THE FIRST LAW

Akaroa Mail and Banks Peninsula Advertiser, Volume LXIV, Issue 6581, 31 October 1939, Page 4

THE FIRST LAW

BT G. C. AIfDMSWB,

(Oar readers wo informed that all characters in this story are purely and if the name of any living person happens to be mentioned ho personal rafleetioa is intended.)

ALL RIGHT RESERVED

..... . — *Bfggar Mr Lftdf," "Hia Hour," "The Hoaae of Mnrgatroyd/' Ete.

CHAPTER XXIII

ALISON'S CHOICE

Afiscm Komayne had walked to Ltansladrone. .For one reason, sunny jhad warm asr the day was, there was a cooling touch of approaching autumn in the air that rendered walking pleasant; for another, Peggy had driven the pony carriage to the hospital after fciith, and to order a more im-. posing vehicle for such a slight occasion was a thing rarely done by jJllss Romayn-e. She walked rather sTowfy, with a certain sense of expectation at every curve of the well known road, since, in spite of that note —such an oddly vague and short one it was more than likely that she would meet Everard on his way j to the Crooked Cot. She must not ex-1 pect to see him today; she should know why later —that was practically all. It had made her laugh a little, though with an anxious face. As though she would rest content, and wait, remembering how wretchedly haggard, ill, and worn he had looked last night, poor boy! Most likely he had not slept again, and had forgotten all about his promise to see L)r Oliver. Men were all like that— they hated seeing doctors. She would insist upon a specialist—Ludlow, from Oakhampton—if he looked no better, she decided, clo sing the grass towards the long, open windows of the library; most likely he would be there. That he was there she saw instantly; at Ihe same moment he saw her, and wild an exclamation of her name, sharp and loud, started to his feet, dropping his pen; a great blot spread on rhe paper ovi-r which he had been bending. The writing table was between them, as the girl advanced he withdrew a further step behind it. ''Alison—you! I—l wrote " "I know, dear. But how could I vait when you looked so ill last night? rhat foolish httte note told me N noLhing. Of eourse, I was obliged to come, and —Everard, what have you done to your forehead? It is cut!"

'I know. It is nothing. I had a fall." ,f A fall? Oh, when?" ''Last night."

"Last night? How was it? As you were coming home? My poor boy! And how dreadfully white you look. Why are you bothering with all that tiresome writing? I'm sure you're not fit. Why "

"I was writing to you."

"To me? All that? But surely you can tell me instead, now that I'm here, can't you?"

«y e s—l can tell you. If you wil! listen."

"Of course I will listen. Is it very important? But just "

She was close to him now. She would have put her hands on his shoulders; she did put up her face— he caught and put her hands back against his breast.

"No," he said hoarsely. "That last kiss I dared to give you—with which I dared insult you—was given last night."

"Everard!"

In the sheer blank arrangement of her face there was literally room for nothing else. She stared at him.

He made a gesture towards the table'.

"I was writing to you," he repeated. "Perhaps to spare you this—perhaps to spare myself heaven knows which, and it doesn't matter. Nothing matters so that you believe and dismiss me."

"Dismiss you? I——'

"As utterly as though I had never been. You are stiong, happily. If you were otherwise Will you sit

down?"

There was a chair behind her. Star-

ing at him still, the colour ebbing

out of her face, she mechanically . obeyed his gesture and dropped into it. Moving so that the light fell full

upon him, Ciitheroe looked at her

"You see and hear me," he said quietly; "you know that I am in the lull possession of my senses. What you do not know is that I am a scoundrel and an imposter, a liar and a cheat In other words, Miss Romayne, I am the fugitive from Prince Town, the xiinaway convict, Miles Clitheroe."

"Everard !

She half-started up. Clitheroe moved a farther step away.

returning to her face. He did not make a long story, though it was clear enough, and it did not include the mention of Gilbert Foliott's name. Only when he brought it to its concluding sentence did she spring to lier feet.

"You would have killed yourself?" bhe gasped. "Killed yourself!"

"I intended to kill myself. I left you last night with that resolve. To spare you, as I told myself. A coward's preter.ee that, as I see now, since, not knowing the truth, it would have left you to grieve for a man you believed worthy of you. Even were you weaker, less proud than you are, you would hardly stop to feel sorrow for one who is beneath even your contempt."

"No" Her composed tone seemed to jut the thing aside as hardly worth an answer. She paused. "Sir John Dunboyne, you say, is the man responsible for having ruined you? He has seen you more than once. Without any recognition?"

"Without any so far—yes. Though, as I told you, I at once recognised him. But I only saw him personally two or three times. And probably four years of prison have altered me more than a little," Clitheroe answered quietly.

' You have told me, which means, of course, that everybody must know. You do not intend to give yourself up?"

"No; I suffered unjustly. A gullible fool I was, it may be a criminally careless one, but I was no worse. Four years ago a man I knew was doing well in. the Argentine, and is probably doing better now. If I go out, join him, he will put me, I think in the way of making a livelihood. Anyhow, that is what I shall do. Once safely there, Everard Foliott is easily put into the grave, and the necessary proofs forthcoming." He paused. "I am taking it for granted, of course, that you allow me to do this. If I may do that "

"Yes; you may do that "

"Then I will leave the house within an hour. I won't thank you. I no more dare do it than I dare entreat your pardon, I can only hope that I'm outside the pale of. your lightest remembrance. But if there was anything I could do—any word I could say—"

"Only one," said Alison. She moved a step that brought h Q r before him. "Do you love me," she asked steadily, "or was that a lie too?"

"A lie? That?'' He half laughed. "It seems absurd," he said quietly, "to confess that I deserve the question, who deserve, a thousand times over, the worst that you cani say or do, but you must know that there was no need to ask it."

"Yes, I did knowj it. I think I knew you cared for me before you knew yourself. You would have gone on with this deception, braved and brazened it out, married me, if you had loved me less." She put out her hands to him. "I will wait for you," she said.

The words might have been the most ordinary in the world. Clitheroe started back from her.

"Alison! you think I will allow that —.let you rum your life—your life? —accept such sacrifice—disgrace

you?'

She stopped him.

"Can you prevent my waiting?" she asked quietly. "When I come to you will you refuse to marry me? I don't think so." And, then, suddenly she was clinging to him. "Oh, my dear, is there need for many words between us—between you and me? Has not all that we could say been said a dozen times already ? No woman ever gave herself more truly and entirely than I did. How can I take myself back, even if I would? What sacrifice do I make in keeping what is dearest? And disgrace? There will be none where you are going. Oh, don't think I make light of this—of all— 1 do not. I wish with all my heart that it had nevpr been. But I can see how it came about, recognise the temptation, and separate you from it. Ido separate you." The hysteric spasm that caught her throat was alm o»sit a laugh. "Wish it had never ? How can I truly say that, when, if you had resisted, gone away as you rnent at first to go, it means that you would have passed out of my life — that we should have lost each other? I will wait."

''That is not my name. I stole it as I stole its owner's place. Everard Foliott is buried in the graveyard of. iilie prison. Once more, I am Miies CRtherue—no other."

Absolute resolve, absolute devotion; not to be shaken, changed or weaken- ' " n; tne stK raised to his. But evei as they, kissed she started out of his arms, seeing the two figures iitat appeared outside the window. Monique, in advance, in her red gown, hurried to Alison and put an arm around her. Genuine concern was mixed with the excited agitation of her face; this was a case to call for sympathy from the triumphant future Lady Dunboyne.

"lon mean it ;" "I meat it " "Go an." "You mean—tell you?" fcelA me," said Alison. Her voiee was quite steady. He begah, and wi'ti her eyes upon him she situ aiid iisteued, not stirring, preocht'v, wven, -with the colour slowly-

''Oh, Alison!" she said with almost a sob.

Sir John paused; his face was creased into its ugliest smile. And Clitheroe, meeting it, instantly reading it, spoke first.

"So you recognise me, do you?" he asked levelly.

•'Yes, I do sir," said Sir John, and laughed. "Yes, I do, and a fool I must have been; not to have done so before! But the picture here that you happen to be like misled mSe to begin with, I suppose, before I saw you, for when

I did I only thought that you reminded me of something, either that, or someone I had seen somewhere. And the last four years have done something to alter you, as I see well enough now. It was only half an hour ago when, for the first time, I chanced to hear the name of the runaway convict, just after, it happened, having had you brought to my memory, that I really spotted you, my friend. Having done that it is pretty easy to put two and two together as to the game you have played. I don't need to ask many questions as to how you turned yourself so neatly into Mr Everard Foiiott. A pleasanter title than convict 247, eh!" He turned about. "Miss I am heartily sorry to say anything to pain or distress you, but what must be done, must. Plainly, this man who calls himself Everard Foiiott is an imposter. He is an escaped convict. His name is Miles Clitheroe, and "

"What's- that? Wiiat's that you

say?"

The door opening from the hall had rolled back noiselessly, the entry of the two appearing figures, Colonel Strickland and Camilla Foiiott, had been no less quiet. The former was the speaker. With a stride he was in the centre of the little group. Sir John turned to him.

"The very man I wanted, Strickland. As a resident in the neighbourhood and a magistrate, the affair falls naturally into your hands. As for what I &aid, you heard, I think; if not, I'll repeat it. This man here is the fellow who escaped from Prince Town, Miles Clitheroe, as he won't deny, and as I will swear. I was in court when, for fraud, he was tried and sentenced to seven years. As for .the outrageous imposture he has earVied on here, it ought to get him another five, in my opinion, though I suppose whether it does or not is a matter for the family to dedde." It seemed that something in the other's face struck and cheeked him. He paused. "Of course, if you l doubt— don't choose to stir in it—well and good. I'm not the man to say a thing I'm not sure of, and the sooner a scamp of this sort is under lock and key again the better. There is a telephone here, I suppose ? I'll ring up the prison myself, and "

He stopped. With one swift movement Camilla Foliott was before him. Ghastly in her long black robes, white as death, sh-s looked at him, and* threw 'bade her lace-coifed head and laughed;

"Do it!" she cried. "Ring up the prison! Tell' them, John Dunboyne! Do it—and betray -yottr own son!" (To be Continued.)