For Her Sister's sake; OR, THE LAVENDEN SECRET.

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXIX, Issue 8331, 12 January 1907, Page 2

For Her Sister's sake; OR, THE LAVENDEN SECRET.

CHAPTER Vlll.—Continued,

David Garth sipped his coffee. Lounging there in his well-cut garments, he seemed perfectly at home amid his surroundings. The "hunted look had vanished from his face, and he might have been what many of those about him were, a keen, if rather solitary, commercial man, resting after a hard day's work. He was dining with his hat on. Underneath it the closely • cropped hair of the convict —the most dangerous point in his appearance—was carefully brushed up to resemble the peculiar short stubble affected by a certain type of Frenchmen, And aitnoigh he had addressed the waiter in f-ood English, his accent wi.s markedly foreign. Before David Garth, on the small square table, was propped the pink sheet of an evening paper. In one column, "under the heading "Found Dead in a Flat" was a brief paragraph. David Garth read and re-read it The reporter had wasted no words upon his facts, the paragraph was concise in tlie extreme. "Mr Garside," it ran, "a gentleman residing in a bachelor flat at Grammont Mansion, Jermyn Street, was found dead this morning by his valet. The latter had been out of town, and returned to discover ' his master shot through the head. Nothing was missing from the dead man's person or apartments, and the case is thought to be one of suicide. The weapon with which the deed was done cannot, however, be found, and this adds an element of mystery to the affair. The police are making the usual inquiries." There were other paragraphs m the paper, but this was the one upon which David Garth's eye rested. He had read and re-read it before. He read and re-read it again. He was disturbed in his absorbed perusal by the arrival of his bill. It had a French name upon it, and the total was modest. David Garth checked it, rose, tipped the waiter, and strolled out into the hall of the hotel. Thence he mounted to a room on an upper floor, and picked up a mackintosh, obviously new, an umbrella, also new, and a new leather satchel, with bright nickel fittings. He set them down a moment, as if struck by a new thought, and stood a moment before the glass. "Would they know you again. One Hundred and Fifty-six?" ;he muttered, with a grim smile. He shrugged his shoulders, and made a gesture with his open hands, French fashion. "I think not," he said in French, and with an almost perfect accent, and added, relapsing into English: "Let me see—what about money?" He plunged a-hand into his pocket and extracted a palmful of gold and silver, the remains of the uncounted sum that Julia Lavenden had given him. He turned it over critically, sorting the yellow coins from the white. There were fifteen pounds and some shillings. David Garth frowned. "I shall want more," he observed; "never mind, that will do for the present!" So saying, he restored the money to his pocket, and, carrying his satchel and other impedimenta, descended to the hall, paid his bill, and had a cab called. The address he gave was London Bridge—and London Bridge, to the London cabman, means the London Bridge Station of the South Eastern Railway. Arrived there, he settled with his cabman, but did not take a ticket. Instead, after exchanging his derby hat for a soft cap, he left his bag, his-umbrella, and his mackintosh at the luggage office, and, passing out of the station, entered that curious waterside quarter which lies on the northern bank of the Thames eastward of St. Paul's. Deeper and deeper he plunged into its obscure recesses, rendered darker and dingier by the thin drizzle of rain, until he found himself on the edge of a deserted wharf. There were some tumble-'down buildings on it, and he crept into the shadow of them. Reaching up to .the projecting eaves of a rusty iron roof, he dragged down from a recess beneath them a bundle, clumsily rolled together. It]was the nurse's cloak, in which he had made the journey from Dartmoor to London, in which he had gained admission to Lavenden House, and in which he had visited his brother's flat. Packed in the rolled up garment were the bonnet, the shoes, and the fleecy shawl that had completed his disguise. He put them on, together with the cloak, thrusting his own cap and boots into the jiocket of his lounge coat, and buttoning the cloak down -to his feet. Thus clad, he retraced his steps, and, walking with the short but quick strides adopted by most women when in a hurry, he turned inland. Across the city he went, over Aldersgate, into Clerkemvell, and up the slope that leads to the heights of Islington. Once he stopped and got out a scrap of paper, torn, apparently, from a daily journal. On it was written an address in pencil. He noted it carefully, and pushed on. CHAPTER VIII. IN WHICH A CHILD SLEEPS. At length, in a dark street, David halted— beside the doors of a stable yard. They were ajar, and a hansom, its shaft-ends on the ground, stood within. A horse, just taken out of the vehicle, was being led away by a stout man in a dripping j cape and oilskin hat. '

By R. Norman Silver, ; , i of *>A Double Mask," "A Daughter of Mystery," "Held Apart," >'The Golden Dtuarf," etc.

"For Her Sister's Sake " was commenced on December 20th.]

David Garth crept into the yard, and laid a hand on the shoulder of the retreating figure. "Peter Crimple," he said, and drew the shawl free of his mouth and chin. Crimple dropped the bridle he was holding, and stared at the seeming nurse. The convict put a finger to his lip, and then replaced the shawl.' "Keep cool, Peter," he observed; "it's me, right enough, and a lot of trouble I have had to find you. I thought you'd been at the old crib."' Peter Crimple opened his mouth, shut it, re-opened it, and finally shut it again, without finding words to express his emotion. David Garth was adjusting the shawl so that it covered the shaven nape of his neck. "It was in the papers, about my getting away," he said; "surely you've seen it?" Crimple shook his head, and found his voice. "The paper I read," he replied, "said it was a fellow named Grace as had got off;. I never thought of you. And in those togs you fairly knocked me. I took you for the real thing. But —but " He seized and gripped the convict's hand. "I'm glad you came to me, David," he said. "You'll have to lie in the shade for a bit. Luckily, we can trust Tilda —she don't like her old dad engaged in criminal work, but, for all that, she's true blue is Tilda." David Garth interrupted him. "There is no need to worry Tilda," he declared; "I'm all right. I've got a good suit of clothes under these—l —I only came for a sight of the child." His voice shook. "It —-it is well, isn't it?" he said. "You promised to let me know if—if anything happened." Crimple took off his wet cape and hat. "Aye," he answered, "the kid's tip-top, David. I've done right by him, whateever else I've done." The convict breathed heavily. "Let me see him, Peter," he murmured. "You—you can't know what the thought of him has been to me in that ghastly hole down yonder." Crimple coughed. "In with you," he said. "Tilda's ran out for something while 1 get a fresh horse. This brute's gone lame, or you wouldn't have found me here at this time: I'm' quite a hard-working man now, David; I had to do something to look respectable." He led the way into the house, caught up the lamp from the kitchen table, and piloted the disguised convict up a curving wooden staircase. At the door of a room on the second floor he paused. "Don't wake him, David," he requested. "You see, the little chap doesn't know you, and it would hurt you for him to cry and hang on to. me, wouldn't it?" David Garth assented mutely—he could not speak'. The cabdriver pushed the door wide, and allowed the' convict to enter. There were two beds in the room, one of them a battered little cot. Crimple shaded the light, and held it- nearer the latter. On the pillow, his fair curls tangled, his red lips parted, lay Boysie, slumbering rosily. The convict gazed at hirji hungrily. Then he buried his face in his hands, and his shoulders heaved. At last he i'regained his self-control, and stooped over the cot, lower and lower, till his lips touched the cheek of the sleeping child. The boy stirred and flung out a tiny arm. The dimpled little hand fell across the convict's, and lay there, its soft fingers touching those of the elder's hard brown hand. Peter Crimple moved away, and stood gnawing his bristly moustache. Presently David Garth, too, turned away. "I—l can't stand it," he muttered. "If—if I'd only gone straight in my life, Crimple, how happy I might have been with him? Be'coming a rogue is a fool's game —a fool's game!" The cab-driver's head was bowed on his chest. "Aye," he said, "it's a fool's game, David, but once we've starter! it, we're bound to see it through. Where are you going now?" The convict sighed. "Abroad," he answered, "if I can. At all events, for a while." Crimple would have spoken, but there was a quick, firm footstep on the stair. The cab-driver muttered an exclamation and lowered the flame of the lamp he held, so that it gave but a feeble glimmer. "Into yon corner," he said, and, pushing the convict -aside, opened the door of the room. A man was passing—a man in clerical garments, and with a sensitive worn face. .He turned and nodded. [To be Continued.]