The Scales of Justice.

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXX, Issue 8511, 16 August 1907, Page 2

The Scales of Justice.

CHAPTER Xlll.—Continued. "I am going to put an end to this," Beard said. "If you are to retain control of your sister at night, I shall insist upon your acting very differently in future. She says that she wakes and finds that you are not in the room. Where were you?" "I had gone downstairs for somethins;." Mhry explained—"something that I had forgotten. And Winifred appeared to be asleep at the time. She did not wait to undress; she said she was sure that she was going to have en a of her sleepless nights. Then she sat on the sofa and went off almost immediately. But why do you question me in this way?" "Because you are not to be trusted." Beard., said brutally—or so it seemed to George. "This is not the first time this kind of thing has happened. Take care it is the last." "And if it is not the last, what then?" Mary Cawdor cried, with some spirit. "Why do you change your manner here —why are you not the same as you used to be in London? There we regarded you as our friend —a trusted friend!" "Friend!" Beard cried. "Oh, you little know what a friend lam to you! If you only knew everything you would turn your backs on everybody else and cling to me. But 1 am wasting my time. Take Winifred away, and try to persuade her that she is suffering from her old fancies again. She came down here and imagined that this gentleman was Gilbert Doyle, and "

"No fancy!" the little, white bride burst out. "Oh, it was no fancy! I am not so mad as you think. Sometimes my brain is as fresh and a 'clear a* anyone's. * When I came downstairs Gilbert was standing by the sideboard. I saw him quite clearly—the same dear old Gilbert, only pale, and thin, and worn. But the dear face and kindly eyes were there. Don't say I was mistaken. Ask the gentleman who was standing there." The speaker turned almost fiercely to George, who could do no more than smile' in a sickly fashion. He wished away; that he had not come to the Moat House at all. All this mystery and intrigue ware quite foreign to his nature. And yet there were helpless women here who demanded his assistance and attention. If cunning and crime were to be controlled, he would have to fight them with their own weapons. "It is very sad," he murmured. "Dr Beard, I am sorry that I have unwittingly happened upon the delicate side of the little tragedy. So far as I am concerned, I shall try to forget everything as soon as I am out of the house. Meanwhile, if I may venture a word of advice, I should suggest that the young lady n-ay reti-e, and "

"You are quite right, sir!" Beard exclaimed. "Mary, take your sister to bed, and see that she does not wander about the house again in this manner! Go with your sister, dearie; we will try to find your sweetheart in the morning."

Again the speaker's voice changed to one of infinite gentleness and charm. Wi*h the air of one who is asleep or blind, Winifred Cawdor held out her hands. Mary took her in her arms and kissed her; there were tears in her own eyes. As the door closed softly Beard turned to George. There was nothing objectionable in his manner now.

"I am sorry that you have seen so much," he said. "No stranger has ever, seen anything of this before, and I had made up my mind that the secret should remain buried here. That is why I left London and took the Moat House. Mrs Cameron appears as the nominal tenant, but 1 am practically the householder. Miss Cawdor's case is a sad one, but she is gradually getting better. It was the sight of a stranger like yourself that upset her to-night. lam still the more annoyed because she was getting on so very well. But as you are leaving the house to-morrow " There was a significant pausa here, and George bowed. In ordinary circumstances he would have left the house tomorrow and gone directly to London; but recent events had made that impossible. It would have been easy but for Gilbert Doyle. He must be provided for at any hazard; he must be smuggled cut of the house in the broad light of day. And here was Beard intimating in the plainest possible language that George must' leave without delay. .

"Your hospitality is hardly embarrassing," he said bitterly.

"My dear sir, in ordinary circumstances my hospitality leaves nothing to be desired." Beard said with a laugh. "I rendered it you to-night; I should.have been guilty of something like murder otherwise. But this is not one of the stately homes of England, nor is it a private hotel. On the contrary, we came here to be removed from contact with strangers. Your case is not exactly an extreme one, speaking as a medical mar. There is r.o danger likely to accrue to you from a railway journey to London. As for the rest, I shall be happy to drive you to the station. So far as my me.nory serves me, there is a train to-morrow early in the afternoon."

"1 quite understand," George said quietly. "If I were in your place, I should probably take the same point of view. I can only thank you for you kindness. Good-night, sir."

Beard smiled and extended his hand. George would have given £a great deal not to have taken it, but the rudeness would have been unpardonable. He was glad to find himself in his own room again. He beard the barring and fastening of doors downstairs, and the heavy footfall of Beard as he went up to bed. Then a bedroom door closed, and all was silent. There was stillness everywhere now, for the prison

By FUEB Bff. WHITE, [Published By Special Arrangement.] [All Eights Reserved.]

warders had departed, and the great white searchlight no longer flashed out from the prison. "Well," Doyle asked eagerly, "did you manage to get out of the scrape" George proceeded to explain. The conversation was carried on in whispers, with an eye to a prssible listener in the corridor beyond. The situation was strange enough—the man who had been so cruelly wronged sheltering under the roof of the man who had wronged him. "I am expected to leave here tomorrow directly after lunch," George said. "Beard was quite polite, but he made me understand that in a way there was no mistaking. The great thing is what to do with you. In the short time at our disposal " "Isn't there anybody here whom we could take into our confidence?" Doyle asked. "I have some kind of an idea," George said thoughtfully. "At the same time, I fancy that we have quite enough people in our confidence already, Still, it may be arranged. I suppose you haven't quite forgotten my sister, Gilbert?" ;§

"Indeed, no. Jolly little girl she used to be. But what could she do for me?"

"She might help you after lam gone. At any rate, I shall send her a little note the first thing in the morning asking her to come and see me before Igo to London. Of course I shall ask Mrs Cameron's permission, and I shall probably tell Sybil everything, or at least as much as I feel justified in telling her. And now, my dear fellow, let us go to sleep. I can hardly keep my eyes open; lam soddened to the marrow with fatigue."

CHAPTERX IVi THB|PHOrOGRAPH. Sir Devereux Drummond dragged himself slowly downstairs to the breakfast-room looking like the ghost of himself. The stern old soldier no longer held his head high; he had few words for Watro i, who came in with the breakfast. A brilliant sunshine was flooding the lawn and garden outside; the keen wind of the night before had dropped.

"Miss Sybil is not down yet, Sir Devereux," the old butler s:iid. "She will not be very long. Will you take some eggs and ham or a cutlet, sir?"

Sir Devereux waved his hand with the air of a man who cares for none of these things. Watson sighed as he handed over a cutlet. Like most clean-living men, Sir Devereux was in the habit of making an excellent breakfast. He noted tfie look of regret in Watson's face. "It's no use, my friend," he said. "I may become accustomed to it in time, but I will never be the same man again, Watson. I must go on living my life and attending to my duties, for it is only a coward who repines, and I have no right to rebel because the hand of the Lord is heavy on me. Is there any news this morning?" "Poachers out again last night, Sir Devereux. Supposed to be that fellow Marston again. But Ganes tells me they've cleared all the pheasants out of the Home Wood—the wood that you were going to shoot tomorrow, Sir Devereux." But the master of Grange Court did not appear to be listening. At any other time the news would have raised him to a pitch of furious indignation ; now he merely nodded and sighed. He glanced up with a watery smile on his face as Sybil came in. She looked white and drawn herself, and her eyes told of recent tears, though she had tried to hide the fact. For the first time for a very long while the pair sat down to breakfast in silence. There were letters by Sybil's side, but she did not heed them.

"We cannot go on in this way," Sir Devereux said presently. "Sybil, my dear, we had'better come to an understanding. George will never come here again—at least, I dnn't suppose that he will ever come in my lifetime. After I am dead and gone he will take the estates and ths title, and be the first coward who ever reigned here." "I don't like you to say that, uncle," Sybil whispered. It was impossible to restrain the tears any longer. "Of course, it is a terrible blow to both of us. It is always a terrible thing to find our loved ones with feet of clay. We have our cross to bear, dear, and we will bear it. But we cannot help clinging to those whom we love. Dear George will always be my brother and ypur nephew." (To be Continued.)