THE SPLENDID SACIFICE

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 234, 22 December 1927, Page 5

THE SPLENDID SACIFICE

J.B.Harris-Burland

CHAPTER XX. (Continued). Mary drank a glass of the wine, but she looked anxiously at Joan. This change of mood seemed too sudden—too inexplicable to betoken the end of Joan’s queer, gloomy ways. It was a passing phase of a mind that was not too well balanced. It was a long and carefully chosen dinner, served in the beautiful circular dining-room with the domed roof that Angelica Kauffman had painted. Above them there were gods and goddesses, and clouds, and much smooth flow of drapery. The walls were of pale green decorated with the typical Adam ornament in white raised plaster-work. The colouring of the room was subdued and restful, for even the painted ceiling was dim and soft, like some faded water-colour. In such a scene Joan’s vivid orange dress blazed out like a flaming, tropical flower. When the servants had left the room Joan, who had still retained her full glass of champagne, raised it and held it up against the light of one of the candles on the table. “To Arthur’s freedom and happiness,” she said. “To your own happiness, Mary—to the happiness of your child.” Mary shivered. It seemed to her that there was almost a tone of mockery in her sister’s voice. Certainly Joan was behaving very strangely. “Drink, Mary—to your husband’s freedom, for I am going to give him his freedom.” “Jackie, dear —you must not talk like this —you are excited. Oh, Jackie, you oughtn’t to have had so much wine.” Joan raised the glass to her lips, drank half the contents, and then flung the glass away from her. It shivered into a hundred pieces against the white and green marble mantelpiece. ‘•No one shall ever drink from that glass again,” she said, rising to her feet. “Shall we go into the library, Mary? I can’t talk of horrible things in this beautiful room. I hate the library, it is the place to talk of murder and theft and cruelty.” She swept toward the door before M&ry could utter a word. Mary followed her. and they entered the library. Joan closed the door behind her and seated herself at her husband's desk. ...

“When the cat’s away,” she said with a laugh, “the mice will play.” “Jackie, dear —you —you frighten me. Don’t go on like this. \ou will make yourself ill.” Joan laughed and pointed at the safe. “There it is,” she said. “I wonder if the word 'Lover’ still opens it? •Death’ should have been the word, Mary. That has five letters. Don’t look at me like that, Mary, I can give Arthur freedom. Dick is the murderer —Dick, my husband!” “Jackie —this is You don t know what you’re saying.” •T do. Mary. Dick was in Mirchester that night. He drove the car over himself —said that he was going to Winton for the night. . But he went to Mirchester. He was seen in Mirchester. I have been employing a detective —that man who has been to see me so often —the artist who is going to lay out a new rock garden in the autumn. Do you imagine that Ive been content to stay here and do nothing? I had to stay here, Mary, but I have done a good deal. I have proved Arthur's innocence.” For a few moments Mary was too horrified to speak. This picture of a wife onlv too eager to destroy her husband, “was so inhuman, so unnatural that it could only have originated in the brain of a maniac. Still Afarv realised that she had to be calm, if «he was to avert another tragedy. -Even if Dick was in Mirchester that night." She said after a long pause, “that is no proof that Dick killed’Robert Smith.” Joan smiled cunningly, "hven that fact might save Arthur,” she replied, •it would prove that there was someone else In Mirchester who had a far stronger motive for killing Robert Smith someone who was in Mirches-

Author of: •• The Half-Closed Door." “ The Black Moon," •* The Felgafe Taint.’ " The Poison League." Ac.. Ac

ter, while he was supposed to be in Winton.” “But Hick knew nothing then—about the theft or—or you, Jackie?" “Hid he not? Oh, you are wrong there. I offered the inspector the chance of taking my finger-prints, but Hick wouldn’t hear of it. I think he was afarid. Later on, when we were alone he tried to get them—just for fun, as he said. I jested with him, and told him I didn’t want to get my hands dirty. He persisted, and I had to refuse three times. What would a clever man make of that, Mary? Wouldn’t his suspicions be aroused? Wouldn’t he say to himself, ‘My wife has taken the jewels. Who is her accomplice? She can’t wear the jewels.

She is going to sell them. Why is she going to sell them? In order to get money for her lover—so that she can run away from me. Who is the lover? Who has been in the house — what man that I know very little about? Robert Smith!’ That is how

a clever man would argue, Mary. Put it all together and place it before a jury—and they would acquit Arthur.” “And they would not find Hick guilty?” “Of course not. But he is guilty. I know that—l know ” Somewhere in the library a large book dropped from one of the shelves and fell to the floor with a crash. Joan started to her feet and gave a little cry of terror. But in an instant Joan was apparently calm and cold again. “My nerves are all to pieces,” she said. “You can’t wonder at that, can you?” There was no room for wonder left, in Mary’s mind. “Jackie, dear,” she said. “I’m afraid I shall have to leave here. The doctor says I am to have rest and quiet, and I thought I had found it. It has been very peaceful here the last three weeks.”

Joan made no reply. She saw the book on the floor, picked it up and replaced it in the gap in the shelves. Her hands were trembling. The incident, trifling as it might have been to most people, had frightened Joan. She believed in ghosts, and it seemed to her that some ghostly hand Jiad taken the volume from the shelf and thrown it to the floor—merely to interrupt her arguments and frighten her. The dead Sir James, the poor wretch that her lover had impersonated in that silly escapade, was still

alive, and no doubt he would fight for his descendant. Her mind went back to that evening when she had met her lover by the lake—the evening when she had dropped her handkerchief. From that very moment her husband’s suspicions must have been aroused, and he must have remembered it when she had refused to allow him to take her finger-prints. They had mocked at the* ghost that night, when her lover had told her that he intended to sink the boat in the deepest part of the lake and swim ashore. They had mocked at the ghost: but now—her lover was dead, and her husband was a murderer, and she. his wife, was going to hand her husband over to the law. The ghost had had his revenge. Even the fallen book had given its message to her. It had been entitled, “The Psychology of Crime'’ —just the sort of book that her husband would have bought for the library. “Jackie, dear/’ said Mary, laying her hand on her sister's arm. "Let us go into the drawing-room. It’s bad for you to be here —in this library. I've heard rooms are like that —some of them have an evil influence —l'm sure, Jackie, that this room—you know there is a curse on all these old monasteries.” “Yes, and this was the chapel,” cried

Joan, “and here I swear before God that the murderer shall not go free, whether it be my husband or yours. Mary!” She paused and clasped her hands together, holding them tightly to her breast, and looking upward at the great east window that had once. so her husband had told her, stood above the altar. "I swear it,” she cried again—"before. God!” She suddenly collapsed, and fell to the floor, with a shriek of horror. As Mary caught hold of her the door opened, and Sir Richard entered the

room. He was still wearing the cap and fur coat in which he had motored .down from London. "What's all this?” he said sharply. “Is that Joan? In that dress? What’s happened?” "She has fainted," Mary replied. “She is not very strong as yet.” Sir Richard stooped and nicked up his wife, in his arms, and carried her j up to her bedroom. ; "This is rotten for you, Mary.” he said. "You want rest and quiet. Y'ou'il never find it here. I shall take Joan up to town with me to-morrow morning.” The big car swiftly climbed the

northern spur of the Stonewold Hills. Sir Richard himself was driving, and Joan, his wife, sat beside him on the front seat. Behind them there were two trunks and a dressing-case. There was no one else in the car. Joan, much to Mary’s surprise, had raised no objection to being taken up to London. Two days bad elapsed since the scene in the library, and Joan had recovered her strengtn. .All the fire of that eevning had died away. She was dull and listless and whilefaced, as though life had nothing further to give her. She had not referred to the conversation in the libraxy, and when Mary had begged her

to keep Dick out of the matter, bringing forward the argument that in any case Arthur would be acquitted, Joan had merely replied, Tm too ill to talk about that. Mary, dear. I expect I had drunk too much wine the other night. I must think over the situation —quite calmly.” The sun shone brightly as the car travelled mile after mile on its way to London. Husband and wife sat in silence by each other’s side. Thev were sixty miles on their way, and i they had not spoken one word to each j other. 4XO be Continued*.