“THE WAY OUT”

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 498, 30 October 1928, Page 5

“THE WAY OUT”

Or “HEMING’S PROBLEM.”

By

H. Maxwell.

CHAPTER VII. —(Continued) Site gave him two names, Reginald Carstairs and George Braid. George Braid was the name in which Roger Temple had been convicted. She said she wished to ask Reginald Carstairs certain questions about George Braid. He made a note of the facts, and then went bustlingly off to the telephone, very pleased and happy. Lady Elizabeth followed him with a tender, wistful, smiling glance. She loved to humour his little foibles, but the eagerness with which he clung to his role as a wielder of influence was to her infinitely more pathetic than diverting. “Aren't you going to tell him mother?’* said Cicely when he had left them. “No, I don’t want to trouble him with our troubles.” “But you’ll tell him if it’s all right?” “Certainly it would not be right or fair not to tell him.” “Then he’ll know to-morrow,” said Cicely confidently. “I hope he mav. I hope it with all my heart. You Know that, dear?”

“I know, mother.” The slight estrangement which had existed for a day between mother and daughter had wholly vanished; they were very close together now, and Lady Elizabeth would have snatched at any decent excuse for avoiding her self-imposed task. The Earl was rather a. long while absent, and they beguiled the time of waiting with intimate talk of this and that; the Solicitor-Generalship was the most engrossing topic—Cicely was immensely elated and proud of her father —hut there was also talk of Roger, quiet, appreciative talk on her mother’s part, and Cicely was very happy with her. The Earl came in, apparently a little ruffled in temper, but in reality brimming over with good humour, for the Governor of the prison had been all that could be desired in the way of courteous deference to his wishes. The ruffled temper was merely due to the aberrations and imperfections of the Telephone Service. “My dear, he can’t oblige us; he was most good about it. He was prepared to contravene the* regulations and allow you a private interview with Carstairs solely to oblige me, but he is powerless. Carstairs was discharged from Dartmoor many months ago* very provoking for you, but it can’t be helped. I wish you could have heard the very obliging terms in which the Governor expressed his regret It was most gratifying. 111 send him a brace of pheasants tomorrow, if you'll remind me, a graceful attention which he has well deserved. Most obliging. Pray, don t let me forget.” Mother and daughter exchanged a

little rueful glance of dismay. They had had their journey in vain. And yet one of them was unspeakably relieved. Lady Elizabeth had done her best, and she could surrender now with a good conscience. The Earl was prosing on about the Telephone Service, when she whispered to Cicely: “Darling, I’m not standing out any longer; you have my consent to marry Roger,” and Cicely responded with a quick kiss and pressure of the hand. There were tears in both their eyes. Then they became aware of the Earl, who was talking in a vein of jocose banter: “I must say, Elizabeth, you have a very queer circle of friends. As the wife of the Solicitor-General you’ll have to be much more careful of the company you keep. . I find that Reginald Carstairs is a shocking person, a medical practitioner struck off the roll by the General Medical Council, and given three years’ penal servitude for robbing his partner. George Braid seems to be even worse, a slayer of life, he murdered his sweetheart, poisond her, I think. Extraordinary people to know. I’m astonished at you. Where and how on earth did you meet them?” He chuckled merrily; this poking of a little innocent fun at his dear daughter was an immense joke. Cicely began impulsively: “Wait till you hear, Gran. George Braid—” “Cicely, please let me tell it.”

Lady Elizabeth was more than ready to explain, but was afraid of doing it too abruptly. Cicely gave her instant obedience. “All right, mother, you tell it.” But the story did not prove easy to tell when it came to the point. “Of Reginald Carstairs I know nothing, father, and I’ve no doubt he’s as horrible as you describe, but I do know George Braid, and I do know that he did not commit the crime for which he suffered. He’s an old friend of Edward’s ” “Worse and worse, Elizabeth. If Edward makes a friend of murderers His thin, austere face was alight with sly enjoyment. “Please be serious, father. George Braid is not his real name.” “An alias!” he laughed gaily. “Upon my word, Edward keeps very shady company.” “His name is Roger Temple.” He stiffened instantly at the name, Radium Floor Polish—an exceptionally large tin for an exceptionally small price—and an exceptional SHINE. 8

and the glint of merriment faded out of his eyes. „ She finished the story of Roger and Mary Barstow without further interruption.

“Roger Temple,’ he said then, “I had a private secretary of that name at the Admiralty, it might be the same; he was in trouble there, too.” “It couldn’t possibly be the same,” said Cicely, instantly up ip. arms. “What was the trouble?” asked Lady Elizabeth starkly. The Earl had quite recovered his normal composure. “It is rather a sad story, but I think you ought to know it in case he is identical with Edward’s friends,” he said, and paused to search his memory. He was just an old man being prosily reminiscent, that was the impression he made. “Ah, yes, it all comes back to me, my dear. My Roger Temple was a slim, wiry young fellow of medium height, with a clear white complexion, very dark hair, and lustrous brown eyes; his age would he now three or four and thirty. He was addicted to gambling, and that was his downfall. At least It was his gambling propensities that compelled bis resignation. He was asked to resign, and he did. I was sorry for him, but there was no alternative. A capital worker and a fine public servant in the making; then the gambling vice got the upper hand and it was all over with him. “Mother, I don’t believe—” “Hush, dear, wait. Father, you must tell us more of this.” The Earl’s description tallied too accurately to leave any loop-hole for doubt. His former private secretary Was beyond question their own Roger Temple. “My dear,” he said, “you’re so impatient. However —” Then he went on, and they hung with strained and breathless attention on his words.

“The position was this. Young Temple’s gaming propensities got him into a very bad set, and one day, or rather night, he lost more than he could pay, I forget how much, but relatively a very large sum. He came to me about it, which was the honest thing to do, I will say that for him. Could I lend him the money? I couldn’t. I told him the only course open to him was to resign. He was in a dreadful state of distress, faced with the horror of being posted at the clubs as a defaulter, and socially ruined, but he took my advice. He resigned, and I thought I had heard the last of him, but I hadn’t.” He paused again, refreshing his memory. Then he resumed: “Shortly after his resignation I had occasion to call for certain very confidential plans, the plans of the Westmouth Dockyard, and they could not be found. I communicated with Temple, in whose custody they had been, asking for an explanation. His explanation was most extraordinary. He asserted that he knew nothing about the plans; that they were safe at the Admiralty when he left; but he

admitted that he had been offered a huge bribe by a secret-service agent of a foreign power to betray them. His story was that he had repected the offer -with scorn and indignation, and he expected me to believe him.” “And why shouldn’t you have believed him?’ said Cicely. “My dear, why this heat?” he retorted. Then he continued; “The facts were all against him, I couldn’t believe him. He had not been posted at the clubs as a defaulter. He had paid his big gambling debt, and saved his honour. But where did the money come from? He had some cock-and-bull story to the effect that an unknown friend had paid his debt. Could I accept that? I ordered a departmental inquiry, and the committee of investigation were unanimously of the opinion that he had stolen the plans and sold them. I advised a criminal prosecution, but I was over-ruled, the Government being very keen to avoid a public scandal; moreover, the plans being obsolete, no great harm had been done. That is the history of my Roger Temple,” he concluded, “and if he’s identical with Edward’s friend I suggest Edward would be wise to drop his acquaintance forthwith.” Cicely was the first to break the painful silence that ensued.

“Mother, it is he,” she said. She looked like a beautiful spring flower suddenly wilted by an ice-cold blast.

“My darling child, we can’t be sure —don’t grieve—wait.” Lady Elizabeth gathered the girl in her arms. “Mother, I can’t forgive this.” “You forgave the other, Cicely, why not this?” "Ah, no,” she replied wanly, “there was nothing to forgive there, he was not guilty. But this —a traitor to his country—-to have sold confidential secrets for money—oh, no, mother, who could forgive it? Treachery— a traitor—a base betrayal—it’s too horrible.” Then she turned to the Earl with a little bitter, wry smile. “I was engaged to be married to your Roger Temple, Gran.” “My God!” he cried, and trying to rise from his chair fell back into it. Then he tried again and succeeded in struggling to his feet. The spare, ascetic old figure reeled and rocked, fighting with all his willpower against the calamity that came swooping down upon him. But It was not to be; he seemed to grow small and shrink and dwindle before their eyes, and Lady Elizabeth and Cicely were just in time to catch him in their arms as he tottered and pitched headlong. “No, no.” said the doctor an hour later, “he won’t die yet. A stroke of paralysis; the first stroke is rarely fatal. It is the right side, and it’s only partial. You’ll find his features will resume their ordinary appearance gradually in a day or two. His physique and his habits are all in his

favour. Keep him in bed and keep him comfortable; there is nothing to be done but take care of him.” CHAPTER VIII. —ROGER’S RESOLVE. Roger’s temptation to suppress the fact of his discovery in the wood and allow the body to be found by somebody else was enormous, but fortunately he kept a firm grip of himself and overcame it. Yet he had dallied with it; and his furtive peering here and there after his recognition of the dead man shows how nearly he had yielded. As it was, he took the more difficult, courageous and straightforward course, and immediately on his return to the house went to the library and told Heming. “Conway, I have something to say to you to which you must please pay very particular attention.” Heming looked up with a gesture of

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annoyance and irritation; he was actually in the middle of his letter of grateful acknowledgment to the Prime Minister. “Won’t it do some other time? Really, I’m frightfully busy—you must h*a,ve a little consideration.” “Have I not treated you with more than a little consideration?” The sternness and authority of the query were instant in their effect. “I beg your pardon, Roger.” “Listen, please,” said Roger in an even voice, “I have to report to you the finding of the body of a murdered man. I found it in the wood less than half an hour ago. I have come straight from the spot to this room. I remained beside the body io or 12 minutes. I am able to identify it as that of the man who committed the murderous assault upon me in Cicely’s company, and I now recognise him as Raymond Compton, a member of a gaming club I used to frequent years ago. Are you listening?” Heming nodded, he couldn’t speak. He was thinking of his election, of the ghastly trouble this would involve, the horribly difficult questions that might arise. “On the body I found these papers, which I took possession of and now hand to you; they are important public documents. The larger one’ —he placed the papers on the table—“is a plan of the naval docks at Westmouth, the smaller a letter written on the Admiralty stationery offering to sell the plan to Compton for £50,000. I was compelled to resign my appointment in the year 1905 on suspicion of having stolen this very plan. Are you following me?” “Good God! Roger,” came the gasping response. “That letter is not in my hand-

writing,” Rogei went on in the same tranquil, compelling tone, “and I make a solemn declaration that I have not seen it till this evening. The date on it is a matter of the gravest importance to me. It is dated June 11, 1905. My official connection with the Admiralty terminated on June 4, 1905. I was charged with having sold the plan of some date previous to that. The letter proves that the plan was not sold on June 11, and therefore it must have been safe at the Admiralty at least a week later than I had any chance of getting access to it.’ The letter, in fact, exonerates me.” (To be continued.)