THE GRIP OF GOLD.

Gisborne Times, Volume XXX, Issue 3584, 25 July 1912, Page 3

THE GRIP OF GOLD.

By ROBERT HALIFAX.

(Author of “The Drums of Fate,” “The House of Horror,” “A Woman in Their Web,” “Law Society,” ect., etc.)

(Copyright—All Eights Reserved.) CHAPTER XXVI. WAS IT A WHITE LIE?

Reduced to one simple problem, what did it mean?—what could it have meant?

Down at the heart of the seething crucible, there lay ono concrete morsel ,of fact.

Assuredly armed with part or the whole of Spartan Loder’s revelation, the spurious nephew had descended those stairs with a purpose. Unexpectedly baulked by a locked door, by the sudden arrival of the man ho had most cause to dread, he had escaped by the adjoining apartment. That one fact must always stand out clear; his objective had been the library—this room, add no other. To obtain a paper, he had whispered. But that might be a pretext coined in tlio throes of the moment. What was the mute secret of this room? Think as he might, search as ho j might, the same haze of hideous in- j tangibility remained thick over it all. Another haze—the blue one of dusk—creeping across the park, found him still staring into the blank eyes of the mystery. Ail through those last twenty-four hours he had been drawn on and baffled at every turn. He abandoned it—for that day, at any rate. He sat down at Spartan Loder’s writing table and wrote swiit- I ly a long letter. It was addressed to Mr Crewe, the lawyer in London, and it ended with these words:— “We are face to face hero with a deep and growing horror. More than all. I realise that in taking that journey which ended here 1 have unwit- : tingly brought a shadow into the life j of a pure and sensitive woman—my late uncle’s ward. I must Ire cleared in her eves. For-her sake, more than my own, I intend that the mystery shall be stripped away in every detail. What, in my present position, would you counsel me to do that need not appear in every newspaper in the land ?” He waited until it was definitely dark, and then slipped quietly out to find Felcote town and post the letter with his own hands. Ho found it easily, and walked twice along the straggling main street. More than once lie had to smile inwardly as pas-sers-by turned breathlessly to stare after him, or a fugitive whisper shot past his ear. He was past feeling the thrill of an unpleasant leap into notoriety.* And then, of a sudden, he realised that another night had really come—that the shop windows were darkening one by one. He turned back out of Felcote with the impression that it was a picturesque little town only marred by one thing—its inhabitants. The hall clock hands stood at halfpast 9 when he reached the house again. Sophie, the pleasant-faced maid who answered his ring, had something to say, and gabbled through it nervously. “Jf you please, Air Spurr, I was to be sure and say that Mrs Saxon has taken train across to Barrowdene, on business, and might be a little late, if you don’t mind, sir. The last local train from there is always behind time, sir. The fly will bring her from Felcote. I think that was all I had to say, sir.” She could know nothing, but the hastiness with which she fled hack for j the servants’ quarters struck an in- j voluntary chill through him. They would watch him from somewhere, of course. He stood smoking for a while, in a hush so complete that he could well-nigh have fancied himself alone in the big hosue. Then, quite automatically, without any thought of sleep, he turned to go up to his own room. Ho had a question to fight out in tin’s silence—a question that he had stubbornly held at bay till now. Was Miss St. John’s indisposition a woman’s white lie? Was she, for some reason that time alone could prove, playing a part as only an actress could play it? Had she followed him along the coffin-like paths of the maze th.it day? If so—if so— God knew, ho could never trust the light in a woman’s eyes again. His room lay in the western corridor, that branched to the right from the head of the main staircase. He had reached the top stair, had paused, looking around. He would never know why—never know the name of the moment’s vague instinct—but he took a few steps along that corridor to the left. He had heard no sound, no footfall upon the. soft carpet; but he was just in time to feel the strangest sensation of his life—in time to see a figure, white, slow-moving, Ophelia-like, emerge from the branch passage, and stand still there. It was Sheba; Sheba St. John. No sound would pass the man’s lips. Perhaps not ten yards lay between himself and the figure. He could never 'no mistaken—a lamp hung from its chain just above her head.. It was Sheba. -* Now sbo had moved ah uncertain step nearer, and paused again, lier hand half put out like a blind man’s feeling the way. Her eyes were wide open—shining with a fixed, unseeing expression. She was gazing straight

past him, yet saw no one—nothing save, perhaps, the face and figure focussed in her dream. The low, husky word that had risen in his throat was never to sound. He stood, rooted by a thrill of awe and ’wonder. He knew now. It was Sheba; but Sheba moving in her sleep. Another step—another. Now she was so close that he could almost l’eel the warmth of her body; and not for his life could he have stirred or spoken. The white, oval, fragile face had the faintest ?,f sad smiles; her lips were moving in a sort of monotone. “Dead I Dead!” He caught those two soft words—words that wrote themselves upon his memory for ever. She would pass him; she would float down that stair; a cry of fear might ring through the house; it was his duty ns a man to do something—to see that no harm, came to her! A score of thoughts passed through him iii so many flashes, and faded as quickly. Sheba had put a hand to her eyes, as if struggling to recall her purpose; and now she was turning in the same uncertain way. All unconsciously tiro man’s feet moved him in the same direction.

Once more she pausc-d—in that same spot by the branch corridor. The wide blank eyes were turned toward a door farther along—the door of the room that had been Spartan Loder’s. A slow, quiet, haunting whisper readied him; a whisper never to be forgotten if he lived a hundred years. “She is here. I have seen her. She is here yet. She opened my door and stole across, and bent over me. And God told me. . . She knows all, hut will never speak. Never speak!” It was as if a wire had coiled tightly in .Wilfred Spurr’s brain. He had shot out a hand, and dared it almost before he knew, his own voice curious, ly calm. “She knows all? She is here? Tell me her name!” A long, quivering sigh ran down the slight white figure. Then the subdued breath came again, as if she were answering the voice of her dreams. “I know it—l know it now. She could tell all. Hush—listen !” For a minute he stood transfixed, watching her lifted hand, listening with her for something that would never sound. Then, as the hand went slowly down, he risked the low concentrated words again. “If you know that, tell me her name!” No! She looked beyond him a moment longer, and then, softly as a breath of summer wind, she was moving hack the way she had come—along that branch corridoi. And nothing, even in such a moment, gave him the right to follow farther. In her sice])! And no one but he might ever know! "She is here vet! . .. She knows all! . . . She will never speak!” Over and over he repeated the haunting words—and then his own. V\ ho? What is her name?” She. was staring ahead, echoing those words still, when a door clicked gently farther down the corridor. He had hut just time to slip back on an impulse from the lamplight into shadow. Out from that doorway craned a face. It looked both ways intently. A second, and it was gone. It had seen nothing : it had come like an answer to his question.

The face of a woman whom he had almost forgotten that day. She was here still—Sister Judith Cottrell! It meant nothing—nothing —he told himself, as he stood out with that deep breath. That sudden surge of vague sensation in him was due to unstrung nerves—horn of the moment’s queer coincidence. Nature s warning! In seven days he had known only a few hours of sleep. He was losing a hold upon his sanity. Itmust he that—could only he that! He. of all men. . . . He flung off all the stealth suddenly, squared his slruolders, strode forward, and tapped firmly at that door. (To Ik? continued dai'y.)