The Scales of Justice

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXX, Issue 8527, 3 September 1907, Page 2

The Scales of Justice

CHAPTER XXlll.—Continued. "If the change was permanent, all I should have uune would have been to insist that Jolm f/mcaster should teil you of his past; if I had deemed that he was only playing a part, I had nnde up my mind to enlighten you as to his truo character. But there is no OL-casion to i,'o into that now. Unhappily, all my fears have proved to be true." Svbil walked by the side of her new friend in silence. She was crushing the pain out o T . her heart; her p'-ide was cumins: to her assistance. She would not think any more of her own trouhle, but throw herself whollv into the consideration of the trialsand difficulties of others. She was about to ask a question about Gilbert Doyle when little Jessie appeared, coming from the direction of the woods, with a letter in her hand. "I was to give you this as soon as possible," she said. "It came from the gentleman who is at the cottage. I was to be sure to give it to nobody but vou, miss." Flora tore the note open and glanced at it hurriedly. Then she reduced the paper to tiny fragments. ♦''lt is from Gilbert Doyle," she explained. "He says that he has made a great discovery, and desires to see Captain Drummond at once. Will you send him to Anna's cottage?" "Without a moment's delay," said Svbil. "I'll go back here and now."

CHAPTER XXIV. THE LIGHT THAT FAILED. As w ; il be remembered, Gilbert Doyle had remained hidden in the belt of trees outside Breckland Lodge; whilst George Drummond returned to Tower Royal. Doyle had made up his mind to stay there even if he had to remain till daylight. It seemed to him that he was on the verge of some great discovery affecting his honour and his future happiness, so that he was filled with the patience that follows a great resblution. He stood with his back to a tree and his teeth shut together—a resolute expression on his face. The best part of an hour passed without anything taking place. People were leaving the castle now, for George could hear the carriages one after another rolling along the road. It was some time later before one of them paused and turned into the gate leading to the lodge. The lamps were brilliant, so that Gilbert could see all that was taking place. First came Beard, looking big and strong. He stood in the full flare of the lamplight, so that there was no mistaking the burly figure. If Gil- : bert had any doubt before, it was removed now; beyond question, there ; stood the mysterious doctor of the ocean sttamee, the man who had planned his ruin. Then came Madame Regnier, or Mrs Dunlop-Gordon, as she preferred to be called at present. Gilbert felt a grim satisfaction in taking in his enemies. He wondered what they would say if they knew how close he was to them; he sa N the third man alight; he could hear a fragment or two of the whispered conversation as the group stood on the doorstep after the carriage had driven round to the stable-yard. "Go in and wipe them out, I should sav," Beard growled. ""You talk like the villain of som2 cheap melodrama. As if one did that kind of thing except in the slums of some large town. Would you bury the bodies in a lima-kiln, or how?" "fliw burn the motor-car as well," the third man sneered. Gilbert rightly judged the third man to be Ronald Cardrew. "There must bo some more ingenious way than that, Beard." "Well, let us go and get it over, ' Beard replied. "The best thing to be done is to send all the servants to bed. your own maid included. We don't want any eavesdropping here." The door opened, and the form of a footman stood out in the strong light for a moment. Gilbert could see that the house was lighted by electricity. Then the door closed, and presently a shadow or two flitted across the blind in the drawing-room. With a view to hearing what was taking place, Gilbert crept across the grass and stood close to the window. He was conscious of a confused murmur of voices; then there was a woman's scream, and a figure came staggering back heavily against the window, and one of the big sheets of plate-glass cracked and scattered all over the grass outside. Gilbert felt his pulse quivering. * He would have given much to be insidefat that minute. But the outburst" seemed to have passed as quickly a= it had risen, for silence followed, and then somebody inside laughed with a suggestion of humour.

'"I am sure there is no occasion for anything of this kind," a woman said. Gilbert recognised tnat voice with a thrill of remembrance. It was Madame J who spoke. The conversation could be plainly heard now. "Jarr.ei,. we have had an accident, and broke 0,-3 of the windows. No, you need not trouble about it now. Captain Cardrew will put the shutters to before he goes to bed. Bring in the supper-tray and a box of cigarettes, and then you can all retire. We shall want nothing e'se to-night." T e voice was singularly clear and even, Gilbert thought. But then Madame Regnier had ever been a woman who had her nerves under perfect control. Another silence followed; there was the musical tinkle of crystal glassss; then the scratching of matches, followed by the close of the oining-room door. The blind obscured Gilbert's vision; he could not see in the least what was going on now;

By FRSB I. WHITE,

[Published: By Special Arrangement.] [All Piights Reserved.]

but he judged that tho footman had done all that was demanded of him and retired for the night. "Well, I suppose you regard this as being tolerably free and easy," one of the strangers said. It was not difficult to follow his American accent. "Didn't expect to ses rae ; eh, Beard?" "IdidnV Beard responded. "I hoped that I should nev.ir look on your face again. And if you think that you can come here to play your Southern tricks, you are, mistaken. It's all very well out yonder, where the strong arm is a law in itself, but not in England. Besides, I am protected as long as the child lives." "So long as your daughter remains a ]j ve _ yeSf " the other stranger said. He had a deeper voice than his confederate, as Gilbert did not fail to notice. "But she is very ill." "Yes; but she is getting gradually better," Beard cried eagerly. "Under my care she will become quite strong and well again. She was going'to marry a scoundrel, who was stolen away from her side at the altar itself. It was a merciful escape for the poor child, but the shock nsarly killed her, Delamere." "We should like to see your daughter, Winifred," the first American explained. Gilbert pinched himself to make sure that he was awake. There could be no question of the fact that the strangers were discussing Winifred Cawdor. There was no other girl whose marriage had been broken off on the wedding morning, and here were three strangers who seemed to know all about it speaking of Winifred Cawdor as Beard's daughter! And Gilbert had known Mary and Winifred Cawdor for years. He had known the girl's father before he died. There must be some strange j mistake here.

"We have come four thousand miles to see the child," the deepvoiced stranger said. I "And so you shall," Beard growled. "I admit that you have the right on your side." "Well, yes, seeing that she is the daughter of our own sister," the deep voice went on. "It is now one-and-twenty years ago to-morrow since you came out to Virginia on what you called a scientific expedition.' We extended you the same hospitality that we give to all educated strangers. We were kind to you, though we have our racial pride. Our priie is as the pride of the Jews—we look upon ourselves as a race apart. And we are as' particular whom our women marry as the highest caste tribes in India. The idea that you would look upon Ada with "eyes of affection never dawned upon us.

"But you did look with eyes of affection upon her; you asked her to be your wife. You thought she was an heiress, but she was nothing of the kind. We laughed your proposal to scorn; we did not desire to let our blood mingle with yours. You went away and after a time Ada followed you, and you were married in New York. "We had the right to kill you. No Virginian jury would have cahed that a crime. You were marked down as the victim of the oldest and sternest vendetta in the world. We found you at last in California and we came to take your life. That was only a little over a year after your marriage. You happened to be away on business at j the time, which probably accounts for the fact that you are standing 10 big and scrong on that hearth-rug tonight. We found our sister with a tiny child in her arms, and she was starving. You had gone away, and abandoned her to her fate. That is why I kicked you through the window when you entered the room. If I had had a revolver in my hand I should have shot you. But my brother, who is cooler than I am, suggested a quieter way of dealing with the matter. I apologise for the blow in the presence of a lady. Madame Regnier, as a lady and a Virginian herself, forgives me." "Let it be taken for granted, and get on," Madame Regnier said coolly. "There is not much more to say. We were going to kill that man. But we loved our sister in spite of all that she had done, and Beard was her husband. We took her home, and we promised to spare that man's life. But we did not promise to spare him after a certain time; we did not promise to spare him after our sister's death. For twenty years he has imagined that he has given us the go-by, and that his whereabouts were not known to us. He is quite wrong, for we have known all his movements for many years. But our sister is dead, and we are free of our promise. Somebody mudt have warned him, for he failed to walk into our ■. trap in the woods the other night, i Not that we went to kill him there and then—oh, no! we had a better plan than that. What it is he will i know in good time. At present, he i is spared for the sake of his daugh- ; ter, our sister's child." (To be Continued.)