The Scales of Justice.

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXX, Issue 8516, 22 August 1907, Page 2

The Scales of Justice.

CHAPTER XVl.—Continued. The long day dragged on, the dark fell, the Doom of the clock in the village told of the sullen passing of the hours. It was nearly ten o'clock now and there was no sign of Jessie coming back to take her friend to the cottage. Doyle was getting restless and uneasv. He felc at last that he must try and find the cottage for himsolf. Perhaps something had happened to Jessie. At any rate, he could not stay there any longer. More bv good fortune than anything else" he blundered on to the cottage. There was a light in the little sitting room, and the sound of somebody ' unmistakably sobbing. Doyle ventured to look in. Jessie sat with or.e boot off and a great swellinground her slim ankle. Her pitiable look changed as Doyle came in. "Oh, 1' am so glad you came—so glad!" she said. "1 slipped and fell. I can't put my foot to the ground. And my father has met with an accident, too. He sent a message by a boy to say so- a message on a scrap of paper. In the big wood by the keeper's lodge. And if my poor father is found there they will send him to prison. Oh, my dear kind sir, can't you think of any way to help my poor father?" Doyle stooped and kissed the p.-etty, quivering little face. , "I can," he said pithily. "Keep your courage up! I'll go to your father myself."

CHAPTER XVII. THE CAUSE OF HUMANITY. The child's eyes sparkled, and a little April smile crossed over her dark face. Gilbert's heart went out to her. It' was plain, too, that Jessie was keenly anxious about her father. "It was very unfortunate," she said. "I ought to have besn more careful. I should have though*; more about my father. He is everything that I have left, you see." Gilbert bent and kissed the trembling lips of the child. His own case was sorry enough, but that of Jessie seemed to be worse, tied as she was to the dissolute scoundrel called Marston. And yet there must have been good in the man, or Jessie would not be so concerned. "My father has these attacks,"

the girl went on, with the air of a middle-aged woman. "He has cancer and will never be any better. The pain affects \iis heart, and sometimes he will lie for hours without moving, so great is the pain. And if he is caught by the keepers in the woods he will go to prison." •'How did he manage to send the message?" Gilbert asked. - "By a boy. I expect he dragged himself to" the edge of the wood, and then back to the place that we both know of. If I was all right I could go there on the darkest night. My father taught me all about the woods and how to feel my way in the dark. And now I have hurt my and I cannot do him any good at all." And Jessie's tears began to flow again. It was perhaps a foolish thing on Gilbert's part, but he could not behold the little one's distress and do nothing. Heaven only knew how important his meeting with Flora Cameron was, but he decided to risk missing that. A man could not, however abandoned, be out in the woods all night. "Don't cry," Gilbert said. "I'll do what I can for you. If Miss Cameron comes here to see me, tell her what has happened, and if she can't wait for me, perhaps she will leave a message. Only I don't know the woods as you do. Will you tell me the way to go? I knew a lot about woods and forests in Mexico, so don't suppose that an English thicket will puzzle me." "But the woods are very thick," Jessie replied. "There are swamps that even the keepers do not go near at night. Sometimes cattle stray into them and get suffocated. "You will give my father the cry of the nightjar, like this"—imitating the call of that bird— "then, if he is near, he will know that it is. a j friend, and direct you how to get to him. You start from the little white gate and go through straight down the" big ride where they stand to x shoot the pheasants. Half-way down is a pile of hop-poles, and you take the path by them till you come to a hut. Then there is a path down hill that leads you to the edge of the swamp. You will see a broken old boat there. Then stand still and give the call. Now, lam going to repeat that again till you get it by heart."

Gilbert had it by heart at length and was ready to start. The night was darker than he had expected, and by the time he had reached the big ride he began to have an uncomfortable idea that he had lost his

way. He could just make out the faint outline of the bare tree-tops against the sky-line, afar off he could hear the bleating of sheep. Holding

his hand a little distance off, he could not see it at all. He blundered on and on, looking in vain for the pile of hop-poles. He was about to turn back and begin all over again when he faintly discerned the pyramid of sticks. He almost wished he had not come. Why should he risk his free■uom and happiness, to say nothing of the happiness of an innocent girl, for the sake of a poacher who was a pest to society? And yet, in the cause of humanity, Gilbert told himself that he must persevere. Well, here was the pile of hop-poles at last, so that up to the present there had been ro mistake. And suddenly Gilbert realised the fact that he had another danger to contend wUi. What if he should stumble

By FRED BET. WHIT®, [Published By Special Arrangement.] [All Eights Reserved.]

across a keeper or two and be arresteel on a charge of poaching? If that happened he would be back at Greystone before many hours were over his head. The reality of this danger stimulated Gilbert's sense of hearing, and he strained his ear for sounds. And presently the sound came—a peculiar, dull humming, as if a swarm of angry bees were close by. Something was coming heavily along, and a second later a brilliant light illuminated the road on either side.

Gilbert looked at the light in astonishment. What was the great humming motor doing on such a bad road? He was standing in + 'ront of a powerful Mecedes, and as his eyes grew accustomed to the light he saw two men were inside. They were both swathed in furs, with goggles and peaked caps. The car was creeping along like some monster that had strayed from its lair. Doyle could see that the thing was painted a dead black, not a speck of brass being visible. He stood in the broad lane of blazing light, forgetful of the fact that he was picked out in full view of the occupants of the car. The big Mercedes stopped altogether. "Say, can you put us on the right track?" the man next the driver asked. "We've gone by a local guide-book, and that's let us down badly." ! Gilbert recognised the accent at once. He had not travelled in Mexico and the Southern States of America for nothing. The speaker came from the State of Virginia, and Gilbert wanted nobody to tell him that. It was a pleasant voice, with the faintest trace of a nasal drawl; indeed, few people who had no knowledge of the South would have recognised it, but the voice spoke plainly to Doyle. "Where do you want to go?" he asked. These must be some wealthy Americans, with their national idea that all roads are public property. "You're off the main track altogether. There is a right-of-way for the rjublic through the ride, but not for wheels. How did you get here?" "Through a gate that was off its hinges. We concluded from the guidebook that we were making a short cut of it. Can we get out at the other end?"

"Oh, yes, if you keep straight on," Gilbert "explained. "It's about half a mile to the lane proper. Turn to the right and you'll strike the main road." "Thanks very much! And how far is it to Castleford?" "Upon my word, I don't know," Gilbert stammered. "I am a stranger in these parts, and " "Haven'tthe bump of locality very well developed," the questioner said, with a short laugh. He started his hand to the guiding wheel of the machine, and Gilbert saw that the hand was smaller than a man's band usually is, just as if it had been shrivelled by an accident, and badly hurt, many years before. "You don't know how far it is to Castleford, and here you are wandering about this wood as if it were Piccadilly with the gas on. Well, I guess it is no business of ours, and I thank you kindly for your information." There was something gay about the speaker's tones that was utterly devoid of offence. Still, the point was neatly made, as Gilbert was bound to admit. He laughed in reply, and the great Mercedes began to move again. It hummed and boomed, then it seemed to Gilbert as if it had stopped again, for the lights vanished, and there was no more sound beyond the scatter of a frightened rabbit or two.

But all this was takiiag time, so Gilbert pressed on again till be came to the spot where the broken boat lay, and "found it, with some little trouble. He lifted up his voiee, and gave the cry of the night-jar. He called out again and again before any reply came. The reply was faint, but more like the call of the bird than his imitation was. He hesitated to speak; it*was possible, that keepers were lurking near. But at length he uttered Marston's name in a low voice. The response seemed to come from close by. "You need not be afraid of the keepers," the faint, shrewd voice said. "I have taken care of that, and sent them on a wild-goose chase to the far side of the home spinney. Who are you?" "Perhaps I had better know who you are first," Gilbert said. "If you are James Marston " i "Oh, I am James Marston, right enough. I can venture to tell you that, because you would never find me although you are close by. Only blunder a few steps forward in the dark, or even in the daylight, for that matter, and you would never live to see the outer world again. Yes, you are talking to James Marston, who is down on his back, wilii the eagles preying on his very vitals. Who sent you to me?" (To be continued.)