The Scales of Justice.

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXX, Issue 8501, 2 August 1907, Page 2

The Scales of Justice.

CHAPTER IV.—Continued. < The girl turned away, looking as if ashamed of the tears glittering m her eves. George closed the door behind her, and flung himseif on tne bed. He was utterly worn out, weary i„ mind and body. The shock of the evening had told upon him more than he caied to own It seemed so strange that ho should be here in the very house wners he use to plav as a boy. Sybil and m.naclf had been very fond or making adventures in the empty old house vears before. George roused _ him self with an effort and oper.uu tne casement window a little way; whatever the weather was, he never slept in a close room. He flung himself half across the bed again, failing by habit into an altitude of prayer. But the unfinished prayer died on his lips to-nig.it; nature was utterly exhausted. And then George Drummond slept as he " n it seemed but| a few moments before he was awake again—awake again with the curious feeling of alertness and the knowledge that he was needed by somebody. He closed his eyes, but a stronglight seemed to be upon them. Hie eyes opened languidly. There was no fancy, at any rate, for a great white glare played and flashed across the room. The wood fire had died down to sullen red embers; the candle had been extinguished before George knelt to say his prayers. Then where was the light coming from? George's first idea was that the house was on lire. He sat up m bed and sniffed, but no smell came pungently to his nostrils, and the white light was far too steady and brilliant for an outbreak of fire. The gale outside must have fanned it to a roar. But still the light came and went in long, clear, penetrating glares, sometimes in the room and sometimes outside it. Then George recognised what it was—the great electric searchlight from the tower of Greystone Prison. They were using the big arc and the rest for the wretched convict. A moment later and there came the sullen boom of two guns in quick succession. That meant that the search was nearly over, and that one party of hunters had signalled the near proximity of the quarry. Fully awake now, George crossed to the window and opened it widely. The full force of the gale and the sting of the line snow struck his face as with a whip. He could hear the pines on the hillside tossing and surging before the blast; the white; blinding band of the searchlight seemed to sweep and lick up the whole country. Surely there was somebody tapping gently on the bedroom door. George scorned the notion as imagination playing tricks upon a brain already overstrained. But it was not imagination. He could distinctly hear the gentle touch of knuckles on the oak door. And suddenly Flora Cameron's strange request came into his mind. Again he heard the muffled sound of the two guns. George sottly crossed the room and opened the door. Flora stood in the dark passage with a candle in her hand. She had not undressed; her ; . face was red and white by turns. Her confusion was pitiable to witness. "It has come," she whispered—"the assistance that 1 so soreiy needed. And yet I had no right to j ask you —you, a soldier of the king, who " "Never mind that," George murmured. "If there is anything that I can do for you." "Oh, you can do everything for me! If only you were not so worn by illness! You hear the sound of the guns—the two guns that tell that —But perhaps I am wrong—perhaps it is another convict, after all. Still, I heard the signal. Come this way!" A door seemed suddenly to open downstairs and a great breath of icy air came rushing along the corridor. The candle, shaking in the silver sconce in Flora's hand, guttered and flared, then there came another icy breath, and the candle was extinguished altogether. A moment later and George felt Flora's fingers gripping his own. "Let the candle go," she whispered; "we are far safer without a light. Will you trust me? Will you let me take your hand and guide you?" "To the end of the world!" George said passionately. "To the end of the world for your sweet sake! Lead on and I will follow. The touch of your fingers gives me——" George pauseJ, as the flare of the searchlight seemed to fill the house again. It rose and fell through the great wndow at the end of the corridor; the place was light as day. Then the side sash of the parlor casement was lifted a little, and a white yet strong and sinewy hand appeared, grasping the edge of the frame. | "Look!" Flora whispered. "Look and tell me what you make of that!" The white hot flame seemed to beat fully upon the grasping hand. Then a steely wrist followed, and beyond the wrist the-hideous yellow and the broad arrow of a convict's garb. And once more the two signal guns boomed out in quick succession. "You are not afraid?" George asked. "Afraid?" came the fiercely exultant reply. "Oh, no; I am glad, glad, glad!" CHAPTER V. THE YELLOW STRIPE. The cold grey mist falling over London as George Drummor.ri's train slid from the roaring arch of Pad-

By FRED If. WHITE, [Published By Special Arrangement.] [All Eights Reserved.]

dington Station had fallen still more chill over the moors behind Longtown. That was some hours before George started on his momentous journey—before the joy and happiness of his lite went out. Against the background of the marshes stood the long, grev building that constituted Greysu!.,' Gaol. It was, perhaps—at any rate from the point of view of th:' .--.uthorities—an ideal sport for a . prison; from any standpoint n w;-. ; ; dreary and desolate to a degree. It ':' had been necessary to chill the tvart and take the last ray of hone :-ut < i a convict,a glmpse of Greystono w: old have done it. There was work u> be done here of akind—the'..'..ikiii-g of a long wall to keep back xhe creeping sea, foundations to b- i.:.< in the shifting gravel a sk-"\ tedious job that showed little rt-ul;. after a "year's labour. A gang worked now on the slimy gravel, sonio iulh.g the barrows, others pushing the same up the slope to the big, gras.-y mound where a warder stood looking here and there, his rifle resting o the hollow of his arm. The bk; figure in uniform stood out agairst the misty sky; there was a doc* rampart behind him. There was no talking, no passing of words, nothing but dogged toil. And all wore the yellow stripe of the tribe. The mournful spectacle was in fit keeping with the dreary landscape. For the most part the wearers of the yellow stripe were of the typical class. The one man at the end of the gang, working in the hole amidst the wet gravel, iooked a little different from the rest. In the first place, he was by no means bad-looking, his face was gentle and refined, his hands had not been accustomed to this kind of toil. He had suffered, too, if it were possible to judge by the expression of his face—a proud, sensitive, eager face—the face of one who had been cruelly used by fate. He worked on doggedly'enough, and yet he seemed to be expecting something that strange, restless feeling of hope that comes .to us all even in the depths of :h3 profoundest despair. Two.yearsof this had not killed his spirit. "It is bad for the gulity to face the bitterness of their crime, but it is far worse for the innocent. Nevertheless, the man started violently with surprise as a oody came wriggling like a serpent over the marshy ground and slid headfirst into the hole. But the worker never stopped in his labour, he did not even look down." "Is it really you, Garcia?" he said hoarsely. "I began to wonder where you had got to. Is there any news?" The new-comer was dark of face, a ,viry little man, a mass of whipcord and steel. From the yellow tinge on his face he might have been a halfcaste, or a Spaniard, or a Mexican, certainly he -would not have looked out of place in cowboy garb on the back of a horse. "There is nothing fresh, my master," he said. "Slowly things are being prepared. But it is a matter of patience. Wait—wait till we can give the signal and all will be well.'' "Well If you knew what it was like! Two years—two centuries! And the mist gets intc my bones as drink rots the lungs of the drunkard. Is there a letter for me—a message of any kind. You must have watched me closely to come here in this unerring fashion." "Even so, master," Garcia said. "You read your letter whilst I pitch your gravel for you. The sentry yonder "will not know the difference. Here is the packet I was to give you." The convict grabbed at the letter as eagerly as a starving dog grabs at a bone. It was something to break the maddening monotony—like a glass of cold water in a dreary desert. It was not a long letter, but the reader read it again and again with a quick, fierce intaking of his breath. The litt'e man with the brown face was industriously pitching gravel all the time. The convict turned to him eagerly, there was a quwering, flickering light in his eyes. "First get rid of that letter," he said. "Garcia, I must get away from here now. No matter if lam taken again in the daylight, no matter if it puts back the clock for a year. I must—l must be at the Moat House some time to-night." £,"lf master says it must be, it must," Juan Garcia said coolly. He placed the letter in his mouth, ' chewed it hastily, and swallowed the paperfdown. "But this haste spoils ! everything. A little longer, and : my master would be free to defy : his " "Fool! Cease your chatter. I tell you I must get away now, no . matter what happens later. If I • could only close the eyes of the warder for five minutes!" "Escape may be taken as an evi- : dence of guilt," the mur- ' mured. (To be Continued.)