The Scales of Justice.

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXX, Issue 8509, 10 August 1907, Page 2

The Scales of Justice.

OH AFTER XI. Continued. Beard seemed to have no further remarks to offer. The moody frown was back on his face again; he paced up and down the little room contemptuously at the evidences of poverty. Suddenly lie came to a stop in front of the fire. "Hallo," he san!. "It is perhaps out of the question for you to undertake what 1 suggest, but there is somebody, if I mistake not, who will do just as well. You did not tall me that you were keeping up a correspondence with Cardrew." "Well, I'm not," Marston said sullenly. "I don't even know where that handsome young is. I thought he was somewhere in India." "Why try to fool me," Bernard Beard demanded. "Here h a letter from him on the mantel-shelf. It is addressed to you in pencil." Marston rose and looked at the envelope. It was clear to Beard that his expression of surprise was no acting. Moreover, Beard could see that the flap was sealed down. The letter must have come in Marston's absence. "Cardrew must have found me out here," the poacher exclaimed.. "He probably called this afternoon and Jessie—my little girl—gave hi:r. paper and envelope to write the note. It is the same paper that I use myself. Let's see what he says." Beard watched his companion with an eagerness that he found some diffi - culty in concealing. Marston read the letter twice over without ing"lt is a private matter," he said at length, "and cannot concern you in any way. Th>s much I can say, Cardrew is down here and he is very anxious for nobody to know of the fact, not even the Drummonds. He says he will call upon me to-morrow to discuss certain business. Nobody knows he is here, remember." "Oh, I am not the man to betray the secrets of another," Beard laughed. He seemed to be delighted about I something. "I suppose your young friend is at home on special leave. I kiww that there has been some bother out yonder, and that young Drum • mond came home in disgrace. He may possibly be expelled the service. An act of cowardice." "Rubbish!" Marston cried. "No Drummond was ever a- coward yet, and Captain Drummond was a fine fellow. Much more likely to be Cardrew, who has .cunningly shifted the blame on to other shoulders. He comes down here without even letting his sweetheart know. But I had forogtten that he was a kind of connection of your friends." "I fancy my friends would like to forget it also," Beard smiled. "Well, I must be getting back again. Sorry that jou.are not .in a fit state to help me. I think I'll look in some time to-morrow, and try to get a few words with Cardrew myself." Beard closed the cottage door behind him and lounged off in the darkness. Apparently his thoughts were more pleasant than when he started, for he smiled to himself more than once. He got back at length to the garden; he glanced-up and saw that the light was still burning in George Drummond's bedroom." If the visitor only knew everything! Beard chuckled again at the thought. He would perhaps have been less easy in his mind if he had only been cognisant of what George Drummond really did know.

A couple of warders were still poking about the garden. Beard paused with the sash of the dining-room window in his hand, a sudden thought had come to him.

"Perhaps I can help you," he called out. "You seem to think that the escaped convict is hanging about the house somewhere. There's a little tool-shed just by the side of the plantation, and a ladder is hidden alongside. Try the loft over the shed. It is full of straw and would make a capital hiding-place for anybody. I'll come and show you."

"It's very good of you, sir," one of the warders replied. "We will just look in the loft, though to my minJ our man is far enough away by this time. He had friends to help him to begin with, and they would not leave him to wander about on a night like this."

Beard led the way to where the ladders as standing and superintended the searching of the loft. But the search was in vain.

"No luck" the second warder said. "No luck at all. We'd better be getting back, Wiliis. Good-night, sir, and keep an eye on your window fastenings." Beard returned the salutation and went slowly back to the house.

CHAPTER X

THE MAN AND HIS STORY

George Drummond stood with his back to the fire and gasped for breath. In his poor state of health the struggle with Gilbert Doyle had been a severe one. But he was not concerned now so much about that as for the man who sat at the table, his face convulsed with sobs. Georg'e had forgotten his own trouoles for the moment. "j?u!l yourself together," he said. "This is" a sorry meeting, Gilbert, old fellow! I wonder if your trouble is as biter as mine, after all." Gilbert Doyle glanced at the speaker. Then very slowly lie removed the long coat that Garcia had given him. He had not washed yet, his hideous .dress was covered with dirt, and bits of straw, his bare legs were caked in mud. George could only look on with helpless astonishment. He perfectly understood what that garb meant, "A convict," he faltei'ed. "Impos- j sible! It is n-j than one of your j egcapask-g."

By FRED SSf. WHIT®, [Published By Special Arrangement.] [A.ll Eights Beseeved.]

"An escapade from Grey stone Prison," the other said bitterly. "If we could only have foreseen this the last time we were at Eton together. A convict! I got seven years. And yet I swear that I am as innocent as yourself.'' The words were hopeless enough, and yet there was a ring of absolute sincerity about them. With a sudden impulse George held out his hand. ."Of course yo-i are," he said heartily. "Without hearing your story I am convinced that there i 3 some hideous mistake here. The idea of associatting Gilbert Doyle with vulgar crime!" "Just as well call George Drummond a coward," Doyle said with a quiveriner lip. "And that is just what they are calling me," Geoige replied. "My dear old chum, I am in just as bitter trouble as yourself; truly we are comrades in misfortune! Otherwise I should not be here to-night. I am here because I am literally kicked out of Grange Court. I have been very ill—indeed I am very ill now—and I should have died on the way to Longtown had not an angel brought me here. And then to find you in this way. And to find also that you have an interest in this mysterious house. Very strange!" "Strange indeed, considering that I have never been here before," Doyle said. "If you don't mind I'll wash myself and then I'll tell you my story. I wonder if you have a change of clothes in one of those kit-bags that you could spare me? We are about the same size. I shouldn't feel quite such a hound in a respectable suit of clothes." A suit of dark tweed, a clean white collar and tie, made all the difference to Doyle. He seemed to hold himself more upright, though the collar appeared to gall him. He flung himself down in a chair, and gazed into the fire. "What trouble have you been getting into?" he asked. George explained freely enough. The other listened with interest till the recital was finished.

"And you are quite fure that you have told me everything?" he asked. "Why do I put that question? Because I am certain that you are concealing something. Come, you could throw a different light on the matter if you liked." "Well, I could," George admitted, none too willingly. "But I have very good reason for not doing so. I am silent for the time being, because the happiness, perhaps the life, of another depends upon it. But I must speak if the worst comes to the worst; so you see Gilbert, you and I are comrades in misfortune, which makes it all the more curious that we should meet, and in this strange house and this weird midnight manner. And now for your story. Go back to the time when we parted four years ago."

"The time when I came to London with visions of a splendid fortune," Doyle smiled. • "My father died, leaving me his blessing and some two thousand pounds altogether. No reason to dwell upon the next few months. My history was the history of many a young fool before me. At the end of a year I had literally nothing.

"I was all the more foolish because I was in love. She was only seventeen, George, but then she and I had been sweethearts for years. And when I saw her growing so sweet and beautiful I. knew that she was the only girl in the world for me. If you could only have seen her!" "I have seen her," George said quietly. He was piecing the puzzle together. "1 saw her not many minutes ago, if her name happens to be Winifred."

"You have guessed it. There are two sisters, Mary and Winifred Cawdor. How stupid of me not to follow you, seeing that they are both in the house at the present moment—in fact, I risked everything to-day to see them!"

"Perhaps you had better get on with your story," George suggested. "Yes; keep me to the point please. Winifred and I were not formally engaged, but all her 'people understood. Her father would not hear of anything- regular; as a matter of fact, he did not approve of my ways at all, and no wonder. He took me night and spoke to me very seriously. I was to go away somewhere and not to see Winifred for two years—not till I was capable of showing my capacity of making a girl happj. Well, these were pretty hard terms, but 7/in if red was worth them, and I consented. I got in with a man who was going to Mexico on a ranche. I worked hard, and began to get on. At the end of the first yoar I had a place of my own, at the end of eighteen months I found gold." (To be continued.)