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

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXIX, Issue 8336, 19 January 1907, Page 2

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

CHAPTER XII.--Continued. "Quite so, sir," allowed the detective, "but my errand can scarcely affect you in that way. I have been making inquiries, sir, as to the members of a nursing-mission, which, I understand, co-operates with you in your work. One of them, sir—a—a Sister Eva—is, or was, out of town." The curate started, and the detective noticed it. But he was a great deal too cautious to betray that he had done so. \ ~™ ■ "Sister Eva," pursued Mr Quail, "is said at the central office of the mission to be in Torquay, or at least in Devonshire. But there is some word of her having been seen in Lon- '•(. a day or Wo ago. She—the wore a light blue cloak, which served, it seems, easily to distinguish her from other members of the mission." Charles Ingram's face became grave. * "I read the newspapers, Detective Quail," he said, "and I believe that I am aware of the reason for your inquiries." "That is possible, sir," was the evasive answer; "but I shall be grateful if you will not ask me to make any admissions. I am told, sir, that Sister Eva was attached, with other nursing sisters, to the parish, and that you in particular would be likely to be acquainted with her movements." "As a rule," said the curate, "that is so. But if she is or has been in London within the last few days, I have no actual knowledge of it. Sister May, one of the mission nurses, working in the parish, spoke to me yesterday about having seen her late in the evening, and losing sight of her just as she was about to address her. It may have been a case of mistaken identity, but the mission uniform is conspicuous, and the person seen was wearing, in addition, a pale blue shawl." Mr Quail nodded. '.'That," he commented, "is about what I heard of at the office, of the mission. By the way, sir, may I ask if you know anything of the lady's—of sister Eva's life and character?" "Nothing of any importance," said .Charles Ingram; "she was a maiden I lady, very reserved, quiet, and capable. She had been working very hard all the winter, and a break-down necessitated her seeking rest and change. She was a native of Devonshire, and went there. I had a letter from her recently; in which she wrote of staying there until the end of the present week." "Might I ask for that letter, sir?" put in the detective. The curate searched in his pockets, chose a folded sheet, and handed it over. Mi; Quail perused it, and stowed it away in some recess of his loose tweed jacket. "Thank you, sir," he said; "I am greatly obliged. I trust I have not troubled you too much. Good day, sir," ''Good day,'' responded Charles Ingram, and he stood a moment to watch the detective's rolling walk as ' it carried his bluff form round an intervening corner. jjj "'•<£' "Strange!" he murmured. "Sister Eva —so grave, so reserved, so gentle. Well, the stillest waters are the deepest, the quietest lives may fitly conceal the profoundest mysteries, the darkest tragedies. But murder!—oh! it is, it must be, impossible!" He thrust his latch-key into the lock again, turned it, and entered. • Matilda Crimple came running; the familiar rattle of the key had warned her cf his return. . "Mr Ingram, sir," she told him confidentially, all breathless with haste and excitement, "there's a lady to see you—a beautiful lady, in furs and diamonds. She would wait in the kitchen and talk to me and , Boysie, but she's a real swell, and her name is Lady Lavenden." CHAPTER XIII. LADY LAVENDEN VISITS THE | CURATE. j Charles Ingram reflected when Lady ! Lavenden was announced, but his face expressed no recognition. "You had better show her here, Tilda," he decided, and he took off h'is soft hat arid put away his latchkey. "Yes, sir," said Tilda, and she sped back . into the rear of the old house. "Will you please to come, my lady?" she began, and stopped. From the door of the kitchen she saw .that Julia Lavenden was down upon her knees on the dingy hearth-rug. And beside her sat Boysie, babbling to her in his baby speech of his toy, the little Wooden horse. % The roughly shaped and painted creature had come off its wheeled stand. Julia Lavenden was fitting the pegs of the hoofs into the* holes that had held them. The child shouted with delight as she set the toy rolling across the rug to him. The infantine laughter was bittersweet music to Julia.; she pressed her gloved fingers to her lips to keep back the sobs that were rising to them- Tilda's voice had warned » her of the necessity for self-control. "Boysie has taken to you, my ' lady," cried the]girl; ./'"but, oh! my lady,your lovely dress all in that dust. And me jua't been blackleading the grate!" Julia smiled sadly. "It<!oes not matter," she said, rising,, and brushing the fluff of the rug from her skirt. She paused, looking at the child that played at her feet. "Good-bye, darling," &e added unsteadily. Tilda picked her charge up. "Say good-bye to the pretty lady, Boysie," she,bade him. The child did as he was bidden—in

By R. Norman Silver, thor of "A Double Mash," "A Daughter of Mystery, " "Meld Apart, 1 ' "The Golden Dwarf," etc.

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

lisping baby syllables that brought the hot tears to Julia's eyes. She caught him to. her and kissed him passionately, then turned away, fighting for an outward calm that belied the terrible, tumult within, and passed through to the front of-the house. At the end of the lobby down which Matilda Crimple directed her Julia Lavenden came face to face with a young but worn-looking man in shabby garments, [and knew that he must be the man of whom the convict had written. "I am honoured by this visit, Lady Lavenden," he said. "So sorry I was out when you came. May I suggest your ascending to my den? It is only on the next floor) and''l shall be able to offer you a chair?" "With pleasure," she answered, and went up to the next flocr, wondering what she was to say to the grave young curate. David Garth had dictated her policy—to obtain opportunities of seeing her child by the safe and specious excuse of interesting herself in the work of the Reverend Charles Ingram, the Crimples' highly respectable lodger. But to indicate a policy is not to define the most tactful method of j carrying it out. An inspiration I struck her, and she breathed more freely as she sat down in the chair that the curate set for her—a handsome figure in his gloomy commonplace apartment. "Mr Ingram," she said, "we have not met before, and I bring you no introductions now except my name. I was once plain Julia Lavenden, an Islington dressmaker. A freak of fate has given me wealth and a title. I know this part of London well, and know how much it needs of help and sympathy. Will you—can I assist —through you " She faltered* Charles Ingram took the rest of the question for "granted. "Through me, or through others, Lady Lavenden," he declared, "there is much to be done that you can aid in doing. And it is, indeed, generous and kindly of you to remember us in your prosperity." "No, no," protested Julia, her self-respect wounded by his praise for what she knew to be only diplomacy, however excusable; "please don't speak like that. I only wanted to say that I should be glad to help you in your work—with—with money, and to—to come sometimes into this part of London. The West End does not seem, somehow, like home to me." Charles Ingram's quick sympathies were touched. "My dear Lady Lavenden," he exclaimed, "you do, indeed, honour me. Believe me, I shall be delighted and thankful." "No the debt will be mine/' said Julia Lavenden, and added, "Then you must let me know at your leisure how' and where I can be of service t<i you." The curate smiled; her air of nervous simplicity pleased him. "You will tempt me to presume upon your generosity," he told her. Julia got up, feeling that she had come successfully through her ordeal, and that the way was open by which she might hope to see at times the little golden head with which was bound up so many dangerous secrets and such a passion of thwarted mother-love. "Not at all," she assured him; "I will drive over some day soon, and we can consult." "You lay a heavy responsibility upon me," said Charles Ingram, "but I shall endeavour to deserve your confidence." Julia gave him her hand. "Thank you," she said, "and now you will pardon me if I run away. I must think about getting home; I only called upon impulse." "Avery noble impulse," rejoined Charles Ingram, and he showed her downstairs and into her carriage with a quiet grace that stamped him as a man to whom society and its ways were familiar. As the brougham drove off, Julia saw that Matilda Crimple was watching its departure. In the girl's arms was the child "Boysie." A wild impulse seized upon Julia Lavenden, and she caught at the check string that lay near her hand. She would not leave her child, her beautiful brave boy, unacknowledged, unowned, abandoned to all the dangers that beset his little life in those rough and uncouth suri'ound•ings. She would go back and claim him—claim him as her own. i The check-string fell, from her fingers. To identify Julia Lavenden with Julia Garth, to jingle as James Garth had said on the very day of his. death —the coronet and the handcuffs, to brand her child as a convict's son! She could not, she dare not, do it. For over all these secrets there was the shadow of a darker, a more fatal, secret, the mystery that surrounded the murder of James Garth, alias Garside, and the visit of that shawled figure in the nurse's uniform to the flat in Grammont Mansions, the mystery that had fixed for a moment the attention of the public and j the press. (To be Continued).