A DESPERATE GAME.

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXXII, Issue 10120, 15 October 1910, Page 2

A DESPERATE GAME.

(OUR SERIAL.)

By OWEN MASTERS, Author of "The Master of Tredcroffc," "One Impassioned Hour," "The Deverel Heritage," "When Love Rules the Heart," "Captain Emlyn's Bride," etc.

CHAPTER XX.—Continued. "He found my father lying dead across the table, and myself across the couch holding in my right hand the revolver, with which the deed had been committed. For the moment lie thought I had shot my father; and then, he says, it occurred to him, as lie was about to summon assistance, that whether I had or not, if I were found like that I should bo accused of it. So he took the revolver away from me and carried me to his car. The quick movement in the open air soon revived me,' and I had recovered from my unconsciousness before we had readied Kensington. But he would tell me nothing until he had seen Margaret, and she it was who broke the whole dreadful story to me. They took me to Coyton "next day, and we talked it over often and seriously, deciding at last that it would be better to come forward and tell what we knew. You know what happened to .prevent that. Did Mr Drew tell the story?"

horror that had met her in that fearful night. "When you went into the room," I said,, "were the lights burning?" I bit my lips immediately after I had uttered the words, for it was certainly a. foolish question from my point of view. But Constance, apparently, did not notice anything strange in it. "They were full on," she replied.

I shook my head. .['could see Why he should remain silent on that. If he came forward and'told-his story and was forced to wind up with the admission that Constance had again disappeared, it would but rivet the chains of suspicion upon her. But I did not explain this to her, though probably her quick woman's wit grasped it without that.

"Then you expected Maynard Drew that night—that night of the—of the tragedy?" I asked. "Oh, yes; I was waiting for him." It was an explanation of his presence there, a quite sufficient explanation, though the blood on his face and clothes, and his geuoi'al air of disorder <ind agitation, wore yet mysteries. I did not, however, question Constance on those. "And now," I said, "tell me how you came to be in the dining room when Drew found you, and of the revolver you were holding in your hand at the time." She hesitated a moment or two as if trying to collect her thoughts. "My father expected a visitor that night," she said. "I knew he expected one, but they were to dine together alone. Indeed, we thought I should have been away in Mr Drew's car before that. But the visitor was an hour before his time and Mr Drew was late, as I have told you. _ So I was still seated in my own sittingroom when my father's guest rang the bell."

"Who went to the door?" I interposed. "Nora; the other servant was out."

"Yes?" l "She took the man into the dining room where the dinner dishes were laid ready, and called my father. Ten minutes later I heard the sound of high voices and went to the door of my room, wondering. It was then I heard your name." "Never mind my name," I interrupted. "I want to hear of the crime."

"Oh, but I must tell you this," sho wont on breathlessly. "I could not look you in the face if I did not tell you this, even though you should never speak to me again." "I do not ask you to tell me, dear-

est." "I heard my father say," she continued, apparently heedless of my words, "I heard my father say, 'lf I went and told Ronald Normington that lie was innocent of tlie Coyton robbery, he would give ' "The other man swore a loud oath. " 'lf you did that ' he cried, then broke off with a laugh and went on : 'But if you did that you would have to tell him that you were the thief.' 'Not at all,' I v heard my father say, and I could tell he was not in a temper like the other. 'I should only have to tell him who was the thief, who it was tricked him into five years penal servitude.' "Then their voices became suddenly quiet and I returned to my room. I did not understand it at all, because I did not know the whole story. But you may judge I was troubled about it, and I did not know what to do." "One moment. Did you tell Drew of this—of this conversation?" "No; 1 have not mentioned it to i anybody before this. But I asked them some questions about you. Probably I shotild have told him and Margaret of this also—though I did not know. He was my father, you see." "Yes, but please, conthme." "I went back to my room, and sat thinking and wondering, when suddenly I heard a loud noiss, like the report of a gun. I sprang out of my chair and stood for a minute or two dazed and bewildered, fancying there had been an explosion. Then J heard the dining room door open, and somebody rushed into the hall. "I gathered my wits together and ran into the dining room, and there J saw my father lying across the table, the blood flowing from his head on to the cloth.' Oh, it was horrible —horrible! I staggered across the room, intending to reach the bell, and there lying on the opposite side of the table, was a revolver. Hardly knowing what I did, I took it in my hand, and then I suppose I must have collapsed, for I remember nothing more that occurred until I came to myself in Mr Drew's car." She paused, breathless, her bosom rising and falling rapidly with the force of her. emotion, her eyes gazing viewlessly past me as if. in the distance, she could see again the

And yet when I had entered the room it was in darkness. The only inference was that someone had been in detween the moment at whicli Constance had collapsed and that at whicli I had entered.

"Then you think it was this man, this—tins visitor who killed your, father?"

"Yes, oh, yes. Who else could it have been?"

That was true, and that was the measure of my own danger. It was very evident to me that I was the expected guest—the man who had come had been unexpected. Were the fact of my appointment with Mr Vanneck known, suspicion would inevitably fasten itself on me." "Did you know who was coming to see Mr Vanneck ? Did your father tell vou ...his name?"

"Oh, no! He had many visitors—busines men whom I did not know. I was to have been away, you see, before he came." "You did not see the man at all?" "No." "But you heard his voice?" "Oh, yes." "Did you recognise it?" "Recognise the voice? No, I don't think so. . The man was very angry, and even if I had known him I might not have known the voice under those circumstances." "Was it like—er—like Maynard brew's, for instance?"

"Oh, no; not in the least." "Like mine, then?" "No, no; it wasn't your voice. I should have known your voice." There was a subtle undercurrent of meaning in her tone which I did not stay to analyse, though it sent my pulses bounding with delicious vigor.

"Just one question more: Nora Hardcastle Jet him in?" "Yes." "Then she must have seen him?"

:( Ye-e-es, I suppose so. I never thought of that; but, of course, she must."

"She, too, has disappeared." "Yes," with a shudder of dread; "do you think he killed her, too?" "No; I should hardly think so," I replied thoughtfully; "but she has gone. Why should she disappear? What had she to fear?"

"I do not know," Constance wearily replied. "It is a horrible mystery."'

CHAPTER XXI

THE INCRIMINATING LETTER,

"The story as Miss Vanneck lias told it is perfectly correct," Maynard said, "but it is not the whole story. That I have not'yet told, but I took the precaution to write it down and place it, properly signed and attested, with my lawyer. I did this on the day following the tragedy while we were still debating the advisability of coming forward. I ■wanted to arange matters so that I might be quite certain the story, when it did come, was not an after invention of my own." "And what is the additional story ? Is it a secret?" I asked.

"No; I am going to tell you all now."

We were, seated in the tiny parlour of a little whitewashed cottage facing the sea, about five or six miles from Portsmouth. It had been left to Margaret by an aunt, and they had retained it, furnished it simply, and used it 'for week ends and short holidays of that description. Margaret had replied to my letter with the utmost promptitude, and had borne off Constance to Neithcrleigh, which they deemed to be a safer refuge for her than Coyton would have been. Both Margaret and Maynard had insisted that I should accompany them, partly, I believe, out of kindness to me, and partly that they might hear my story in full. "I am going to tell you now," Maynard went on. "The addition I have made is brief but highly important. J called for Miss Vanneck, as ) we had arranged, being, as you know, a little behind the appointed time, owing to a mishap with the car. I had just entered the garden when I, beard a shot, and then, as I approached nearer, the front door was suddenly flung open, and a man came running out. I suppose he must have thought I would impede liis progress—though I bad really no absolute intention of the sort, being, to tell the truth, taken by surprise—for he raised the cane he was carrying in. his right hand and aimed a. blow at me which caught me on j the cheek, inflicting a wound from which the blood flowed freely ,but which was not in itself serious. Not content with that, ho made a rush at me and deliberately tripped me up. By the time I had recovered he was gone ; but when I did get up I gave chase. I saw him pass a lamp-post about one hundred yards ahead, and then turn a corner, and after him I went. I caught one more glimpse of him as I swung round the bends but that was the last though I went some distance in that direcion."

(To be Continued.)