“THE WAY OUT”

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 499, 31 October 1928, Page 5

“THE WAY OUT”

Or “ HEMINGS PROBLEM. ”

By

H. Maxwell.

CHAPTER VIII (Continued) Roger spoke with a peculiar, fluent peremptoriness and a strangely passionless calm extraordinarily enthralling, and Heming. under the spell of it, was affected with a sense of helplessness. Roger, in earnest, was rather a terrible person —that was Heming’s thought, and he shuddered a little, for suppose Roger should some day be as intent on clearing himself in the Mary Barstow case as in this, what hope would there be for him? He listened with all his faculties at full stretch, keenly, painfully, intensely anxious to do his very bidding. “t want you to read the letter aloud, Conway.” Roger smoothed out the soiled and laded sheet. “Begin there,” he said, and pointed to the date, and Heming obediently f ead as follows: “June 11, 1905. “To Raymond Compton, Esq., “The Cinnamon Club, Soho. u l happen to know you would like to buy the plans of the naval docks to Westmputh. You can have them if you care to pay £50,000. That is toy lowest figure. Reply through toe agony column of ‘The Times* not la *er than the day after to-morrow if . 7 ou mean business, and then I’ll *rite further. “Yours, X.Y.Z.” “Having read that letter,” said Kogei\ “you will understand why I brought these papers away in preference to leaving them at the mercy of toe wind* and raiu in the wood. They toe vital to me, and I think they are T i f ai to the country, because the man wrote that may still be at the Admiralty, and, for all I know, still filing naval secrets. And now,** he tojded, *‘i am going to telephone to and report the murder to toe police.** Heming had no say in the matter wittier then or afterwards when the P°lice arrived, for Roger took absotote control of the interview with the Su Perintendent, who came in person, told to whom he made the fullest Possible statement. I am an ex-convict out on ticketcleave” he said. “I have just * erv sd a long term of peual servitude, the name of George Braid, for 116 Manslaughter of Mary Barstow\ I d M an ex-first-class clerk of the Adtoiraltv, and was required to resign suspicion of having sold naval Raymond Compton, the muraer ed man, is the man who tempted *ith a bribe, which i. refused.

When he attacked me the other day on the moor, in the company of Miss Heming, to whom I am engaged to be married, I recognised him, but I chose not to say so for fear of raking up an old and forgotten scandal. My discovery of the body was the purest accident. I went from this house to the wood, and hack from the wood to this room. I was out altogether about half an hour, ten or twelve minutes of which I spent beside the body examining these papery. Mr. Heming will corroborate these statements. That concludes everything I have to tell you as having the slightest bearing on the murder, but if you can think of any questions you would like to ask me, I should be glad to answer them.” The superintendent, gravely impressed and surprised, not to say awed, by all this, decided after some hesitation to ask several questions, which he put In a civil, considerate, almost apologetic manner. “This man Compton, Mr. Temple, evidently bore you a deep grudge Why ?” “I suppose because I refused to deal with him.” “But somebody did deal with him. he got the plans he wanted.” “Yes, and then found they were worthless; the plans he got were obsolete. I imagine his consequent disappointment turned his brain and he tried to visit his rancour upon me. “You regard him as a madman. “He certainly behaved like a madman on the moor.” “One other question—have you any suspicion as to who murdered lnm? “None.” “I am much obliged to you. MiTemple.” f . .... The superintendent finished ltn, Roger turned to. Heming. “Conway, you have heard the full disclosure I Have made. I have revealed things of a private nature which have no concern with this

murder, and other things which it. might be impolitic in the country’s interests to make public. If it can be managed I shall be glad, for Cicely’s sake and your wife’s, that my being a ticket-of-leave man need not be disclosed. I shall also be glad If all mention of the papers found on the body can be avoided at the Inquest in view of an application I intend to make to the Admiralty for a revision of the circumstances which resulted In my enforced resignation. But these are merely my own personal wishes, not to be grapted if in your opinion the granting of them will Interfere with the ends of justice, otherwise, I hope you will use your authority as Solicitor-General to get my wishes respected. I leave_ the matter entirely in your hands, and he walked out of the room “It’s all right, Roger,” said Heming, when they met at dinner an hour later. “The superintendent promises there shall he no disclosure at the inquest ‘“I am glad for all our sakes. What became of the papers?” “I have retained them tor the present, and will submit them myselt to the Admiralty. So far as I can judge, they provide you with a complete answer to the old charge. “Thank you. Please do, said The topic was not again touched upon during the evening. A vague, though quite perceptible, feeling of consfralnt had fallen between the two men. Roger manifested a marked disinclination to talk, while Heming found an excuse for silence m toiling laboriously at his mass of urgent correspondence. But when they partei} for the night, and Heming did not speak, he said. “You are not angry with me! I have not put you out, have I?” “Not a bit,” said Roger. Why?

■ <(jli _ j wondered. Your manner has been so very arbitrary. You seem to have made such a definite point of asserting yourself. Was it really necessary to tell the superintendent everything?” “I think It was. Yes, I deliberately asserted myself.” “Why?”

“Well, Conway”—and Roger met his dubious gaze with calm, level eyes—"l am a little tired of bearing other men’s burdens, and I am determined in this particular Instance not to. In regard to Mary Barstow and you my lips are forever sealed, but in every other matter I will never again allow anything to come between Cicely and me for lack of absolute candour. That’s why. Good night.” . “Good night,” said Heming, somewhat disconcertedly.

The morning’s post brought an avalanche of letters for Heming, and a host of fresh business there were stacks of congratulatory missives from his political friends: innumerable papers arrived from the Solicitor-

General’s office; the party authorities in London required his opinion on a multiplicity of matters; his election agent and private secretary arrived immediately after breakfast, demanded all the time he could spare them; and in the middle of the morning a long telegram reached him from his wife announcing the earl’s paralytic seizure, and her own compulsory and Indefinite detention at Reddertqn Hall to nurse him. “Just when I want her most,” he murmured viciously. He had no idea that this was a selfish thought, for he was full of pity for Lady Elizabeth and profoundly distressed at her father’s Illness, but It did seem to him that the trouble and harassment and the in£ovenience. of the illness pressed upon him In a greater degree than anybody else. Then he went on with his telegram, which covered several forms; — “Cicely is returning at once and will arrive at Wilchester Station at 5.30. She is very eager to help in the election, and as you will have her you will not miss me much.” “What nonsense!” he muttered Impatiently; “of course I shall miss her.” “I think it well,” the telegram continued, “that R.T, should not meet Cicely at the station. It would be wise if they did not meet at all for

some days. If you can give him the hint and get rid of him at once so much the better. She is greatly incensed against him owing to something which has cropped up here and is in no mood to be argued with. R.T. was father’s private secretary at the Admiralty when he was First Sea [.old. I can’t explain further, but will write full details, to-night.” “More trouble,” he thought bitterly, “more trouble.” He left what he was doing and hurried off, to the great discomfiture of his election-agent whom he dismissed abruptly, to seek Roger and found him writing letters in Tiis own room. “Read that,” he- said; "more trouble.” Roger read the telegram through and remarked quietly;—“Yes, I fear the Earl’s illness must be a great blow to Lady Elizabeth; I am very sorry for her.” “The Earl’s Illness!” snapped Heming. “What about Cicely and you? Are you going to stay and meet her or do you intend to clear out? You see what my wife says.” “The perversity of people,” he said to himself; “nobody thinks of me.” “What do you advise?” Roger asked calmly. “Advise! I? I’m worried to death; I don’t care which you do.”

“Thank you. then I shall stay,” said Roger, which provoked the instant re- ’ Joinder: “Stay! I don’t think you ought to? How can you stay if her mother's not here ?’’ Which ever course Roger chose would naturally have been the wrong course. “I am going to stay and meet her.” he said, “in order to put myself right with her. My leading principle of conduct, as I told you last night, is now and hereafter no misunderstandings with Cicely.” “You think she’s heard of the Admiralty affair from her grandfather?” “Obviously, and thank God I’ve evidence to prove my innocence.” “Very well,” said Heming, “very well, I dare say you’re right, I’m horribly pressed and worried. Anything you do that does not add to my worries be a relief. You will meet Cicely and—and put yourself right with her and not let her or me be worried. I have a great many things I wish her to do for me, and she won’t do them properly if she is worried.” “Yes,” said Roger, “you shan’t be worried.” “Thank you. I’ll get back to my work,” and Heming went. They did not meet at lunch; Heming being too busy to leave the library had a tray of food sent in to him. Yet he had little peace even there, for a stream of callers kept arriving, some of whom he was bound to see. They were too important to be sent away, and in view of the election he couldn't risk offending anybody. It was here he missed his wife so much, she would have taken ’ all that burden off his shoulders, and done what was necessary far better than he. He was too harassed to be tactful and made a variety of blunders, of which he was immediately conscious; and trying to correct them generally made them worse. Do what he might his vexations and perplexities increased rather than diminished as the day wore on, and this bewildered him. for he knew himself possessed of capacities and powers of a high order; he was no ordinary average man to be baffled and thwarted by silly and petty and -.trivial embarrassments. At three o'clock Roger started for the station, and as he passed through the hall on his way to the car he met Heming returning to the library lifter escorting his latest visitor to the front-door. “I’m just off to meet Cicely, Conway.” “Are you,” said Heming- with a darkling scowl. “Anything I can do for you in Wilchester”

“Do. You!” snarled Heming. “I h wish to God I’d never seen you.” q The next moment he was exhausting himself in abject apology. a “You understand, Roger, I didn’t si mean that; my head’s splitting. Iti look upon you as my truest friend and d the very best fellow in the world. 1 S know you" understand.” Roger said he understood and that f 1 it was all right, and drove away. 11 Less.than a mile from the house the a car flashed past a figure that was v vaguely familiar to him: the face, the walk, and the man’s hearing haunted ® his recollection; yet he could not put 11 a name to them. . A mile further on the name suddenly - recurred to his memory, and he jammed on the brakes and brought the car up with a grinding, jolting 1 scrunch which almost proved fatal both to him and it, for skidding side- ’ ways it slewed round, mounted a bank and only just failed to turn over. t “My God, sir!” faltered his ehau- - ffeur, as white as a sheet, “what’s ’ happened?” Roger did not answer; perhaps he j did not hear him. “No,” he murmured under his breath, “no—l’ve done enough.” t “Beg pardon, sir. What? Are you ill, sir?” J “111? No,” said Roger, “never bet- - ter.” He smiled oddly, and the chauffeur ; became very uneasy, for there was ] nothing on earth that he could see to . smile at. \ Roger then drove on. The man he had passed on the road was Reginald Carstairs. CHAPTER IX.—CICELY The fine life and great record of John Fraser Gascoyne, ninth Earl of Redderton, belonged to that class of facts which are accepted on all hands as incontrovertible. If you wanted an example of all that was clean and noble and disinterested in public life you thought instinctively, naturally, instantly, of Redderton’s ninth earl. With the Earl’s family his " fine nobility of character had become a sort of cult; his daughter. Lady Elizabeth, almost worshipped him. Who had borne a shattering bereavement —for the death of his son was that—with such fortitude and resignation and dignity as he? Who had accepted poverty and obscurity with such serene contentment? Who had • ever performed acts of charity with more unobtrusive self-denial? Who was so simple and kindly and un- . assuming in all his relations with others? Whose -ideals' were at once i so lofty and so little paraded as his? Cicely had been brought up to re- . gard her grandfather as the perfect type of the English gentleman; and when he described to her Roger’s perfidy she did not—after the first shock ; of the revelation—even pause to ask j herself if he could be mistaken. What

he said, went. There could be no question of doubt. The crime of treachery is abominable in all eyes; in the eyes of a highspirited, chivalrous-minded girl nurtured in an age-long tradition of loyal devotion at all costs to the King and State it becomes depravity beyond forgiveness. And in Roger's case the heinousness of it for Cicely was heightened by its perpetration when actually in close personal association with her grandfather. Roger had, in fact, fallen in circumstances which ought to have inspired him with the noblest virtue.

What sort of a man, then, must he be in himself? Despicable, base, and mean. The answer horrified her—all the more because she loved him. It was no use denying it or trying to deny it to herself —she loved such a man. Her world was turned topsy-turvy. She felt tainted and smirched, but she also felt frightened. What must she herself be at heart? What was this love of hers that could attach itself to so unworthy an object, but a low, common, shameless thing? She wanted to tear it from her, to be rid of it, and all the while she was persecuted with the dread that she might not find the requisite courage. Yet she was impelled to m'ake the effort immediately; she could not rest, with the feeling of failure upon her, even for a day. And that is why she was insistent to return home at once, to have it out with Roger, and to end it; and also why her mother, realising the danger of her present mood, had been at special pains to suggest that Roger should not be at the house when she arrived. (To be continued.)