THE GRIP OF GOLD.

Gisborne Times, Volume XXX, Issue 3567, 5 July 1912, Page 3

THE GRIP OF GOLD.

By ROBERT HALIFAX. jj (Author of “The Drums pf Fate,” I “The. House of Horror,” “A Woman I. in Their Web,” “Law Society,” i ect., etc.)

J (Copyright—All Rights Reserved.) - CHAPTER IX. No—no! Nothing sounded. The heavy, grizzled head turned impotently, wanderingly, on its pillow. “Then,” she whispered, fighting hack her sob, “you’ll let mo sing—something that you know and one© liked. That sweet Christmas carol that you wok© me once to com© down and hear—yes, you ! There were tears in your eyes that night. It had taken you back to days when you were a boy, and could be thrilled by the Christinas carols! We stood down there on the balcony—you and I alone. You did not wish the servants to know. Ilarrowdene bells wore ringing out. You remember that grand old song?” She began in a soft, clear voice. He would recall it—lie would turn to look at h©r —those tears might even film again in his old eyes. No!- Gradually her voice weakened and failed. He was listening—still listening—as if ready to fling the coverlets and sway up with the last shout j but Sheba’s voice could not reach him. His hands twitched away. It was all over—she could bear it no longer. After all, she had no real call upon Spartan Loder’s last thoughts. Not the faintest ! She could hear C'arlotta. Barrington’s silver laugh peal out at the bare suggestion to-night. “Then, good night!” she breathed. “Not Good-bye—only good night. Remember, if you want me!” She had turned. She had to look one© again. Were his lips moving? Bending incredulously, she caught a few faint, gasping words—words she was never to forgot. “Make—make haste, Wilfred .... Sands running out, hoy! To-night or never—no longer! . . . . Pay price for all .... You little dream .... Heavan help us all!” She could not move. It set her heart throbbing in sick, heavy beats. Second only to fear was her yearning desire to help him in time. “Heaven, will! Don’t worry! He will be here yet, in time to know all —something tells me! He shall hear of it the moment he sets foot in Felcote. Trust Shoba there!” And that one hushed word struck a chord. His hand was groping out for her. His voice strained. “Sheba! Whore is she? I said it; I meant it—no other way! It’s there,' in black-and-white, that no man can set aside. Make haste, Wilfred! Make haste, if—you—want—your— wife!” Wife! For the instant it was as if lightning had forked down and laid bare tho confused labyrinths of his brain. For the instant she could not bring herself to touch him again. A wife! The syllable had left his lips as if it were the key to all the mystery. Wilfred—and a wife? Then—then he had some hold upon hi- nephew; had dared him to wed tho woman of his choice; had perhaps stood grimly between them all these years; and now hungered to withdraw the ban ore it was too late. Or else --or else it meant that this Wilfred Spurr could not marry without the money which his uncle in England alone could give him. Who was the yoman ? Might she be on her way to Felcote, too? Might she, in a few weeks more, he mistress here? She looked round instinctively to know if it had been overheard—if Sister Judith Cottrell had stolen back just in time. No! And the momentary flash of illumination had faded out. It was ail a misty, inexplicable blank again. She had listened to some delirious fragment! And next ? Days afterwards she could dimly recollect nerving herself to smooth his damp forehead arid adjust his pillows. And then she had that sudden awe of the silence and the big old-fahsionod room, every oaken panel of which' seemed to reflect and distort her shadow. What was happening? Was tho lamp quits safe?—would lie wish its light to fall at that angle across ,liii face? With trembling hands she moved it back a little, cl row the curtains, and now was closing the door softly. It seemed hard and unnatural to leave him to that stark loneliness, even for a minute now. When might Doctor Lancing return ? Where could Judith Cottrell be? Possibly in the next room—the room that, had been prepared for her private convenience, but which she had seldom used. Or, perhaps, she had taken the chance for. her daily spell of fresh air in the quiet drive below. Sheba felt sure of nothing,to-night. She had paused in the corridar, a hand pressed hard to her temples. She must let some of this pallor fade out of her face. “To-night or never !” tire pregnant words ran through her brain. Had he meant' that—was it ( given to him to know ? To-morrow ! Tho word had an awful hollow sound, as she repeated it to herself. “Oh, for one friend!” she said, over ( and over again. “Oh, if his nephew would only- come, for this suspense to < break!” J It was just as she had reached the , stair-liead. .As if in direct answer, . there came that never-forgotten noise " of hoofs and wheels on the gravel path ( out there. Some vehicle pulled rip '

sharply, seemed to wait bafoly a moment, and then was rattling slowly away again. Simultaneously the wire running round tho galleried hall creaked and strained. The house-hell periled again and again, as if tho visitor wore wrenching away in a fever of impatience. Not the doctor ! He had discarded carriage-wheels for tho elegant Panhard car long sine©—and Dr. Gilbert Lancing’ s delicate fingers would never ring in that way if life itself depended upon the sound. Spurr! Wilfred Spurr, at last! The dogged London lawyers had triumphed; those persistent advertisements had reached their goal. In the psychological moment Wilfred Spurr had reached Felcote to learn his fate. She know it—knew it. Days later she could not recollect experiencing tho supreme, sweeping thrill which tho moment seemed to justify. All seemed deadened. She was only conscious of asking herself •one qniet little question. Should she fly back to that room and prepare him for his effort?—or should she wait, and make quite sure ? She stood quite still at tho foot of j the first flight. She could see nearly ! tho whole length of the hall passage; j she could realise a murmuring and commotion at the far end. Craning a little, she watched Mrs. Saxon wave back the servants and sweep for the door herself in her stateliest manner. Again the boll jangled with unnerving fierceness—the housekeeper broke in- • t) a, run. Just as the door-chain j clinked, and the scales of chance still i swung, something made Sheba glance upward. There, craning over the top balustrade, staring intently down past her, was Sister Judith Cottrell. That same instinct had flashed throughout the house like a telepathic telegram, j The hall door was-firing back. The j sudden, muffled silence was cut by a 1 lmsky, anxious voice : “Mr. finder!” it panted. “This is it—the Manor House? Am I ” “Indeed, sir, yes! Then, you are * 3 “Spurr! Wilfred Spurr! Heavens, why do you all . ... You don’t say I’m too late!” The reply was not to come from Spartan Loder’s housekeeper. Almost ere anyone could seem to grasp the one vital fact—just as Sheba caught her glimpse cf a dark, olive-faced man i i a soft felt bat and fur-trimmed travelling ulster—Sister Judith Cottrell’s calm, penetrating voice had carried down to the hall far below. “Is it Mr. Wilfred Spurr? This way—this way,, at once—if you hope to see Mr. Loder alive!” (To be continued daily.)