex-self face to face with an inspector of police. CHAPTER XVI. “Are you Mrs. Britton, ma’m?” said the man. . . “Yes —of course—what is it?” “Do you know a Mr. Smith who lives at No. 29, River Row?” “Yes —slightly.” The inspector glanced at Joan, who was standing close behind her sister. -I’d like to speak to you for a minute, ma’m,” he said, and then, after a pause, he added, “alone. “Certainly—please come in. Joan, dear, you’d better get back to bed.” She opened the door of the parlour. “Come in here,” she said to the inspector. “Joan, you’ll catch cold. Why, your feet are bare.” She closed the door in Joans face, and walked to the far side of the room. The fire was out. but there was a lighted candle on the table. Joan must have lit it when she was looking foilier cigarette case. “I’m sorry to tell you, ma m, said the inspector in a low voice, “that Mr. Smith is dead.” “Dead?” echoed Mary, and then, after wondering what she ought to say, she added, “Oh, how dreadful.” -We know nothing about the gentleman,” the inspector continued, “and none of his neighbours seem to know anything. But we found a letter addressed to you. We opened It, of course —in fact, it had not been sealed up So we thought we’d come to you to ’ see if you could help us in any

“Help you?” said Mary. She had herself well under control now. She knew that she would need all the strength of mind and body that she possessed. , "Yes ma’m,” the inspector continued. “You see this is a very serious affair. Mi- Smith has been murdered. * “Murdered?” cried Mary in horror. “Yes ma’m. He has been knocked about terribly, and he was choked to

d eart.li —s fcr an gled, ma’m —I—l don’t like to tell you all this, but I’m afraid it is my duty to do so. Can you give us any information about this Mr. Smith?”

Mary knew that she must be calm—not so calm as to seem indifferent to the horrible death of a man who was a mere acquaintance, but calm enough to conceal her own terrible thoughts—the visit of her husband to Mr. Smith —the awful situation in which they had both been plunged by this tragedy. And she knew moreover that she could not take a definite line of secrecy—a line that would involve the telling of deliberate lies. She could do or say nothing definite until she had seen her husband. And at present she could not see her husband —could not let this inspector see him. She must be vague not at all definite in her replies. Then there was the letter.

“I was trying to think what I knew about him,” she said after a pause.

“Very little, I’m afraid. I made his acquaintance quite by chance —only a short time ago. He was rowing on the river, and he got into trouble just off our landing-stage. He came up through our garden. He told me his name was Smith, and he has called here once or twice since then. I really don’t know anything about him, except his name and address. You say you have a letter for me.”

Inspector Farrel handed her an open envelope. She drew out the sheet of paper with steady fingers. She realised now that she ought not to have answered any questions until she had read this letter, the contents of which might so easily have proved her to be a liar. But, as it happened, her straightforward behaviour was all in her favour. There was nothing of importance in the letter—just a few lines to say that the writer was going to Birmingham for a few weeks, and that he hoped to be allowed to call on her on his return. It was signed Robert Smith. She handed it back to the inspector. She had distinctly scored a point in the game. If she had demanded the letter before she answered any questions, if she had shown any eagerness or nervousness about it, she would have aroused suspicion. As it was, she was standing on perfectly firm ground.

“Do you think anyone else could give us information?” said Farrell. “I don’t know. Of course, Mr. Smith may have known several people here, but he never spoke of them, and, as I have told you, I only saw him twice. I liked him and asked him to call.” “Do you think that Mr. Britton ” “My husband knows nothing about him,” Mary interrupted. “I mean, no more than 1 do.” “He took the cottage for six months,” Mr. Farrell continued, “and paid the rent in advance. The landlord knows nothing about him. I don’t suppose there is any mystery about his identity. We haven’t had time to make inquiries yet. But he has left no papers —only this letter for you. So I came round here. I’m sorry to have troubled you, m’am, and I’m afraid I’ve given you a shock. I had a great deal to see to to-night.”

The inspector left the house, and for a few minutes Mary seemed too stunned to move. She clasped her hands together and stared down at the ashes in the grate. Then she roused herself to action.

“Arthur must leave here at once,” she said to herself, and she made her way to the study. The door was locked, but when she knocked, Britton opened it at once. It was just as though he had been standing there, with his fingers on the key. “It’s a bad job,” said Britton, when Mary had told her story. “But we must keep our heads. At any rate, our secret is safe for a little while, unless the murderer got it out of Smith.” Mary looked up at his calm, strong face. Never for a moment had she believed him capable of this crime—even in a storm of madness. But it gave her strength to hear him speak so quietly. “I must have left there about five minutes past nine,” he continued. “So the murder must have taken place after that time. I don't think my evidence

would bo of any use to the police. The doctors will know how long the man has been dead. I am not thinking of myself, Mary, when X hesitate about placing my information at the disposal of the police. X am thiking of my calling. I do not want to bring shame upon the church. The light was nothing—you’ve heard of ‘lighting parsons,' haven’t you? But you see—well there will be a strong suspicion that I killed the man. The Church is not very popular just now, and there are thousands of people who will be only too glad to point the finger of scorn at it. No doubt my innocence would be proved. But the harm would be done. Every paper in the land would cry out the sensation: ‘A Rector Arrested for Murder!’ I can see it in large type. No, it would be ‘Alleged Murder.’ The papers don’t want an action brought against them.” lie paused, and Mary watched the agony in his face. The world would jeer at his reason for concealing the truth—would say that, like other crim-

inals, he bad only tried to save his own skin. But she, his wife, knew that he was speaking the truth. That a parson’s wife should be a thief was bad enough, but it left no stain on the priesthood. Any accusation against the priest himself, backed up, as it would be, by strong evidence, would work incalculable harm. “You are right, Arthur, dear,” she said, after a pause. “Are you sure?” he asked. “I am not so sure myself. I must think it over to-night. I must pray. God will help me—show me the right path.” "This is the right path.” “Ah, you are my wife——my dear wife. You are afraid—” "No Arthur, no. What is there to fear? You did not kill this man.” "You did not steal,” he answered, grimly, "and yet you were afraid

Mary, I am not even sure that I can servo my Church by keeping silence. For if the truth were ever known —” “It never will be known,” she said, and she flung her arms round his neck and pleaded with him.

“They may ask me questions,” he said, “and I shall, of course, not tell a lie. They may ask you questions, Mary, and you will also speak the truth. I think that, perhaps, on the whole, I had better go to the police, and make a clean breast of everything.” “No, no, Arthur —for pity’s sake—you don’t realise what it will mean. They will arrest you—put you in prison—Arthur whatever happened afterwards —you could never get over that.”

She clung tightly to him, and he held her in his arms.

“I should tell them everything,” he said, “why I went to this house—why I thrashed him.” “You are made,” she cried, looking up into his face. “There would be the

motive —the silencing of this man—for ever—to escape the disgrace. Arthur, don’t think that—because you’re a clergyman—people will believe you incapable of this crime. One man is the same as another when he has lost control of himself.” “I must think it over,” he muttered. “I have the whole night to think it over. Mary, dear, leave me. I must be alone.” He took her face between his two hands and looked earnestly into her eyes. For a few moments there was silence. Then Mary said, “Arthur, dear —I am going to have a child.” lie bent his head and kissed her on the lips. “It must be born of honourable parents,” he said gently. Then he suddenly caught her in his arms and kissed her passionately. “You dear, splendid

Marjfc” he cried. “Nothing matters but this.”

But, a few minutes later, as Mary went softly up the stairs to her bedroom, she knew that so much else mattered. It seemed as though they were all in the grip of a cruel machine that ground human lives into dust unceasingly. CHAPTER XVII. Slowly and on tiptoe Joan crept down the stairs of the cottage. She carried no light in her hand, but felt her way by touching banisters and wall. It was after midnight, but she was dressed for going out. She had put on her hat and her sable coat. Her breath came and went quickly, like the breath of some woman who is in danger or engaged on some desperate enterprise. The fur coat seemed to stifle her, to weigh her down so that she could only move very slowly. The stairs never creaked under her light weight, and when she reached the hall she stood motionless. There was a line of light under the study door. Arthur Britton was still there. Mary had gone up to bed, but Arthur Britton was still downstairs—Arthur Britton, the murderer —the slayer of the man she loved. She stood there, and thought of the scraps of conversation she had overheard—listening like a spy at the keyhole—of the locked door, the policeman —of that second conversation. Her man had been killed—the man she loved—choked to death by Arthur Britton’s powerful hands. She did not know everything, but she knew that. And Arthur Britton was in that room, on his knees, no doubt, praying to his God. But his God should not save him. Joan crept softly to the hall door—in the darkness. If there had been any light it would have shown her white face—a terrible face for one so young—the face of a woman whose man had been slain. The lips that had kissed her were white and cold. They would never kiss a woman’s lips again. Something seemed to have snapped in her brain—something that ought to have kept her mind clear and working smoothly. She saw nothing but the

object she had in view—vengeance for the death of the man she loved—on the very eve of her freedom. Another day—another twenty-four hours —and she would have been in his arms. Another week, and they would have been far, far away from England. And now he was lying dead. And she could not even look upon his face. There would be no morrow of victory—no wonderful life of love stretching out before her through all the years to come. Her man was dead, and Arthur Britton had killed him.

She crept softly to the hall door and felt the bolts and the lock with her slim little fingers. The door was neither bolted nor locked. She opened it gently—very gently, and closed it behind her. It was pouring with rain, but she did not know whether it were wet or fine. She only knew that it was dark and she was glad of the darkness. “They shall see him now,” she said to herself. She wanted no more than that. Not a word would she breathe of the scraps of conversation she had overheard. She only wanted the police to see Arthur Britton with his battered face. Then she washed her hands of the whole matter. If he were innocent, let him prove his innocence. If he chose to confess, let him confess. She could safely leave it at that. Her name should not be mentioned—she would stipulate for that. All she asked was that the police should see Arthur Britton, and he could tell what story he chose.

She crept out into the darkness, but before she had gone twenty yards, the light of a lantern flashed in her face. *'-A.h, Lady Pynson?’’ said a voice she did not recognise. “Is anyone ill? Are you going for a doctor? I’m Inspector Farrell.”

An inspector of police? Yes, you’re the person I want.”

Joan had been back in bed for half an hour before Mr. Farrell came knocking at the door of the house. She lay awake and listened to the sound echoing through the house, and her heart was filled with unholy joy. Her heart and brain were seared with grief and the blood that ran in her veins was like poison, driving her to madness.

Her love for her sister, such as it had been, was dead. Arthur*Britton was the criminal, but the two stood together in her eyes, equal in guilt. Her lover had been killed by the man’s hands, but it was the woman who was protecting him. Mary should have no mercy shown to her. The stupendou i claim of vengeance had blotted opt all gratitude, all pity. The man—her man —was dead —on the very eve of victory.

Mary, still awake, heard the knocking on the door, and hurried downstairs. She was not surprised to see Mr. Farrell. But directly he spoke, she knew that something of the truth must have leaked out.

“I’d like to see Mr. Britton, ma’am, he said. His manner had entirely changed. There was a sharp note in his voice—a note of command. “He is so tired,” pleaded Mary. “He has had such a long day. Can’t I answer your questions?”

“I particularly want to see Mr. Bri ton, ma’am. I require his help in th matter.”

“He is asleep.” “No, ma’am. I can see a light under that door. I must please ask you not to make a scene. Kindly stand out o! my way, ma’am.”

Mary stood aside. She was quite aware that she had already roused suspicion by her conduct. “He may be :n the study,” she replied. “I have just come from upstairs. I thought he had gone to bed long ago.” She knew now that the fight was over. The Inspector would ask questions and her husband would answer them. The only chance of escape had been that her husband might be left out of the matter altogether, that he would be able to leave Mirchester for a little while until the bruises and wounds on his face had healed. She went herself to the study door and opened it. Arthur Britton was standing by the open window and looking out at the rain-spangled darkness. “Inspector Farrell wants to see you Arthur.” she said, and could say no more, for the Inspector was close upon, her heels. (To be Continued?