“THE WAY OUT”

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 518, 22 November 1928, Page 5

“THE WAY OUT”

Or “ HEMING’S PROBLEM. ”

By

H. Maxwell.

CHAPTER XXVIII. —CARSTAIRS. After a short interval Heming said: “You will not make any bargain with Carstairs?” “No." “You’ll be tempted to,” he said, for I can see that I shall continue to worry you after I’m dead if you don’t. Everything must come out if Carstairs chooses it shall, which will be very hard on you and Cicely and Elizabeth. Elizabeth is prepared to bear her share of the burden of my misdoings, the idea of doing so seems to help her; but it’s different for-you and Cicely who, entirely innocent, will yet he involved in the shame attaching to my name.” There'll be no bargain,” said Roger. "Vicarious suffering seems to be the rule of the world.” # ‘t wish you wouldn’t worry about ns. Conway.” "I won’t any more, but I just had to sav that. I suppose I regret most the initial act of weakness and folly and cowardice that brought about all this misery and suffering. That poor girl.” he said; “I might have prevented her destroying herself.” I wonder,” said Roger. “Oh. I could have. 1 would rarher Undo that than anything else.” Roger could only say that he understood the feeling. 'Well, I’m not going to harrow you any more. When does Cicely arrive?” “She ought to be here in about half an hour. 1 * “L shall last that long,” he said, then: “How queer about Carstairs!” “A strange life his.” * If I’m still going after you’ve seen him come and tell me what he says.” You may be sure I will.” ’Did you say that Cicely had arrived?” ‘[No, in about half an hour.” “Ah yes, yes, yes.” .The lucid interval had passed, and the mind wandered again. Roger left the sick room and went to the library to await Cicely’s comlug, where, by Lady Elizabeth’s kindly contrivance, the two lovers had their meeting alone, their first meeting since the removal of the final obstacle to their anion. The sweet dignity of the girl's

lovely face as she came down the lons room to him is indescribable. It was a subtle blend of joy ancl sadness and pride and hope. As she came nearer him all these expressions were merged into one of ineffable tenderness: into ±he proud eyes there suddenly came a glow of love-liglit such as he had never beheld in them before, a glow which irridated the beauty of of her face, enhancing the beauty of each, and making the whole surpassingly and bewitchingly lovely. “Wait,” she said, and halted before him with momentarily drooping head, almost in the attitude of a suppliant. What she meant he could not tell; all he knew was that he dared not touch her until she signified her consent. Then she lifted her head and her hands went out to him. “Roger, mother has told me everything. If you can forgive us, if the assurance of my love can console you He caught her in his arms and strained her to his breast, and their lips had other work to do than the asking or the granting of forgiveness; and so for a while at least the mistakes of the past and the problems of the future ceased to exist for them in the unalloyed happiness of this perfect reconciliation. Then, remembering the dying man upstairs, they presently drew apart. She went to see her father, and he went to the interview with Carstairs. Carstairs, as an inmate of the oldfashioned county gaol of Wilchester, was in that anomalous position which carries with it many small privileges. He was not a condemned prisoner, nor was he a prisoner under remand, nor was he a prisoner committed for trial. He was a suspected person under arrest, and as such he suffered no privations beyond those inseparable from the restriction of his personal liberty. He was not confined in a cell, but in a fair-sized square room, plainly but sufficiently furnished, which might have been taken for an ordinary room in an ordinary house if it had not been for the criss-cross of stout iron bars guarding the window and the unusual massiveness of the lock and the nail-studded panels of *the door.

In the confines of this room he might occupj r his time as he chose within the limits of decorum. He might supplement the ordinary prison fare with such food and drink as he cared to pay for out of his own pocket. He might read and write and smoke. There was a bell to his hand with which to summon the warder, who would attend to his requirements. For the time being he was the Government’s paying guest, a - sort of parlour boarder, and not the Government’s bond-servant. He had made full use of his privileges. He had lunched well on a capital meal supplied by Wilchesters best hotel, a # lie had ordered a similar meal, a little more varied and abundant, to be served at seven o’clock as ! his dinner. He had laid in an ample I stock of cigarettes, and was well provided with writing materials and light j reading matter. He was smoking, but not reading or ; writing; he was standing by the window staring out through that crisscross of iron bars at the huddle of outbuildings in the prison yard below. And he was reflecting poignantly on his own stupidity. He had been stupid in so many ways. Why, for instance, had. he been so brutally crude in his method of settling I liis differences with Raymond Comp- j ton? Why have resorted to the blud-1 geon, when the more refined process j of poisoning, in which he was pastmaster, would have served his turn just as well?

And why have suffered himself to be j beguiled by old Jane? Why not have I

finished her off and done with her? It was stupid to have grown a little fond of her and to have felt a sentimental wish to spare her, when he knew she possessed all that dangerous knowledge. That was inexcusably weak. She ought to have been dealt with summarily, rendered innocuous, promptly disposed of. Where could his wits have been? And, again, why have been so

squeamish in his handling of Heming?

Why not have accepted the large sum of money which might have been his for the asking, and have discreetly vanished to some one of the dozen places he knew T of where existence can be made both profitable and amusing? Why have been so stupidly loyal to his employers? Why have worried to keep faith with them? Why have striven to earn his secret pay? Why have bothered about those wretched plans of the naval docks and arsenal of Westmouth?

In fact, Carstairs began to see that his fortunes had suffered shipwreck owing to the preponderance of his good over his bad qualities; he had not been villain enough. There were defects in his character unfitting him for this business of a paid spy, a sorry conclusion to arrive at when he reflected on the lengths to which he had j gone. For why permit himself, having | overcome every scruple in regard to j the taking of human life, to be hami pered by other scruples in respect of faithful service or of friendship and goodwill, or by any of the softer and finer and nobler emotions? There was no reasonable answer to this question. His conduct had been ! utterly illogical. He was paying the S penalty for crass errors of judgI ment. And what of his chances?

Well, he knew he had none. Hemj ing’s collapse was the deatli-blow to | whatever hopes he might have entertained. If Heming had remained well and strong there might have been a bare chance. But he was not so sure. He had no illusions on the subject of the limitations of political

influence in such a case as his. There would have been little mercy for him had he been other than he was; being what he was there would be none at all, short shrift and the hangman’s rope. Vermin are stamped out, not allowed the “law” granted to honest creatures of the chase.

He was absolutely frank with himself. He had gambled on his life, and had lost, and his life was forfeited; and he knew it had not been a nice life from other men’s point of view, and that there was not a living soul who would wish it prolonged.

Pursuing these reflections while he smoked innumerable cigarettes Carstairs moved away from the window, seated himself at the table, and proceeded to arrange his writing materials.

But he did not at once begin to write.

He had first to decide whether it was worth while doing any more mischief. He had always been ready for any shady job with money in it, but he had never done mischief for mischief’s sake; yet there, is a certain type of mind that finds alleviation for its own troubles in aggravating those of other people; there are even moods and frames of mind when such relief makes a strong appeal to good and blameless persons. And Carstairs had his own peculiar vanity.

Not a little of the attraction of his noxious trade had consisted in the sense of power it gave him; it was very pleasant to feel that he was one of those who pull the strings behind the scenes. He would never pull the

strings again, but he might make considerable stir before his final exit from j the stage. Notoriety has its charm. To be hissed off is the next best thing to going off amidst a chorus of plaudits. It was not a point to be hastily ; decided. To be remembered only as the perpetrator of a coarse and brutal murder would be to leave behind a false idea of himself, while to achieve remembrance as a daring agent in Secret Foreign Service would be both j to give a juster picture of himself and to surround his memory -with an agreeable glamour of romance. “No, I am not villain enough,” he I said suddenly. And then he drew pen and paper j toward him, dipped the pen in the j ink, and began to write. “I am glad to see you, Mr. Temple.” j “I have come because you sent for me.” was the curt rejoinder. Every one of Carstairs’s exasperating little traits of manner was exaggerated as Roger came into the room. He executed a florid bow and waved him to a chair with a gesture j of condescension. His face beamed with cherubic guilelessness. His rotund and corpulent person, his twinkling eyes, his smooth, fat cheeks, and soft indetermined chin, his dainty dapperness seemed to radiate sprightly and jovial innocence as j never before; and Roger did not attempt to disguise his loathing. “Say what you have to say quickly,” he said, and Carstairs smiled. “Why be so niggardly of time i

when you have many, many yetsrs of life before you, Mr. Temple? Whereas J, who must so soon ...” “I warn you I shall go If you continue in that strain." “My dear sir, you would not grudge me a moment or two of ... ” “I grudge every moment I have to spend with you.” “Well, well, if you won’t humour me I suppose 1 must humour you.” “It may help you to get to the point if I tell you at once ...” “And what do you think the point is?” “Some sort of corrupt bargain and threat.” “Utterly wrong, Mr. Temple; the last thing in the world I should stoop to.” “You ... you . . . hypocrite!” gasped Roger, and rose to go. “Don’t be in a hurry, I have much to say to you.' "And I have only one thing to say to you,” Roger retorted. “Whatever hopes you are building on your power to damage Sir Edward’s reputation are vain. Sir Edward is dying. And though you may still cloud with deeper shadows the lives of his nearest and dearest, whose spokesman I am, their message to you is . . . take what action you choose.” “A gallant message, Mr. Temple, but please sit down, I really have much to say that will interest you and them. And first let me assure you that the poison order and the diary no longer exist. I destroyed them before I was arrested.” “You destroyed them . . . why?” said Roger incredulously.

(To be continued.)