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"The Chains of Bondage."

OHaPTEK IV.—Continued. | I Judith d&ew a deep brea:h; then , nerved herself to go forwaid into the | room and light the gad. She was | very white and shaken —a ceaseless , quivering ran over her nerves; b'lt she could trust herself now not to j surrender to any panic impulse, though the sight of what the sucden glare of yellow light revtalid, prepared fpr it though she was, made her face whiten more; ' The dead man ..had fallen back against the foot rail of the bf'r*, still maintaining a stiff. temi-Lpiigr.t j position. On the floor lay ihe weapon that had stabbed G.lbert tiardr.ts to the heart. Jhe woman's shuddering feyes> recognised it—a Norwegian clasp knife that had belonged to her husband. There were signs of a j struggle in the disordered, room—a struggle thai could not have taken place so long ago, for that datk stain o.i t u carptt was still wet. VW o have done thi* deed? 1 Wuy should any one have dune it? J The questions beat through the stress of her confused thoughts, finding no answer. For a moment 'Judith looked at the dead face el he man from whom she had paited lot i i anger; into the first, bewilder,/ ,i )r; ; ftt<pf her face a sudden, so* xprtssion .had found its nis Ucatuiem of her had killed any respect or affection lo..» with the bitter mpmoriea of their married life thus u.g.L- 'I voided, this woman was tioi co i.a».u<,uca as not to ba moved by a rush of womanly pity now. Judith suddenly averted her eyes; the tension of her overwrought nerves was becoming unendurable. As she turned, remembering the purpose that .had brought her to the room, she crossed quickly to a chest and from one of the drawers took some small object; then made her way from the room, closing the door after her, feeling that not for worlds could she have nerved herself to open that door again. Outside in the passage, sick and dizzy with a momentary famtness, she had to support herself by the fra.me of the door before she could walu.back to the sitting room. She sank into a chair, and tried to force her thoughts into control. What waa[she ta do?

Ten minutes ago all her plans had been formed. She had determined to her huababd, to slip out of this life forever—shu and her child—leaving no hint or clue by which toe could trace her. This woman in the depths had recognised how vital it was to cut herself free of any link with the past fivs years, before she came forward to claim Ueorge Craven's fortune.

To step back into tbat position in the world of tociety that was hers by right ot birth—tbat luring ambition dazzled her. A d the way back had seemed possible to George Craven's heiiess. Her father's sin would be conveniently forgiven. Why should any one visit it upon her? The barred gates would fly back now. If she could only cancel those last five years of her life!

If she could only do that! Her marriage with a disreputable racecourse tipster, the degrading, vagabond existence, her husband's association with the lowest faange*s-on of the turf in tihady schemes that had unco brought him within the clutches of the law—if all that sordid story were to be raked up, despite all her wealth she would be looked at askance. Doors that would otherwise have opened lo tier would remain closed; it would taint her future. And, realising that, she had laid her desperate plana accordingly—before her husband's death had changed everything. The woman drew a suaden, deep breath as she stared through the open window, where the night wind stirred the folds of the undrawn curtains. Was anything really changed so far as she was concerned? Nothing need be changed—so long as she did not raise the alarm, tu become a prominent figure in the subsequent proceedings, that would be reported at ltngth in every fpaper in England, making it impossible for George Craven's heiress in the future to conceal her identity with the murdered man's wife. Was she to _do that? "From this hour to-night the woman who married Gilbert Hardress is dead!" she whispered to herself, with a sudden note of resolution. "And for Jdith Fairfax a new life begins!" It would be easy to make her preparations for flight—to slip away from here, leaving others to make the tragic disccvtry. Before the tl.rm was raised, the would take away her boy from her husband's relatives on some pretext, to disappear uiterly before any inquiry fot her v»as made. jt was a desperate risk, perhaps.; but, as once before to-rnght, thia white-faced woman to herself: "I'll take the risk! I'll gamble with lato!"

And circumstances were fighting for her. Long before her marriage she—fl mere girl at the time when her lather "went mider"—had dropped out of the sight of all who had

L ——• i £ BY EMILY B. HETHEEINGTON. 5 ? ? I* Author of—" His Colleg3 Chum, 3 ' " Worthington's t* Pledge," " A Repentant Foe," etc. 5

known her as the daughter of Ccptain Fairfax. And when, later, she had left her father to pursue a stage career, thin daughter of a dishonoured man, en - bittered by the reflected stigma of his shame, had made a new start under another name—the oniy name by which Gilbert Hardress had known her. The severance with the old life had been so complete that Judith felt that there was no poa. if-le clue through her name by which she could- be traced ; "Thd.only risk to fesris in the chance recognition of some one who has known n.e as the wife of Gilbert Hardress," she said to herself now—"who, even in such a case, would doubtless be convinced it was merely one of those chance resemblances such as life is full of. Who could dream of looking for Judith Hardress in George Craven's niecv, the heireus to his millions?"

Yet, there was a risk—the desperate woman was cot blind to the fact. But she would take it, as a gambler takes a risk. Her mind was made up. The stake was so great, it was worth gambling for. Almost as the thoughts were in her mind, Judith had begun to make her preparations for flight. She set to work with feverish haste. Her one consuming desire now was to be gone from this place of horror; the very silence that setmsd to hang like a heavy pall affected her nerves, strung to an acute tension. Her eyrs seemed haunted by an indelible mental picture of that grim, terrible tenant beyond the closed door of the bedroom. Thank Heaven, she would at least not have to enter that room again! What she had brought away from its hiding place in a drawer in that room was a small amount of money that, unknown to frer ■ fins'txm), she had contrived to save Ui u> »-•<£ tu time against emergency—sufficient to enable her to cany out her plans now.

fortunately, the few things .she would need to take with her on her flight were in this room. Hurriedly she placed them in a small hand bag. Only one thing detained ner now; she must not leave a photograph of hereejf behind, perhaps to be reproduced m the papers,, to her subsequent undoing. The only photographs taken were some for professional purposes during her brief stage career, more than five years ago; she had had nun« taken since. Women without friends, and married unhappily, like herself, have small concern with photographers. Une photograph, standing on the mantel, she proceeded to remove from its cheap frame; the rest were, she remembered, stowed away some where in the battered writing table. In a fever of haste she ransacked drawer after drawer, emptying their contents on the floor in her growing, frenzied impatience.

At last she found them. Her hand closed on the packet. Then, as she drew it out, Judith turned suddenly with a startled look, in an intent, listening attitude. Some one was mounting the staircase of the house. What if those footsteps were coming to these rooms? Judith started to her feet, still clutching the handbag "into which she had hastily photographs, waiting breathlessly, lhe next moment there was a knock at the door; the sound seemed to strike at her heart. .Suddenly this woman that to be found here on the scene of the tragedy, evidently with no intention of raising an alarm, would look fat ally suspicious. Then the knock was repeated. Who could this visitor be? Judith felt an insane desire to scream in the deepening nervous tension that held her. "If it should be Mrs Whyte! And she has a Key!" That territying thought came to her as she stood waiting breathlessly, dreading tojhear a key turn in the lock. iwra Whyte was a woman who came in to do household work in the mornings, in whose care the flat was left while they were away in London. What if her visitor were this wo-' man, and, receiving no answer to her knocking, she were to let herself in unceremoniously with the key bv which she was accustomed to admit herself each morning before the Hardresaes were up? A profound silence followed Jthe second kiiock. Had the unknown visitor gone? In her highly strung, abnormal state Judith could not trust her senses; a sea seemed to be beating in her ears, drowning sound. TO BE CONTINUED

Permanent link to this item
Hononga pūmau ki tēnei tūemi

https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers/WAG19100720.2.3

Bibliographic details
Ngā taipitopito pukapuka

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXXII, Issue 10045, 20 July 1910, Page 2

Word count
Tapeke kupu
1,586

"The Chains of Bondage." Wairarapa Age, Volume XXXII, Issue 10045, 20 July 1910, Page 2

"The Chains of Bondage." Wairarapa Age, Volume XXXII, Issue 10045, 20 July 1910, Page 2

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