A CONSPIRACY of SILENCE

Auckland Star, Volume XXXIX, Issue 243, 10 October 1908, Page 17

A CONSPIRACY of SILENCE

BY SIDNEY W«{»K3&

"A, E«S«iB Tcjefe" etc

died, poor girl—but I told you all th< sad details in my letter at the time Poor Joy—it was a great grief to he; old uncle! You have seen her grave n Highgate Cemetery V Duchesne nodded. For a moment h« could not trust himself to speak. He was a strong, self-contained man usually a, rush of old memories had overcom* hfm There was a recollection, in his mine now of Joy's grave as he had seen i 1 on that wet, dreary day when all the old aching grief had come back so poig nantly; his beautiful, laughing Joy, whe 'had loved brightness and sunshine —sc young and fair and full of life when ht had seen her last—and now to be lying there in the dark. But he conquered the momentary emotion. "Bentley,"' he said curtly, "I hay« come to you for information about my wife's wedding-ring." Duchesne paused He saw the other's uneasy, shifty glanct as he spoke. "1 see you know what I refer to. You have read the papers, Mist of all, why was her ring not sent to mc when she died ?" "I ■ — I ■ — really, Duchesne, I was as amazed as you were when 1 read th* strange news in the paper," said Mr. Percival Bentley. uneasily conscious oi the cold, scrutinizing eyes that wert bent upon him — "literally amazed. 1 ■fully believed the ring had been buried with poor .Joy. as 1 knew you would wish. It—it must have been* the landlady. But, then. 1 always suspected hei of being a thief " "You suspect that th e landlady stole it? What is her name? I am determined to get to the bottom of this. I f it can be proved that the woman stole that ring from poor dead Joy's finger, she shall be purdshetl. If not she, then whoever the thief was. I shall show no mercy." There was determination in the sternly uttered words, and it was evident they left Mr. Percival Bentley very uncomfortable indeed. Duchesne saw the apprebensiveness in his eyes; yet, if this man's story was true, what had he to fear? But was it true? He looked hard! into the coarsened, dissipated face; how mean, crafty, and debased it was! "Oh, she—she's dead! So you see it will be quite impossible to find out anything now. You had better forget it. my dear fellow," he said hastily. "It was shameful, of course, and if I'd had the least suspicion of it at the time — but the woman's dead. In fact, she— she died within a few months of poor Joy " The speaker broke off abruptly with a nervous start. It was only the heavy double knock ol the postman down-stairs that he had heard, but years of hard drinking had played havoc with Ills nerves, till any unexpected sound startled him. "You the woman is dead?" saidsiD'uShesne, looking sharply at him. ■ "My dear fellow" — and the other affected a laugh—"what jjossible motive could I have in wishing to deceive you? Of course, she Come in," For a tap on the door had interrupted his reproachful protest. The lodginghouse servant entered, holding out a letter between a dirty fore-finger and thumb. "This letter's for you. isn't it, Mr. Bentley?" she enquired, holding it up. Evidently it was, and the energy Mr. Percival Bentley displayed in suddenly leaping to his feet to snatch the letter from the girl, as his eyes fell on the handwriting on the envelope was remarkable in a professed invalid. As he seized the letter he stole a swift startled glance at the younger man's face, and saw that Armandl Duchesne's eyes had caught sight of the hand-writ ing also. Duchesne's face bad suddenly become quite white. "Heavens!" be muttered, as if incredu lously—" it can't be possible!" And yet the handwriting on the envel ope—how could he mistake it? ''Bentley," he cried quickly, i n tones of suppressed excitement, "who wrote that letter?" The oider man's face had become col ourless, too. He was shaking as if witt an ague as he thrust the letter into his pocket. For a moment his tongue seemed tc refuse to articulate worcte. though hi; lips moved. At last he said nervously; "No one that you know. Duchesne why do you look at mc like that? Whj should you ask such a question? Surel*, a gentleman's private correspondence ii —is his own private aflair!" —with a pool futile pretence of standing on his dignity The evasiveness of the answer was patent. Duchesne made a quick step forward "Bentley." he cried, "you are going tc show ne the signature on that letter!' Bentley thrust his hand into the pock et where the letter was, as though hi feared the younger man meant to use force to obtain it. "Show you my private correspondence' You must be mad! 1 refuse—l refuse utterly, on principle! By what right dr you attempt to make such a preposter ous demand?" The attempt to blustet was rather quavering. Duchesne's hand fell like, a grip of stee on his wrist; his eyes searched Bent ley's face. "Your refusal convinces mc," he said it a low-, tense voice. "You diaren't show mc that letter—which is in* my wife'; handwriting! But I'm going to see it!' "You —you must be mad! Your wife's handwriting? How could it be — how could it?" stammered the older man "The letter is not from a woman at all It is from a man." "Then show mc the signature." "I refuse —I refuse to be bullied! And the letter is private. You have no right tO} make such a request!" And the tremhling white-faced mac tried to pull his arm free. "You refuse because you dare not shov* it to mc — dare not!" cried Duchesne. "You told! mc just now you wer G with my wife when she died. Did she die—oi have I been the dupe of some cunning devilish plot to hoodwink mc? That letter was never written by a man; it is my wife's handwriting! Once again will you show mc the signature?" The answer came in a frightened whisper: "No." There was a dangerous look in Armani] Duchesne's face. "You were with my wife when she died do you say? That is a lie! The tombstone that bears her name records a lie! Your refusal convinces mc. Whatever evil plot you have played on mc, I am certain of thisj my wife lives;—and be-

CHAPTERXXI. mB O HAD WMHEBN THE LBTTBK? /rhe next morning Armand Bochesne left London for BroadstaiTs by an early **£& time he had" not informed his late life's nnde ti»at he was coming. Duch- !~ e could not rid himself of the fancy Sat Mr. PerciTOl Benliey, for some reason best known to himself, was anl£l to ovoid a meeting—and his rea;L could only be that he knew Duchgsne votM inevitably ask some questions abaai the ring. BenSey, when imung to break ~ news of his niece's death three rears prenaonsly, had not sent her wed-•jjjjo-ring, Dachesne liad concluded that it had been buried with his wife. Its mysterious reappearance proved that t_g co—d not have been the case, and arobably Mr. Bentley rather shrank from the explanation he would be called nnon to give in the matter. His niece had been with him when she died Why had Bentley kept the ring, o£ sending it to her husband i* Dachesne bad never liked Percival Bcatiey, the drunken, shiftless old Bojjennan, who once had had tho making of a painter in him, the ability to adiieve success, had he but chosen to work instead of letting his talents rust, Jiis hand grow unsteady, and his brain idled. This man, whose future had once looked so brilliant, had let his apportnnities drift by. had sunk into an "neclginiable sot. But ior the sake of jiis irife'3 memory Duchesne bad continued to help him, making him a genejons allowance, which probably the man gpent chiefly in drink. Broadstairs was reached. Duchesne walked to the street where Mr. Percival igentley had rooms. _s be turned the corner into the street he saw a shabby, shambling fijrure walkiiiff up the steps of one of the dingy houses, carrying a parcel whose shape suggested a bottle of whisky. It was the man he had come to see. But Duchesne checked his first impulse to "0 iorward and accost him. Mr. Bentley had not looked in his direction as he let himself into the house with lis latch-key—an operation that took a good deal of fumbling before he could get the key into the lock. 'It was an afterthought that caused Duchesne to wait a few minutes before he went up to the house and knocked. As he stood waiting outside the door, IDuchesne glanced up and caught a momentary glimpse of a red face behind the curtains of an upstairs room peeping down furtively at him —a face that drew back at once. And Duchense smiled grimly. It was a long time before anyone answered his summons, and Duchesne had knocked a second time before the untidy lodging-house servant opened the door. "I wish -to"see Mr: , -Bentley." \ "JJr- Bentley can't, see no one, sir," 'iras the,reply. , f "Indeed. Hcrsr. is that?" ."He'a ill in bed, sir—very bad. . The doctor has given strict orders that he mustn't*lsee no visitors," said the girl gMy; / .1 No, doubt Mr. BentW had been prompting her while the visitor was kept waiting so long for a response to his knock, Duchesne thought. Here was proof of the correctness of his suspicions. Bentley was anxious to avoid meeting him. < 1 "I think when you have taken up my name, which is Mr. Duchesne, and explained that I am not going back to London till I have seen him, you will find that Mr. Bentley will sec mc," said Duchesne dryly. "If he is well enough to go out to the tavern for a bottle oi ifhisky," he added grimly, " he is quite well enough to see mc. Will you tell him that?" The girl stared at her visitor for a jnoment, rather taken aback : then laughej. impudently as she went up with the message. She returned a moment later. ."Will you come this way?" Duchesne followed the girl She opened a door, and the foul odour of mingled tobacco and whisky met him unpleasantly on the threshold. Inside, sitting by the fire, with a Ehawl thrown over his shoulders, as if to keep up his role of invalid, was Mr. Percival Bentley, trying to look at ease, and with very little success. "Come in, my dear Duchesne^ —come — I am delighted, positively delighted, to see you. I wouldn't have missed you for worlds. You will excuse my rising- I am still very weak and ill. But I am delighted to see you," cried Mr. Bentley effusively. "So I gathered from the servant's message," responded Duchesne dryly. "Oh, that was a misapprehension, my Sear fellow—entirely a misapprehension, ■which I Tegret extremely! You must let mc explain," the older man protested, with nervous volubility. "I have Wn ill. very ill, my dear Armand—l am really a mere wreck." He coughed affectedly. "To-day 1 found strength to crawl out for—for a little stimulant that my medical man prescribed —■ I hate to gh/e trouble to others —and <ame back exhausted. Consequently, I Save orders I would see no one, never •teaming, of course, of your coming 103 see, I have to resort to these innocent subterfuges to keep away idle ; callers who disturb mc at my work—" He waved a hand airily toward a lalf-finished canvas on an easel. It was covered with dust, and Duch'sne had a dim recollection of the same 'foras in the same stage of incomplenon when last he had paid a visit to "Us man's rooms. Probably Mr. Percival Bentley had not "ad a brush in his hand for months. •Duchesne felt a wave of disgust as he «<>od surveying the figuTe in the arm™»r,_\vith the flabby, weak mouth and - ™c signs of rapid deterioration that m ?-dissipated habits had written unin his face. His hand shook, "a his blue eyes were red-rimmed and Weared. Pnty he was Joy's uncle. And be•Wse of Joy, whom he had loved with ""tensity of devotion that seldom jies more than once in a man's life, thJ- mUSt hide Us anger and disgust at hJ amblin g. degraded wreck who ~ a once been spoken of as a coming JWhy did you telegraph to prevent tof? mmg? were - you so anxious £ to see mc?" said Duchesne shortly. «Mtley stole a furtive glance at him L of eye-corners. it* t mn stn't reproach mc, there's a fc,. r ,« l! °w! I was ill, horribly ill. I ail th Sl ? ht of you would brin e back j J. c painful memories of our poor J.- said Mr. Bentley pathetically, who f sseseed in a marked degree the art of Lfacefully. "Painful, indeed, ito •■**• »• -was with mc when ehe

-fore I leave this room you shall tell m« what you have done with, her!" r _____ CHAPTER XXII. THE TRUTH AT LAST. The furtive, shifty eyes of the oldei man met those of Annand Ducheene evilly. "Well, I shall not tell you anything c until you let go my wrist," he said .. sullenly. r Taken off his guard, Duchesne relaxed q his grip before be realised the other man's intention, Bently sprang forward, and 2 I almost scorching his hand as he did so. a thrust the unopened letter into a hollow . of glowing coals in the fire. 8 ' " Now get it if you can ! " he shrilly cried. He had caught up the poker and thrust the letter down into the red-hot chasm ; the flames leaped up. licking the paper. 8 Ins'bantly Ihjfchesne leaped forward. but desperately the older man threw 5 himself on the Canadian; by the time ' the latter had flung his assailant off, it 3 was too ]ate. The letter had burned 5 to ashes. "But that won't serve his purpose 1 though you have destroyed the letter, ,! said Duchesne, with dangerous quiet. 2 " Before you go out of this room you T are going to tell mc the truth." " What is there to tell you ! Your - wife died, and was buried three years L agio," snfarled Benttey. " You appear . to suffer from a delusion that .she lives. t on the strength o f a fancied resemblance of handwriting. Be reasonable if you j can." 3 " You had a very powerful motive . in not wishing mc to see the signature t of that letter whi-ch you destroyed unread. 3 Your very action is convincing. Joy L did not die while I was in Canada. 1 She wrote that letter. What is the i truth ! " He again seized hold of the other man r in a vicelike grip. '"Come, the truth ! Don't try my ; patience too far. It may be dangerous 1 for you. Where is my wife ! " ; Bentley saw a dangerous gleam in the ; speaker's ey-es. Suppressed excitement , and fuTV possessed the man. It was . evident he would accept no denials in , the face of his conviction. " Let mc go," Bentley half-wimpered. r " It is brutal to treat an old man like r this. And in your present mood it . would be useless my denying your mad assertion. Let mc go or I'll call for , help!" , " You can call for help, only at your . own peril. My wife lives ; she wrote , that letter ! Do you think I should not know her writing among a thousand '. And if it were not she, you would have . shown mc the signature. Only you dared not ' you burned that letter unread rather than that I should see it— .' because it would have proved my words, J I shall certainly get to the bottom of this infamous plot—and it will be a police affair for you, I can promise you . that. You had better make a clean breast of it." Beads of perspiration were, running down Mr. Percival Bentley's face. . Probably he had never been so frightj ened in his life. And the thought of . the comfortable allowance he had been in receipt of from this man added to his distress of mind. Without it, how was he to live! He had lost the power 1 to work long ago. "It will be the worse for you in the end if you persist in denying it," went on Duchesne quietly. "It will not be : a difficult task to traverse the last three years of your life to discover the people in whose house my wife was supposed to ; have died—l have the address, as it is. You won't care to go to prison at youT ' time of life; but if, as I am convinced, ' you have been a partner in a criminal conspiracy against mc, that will be your • fate inevitably if you try to thwart mc now. You had better make a clean ■ breast W it/." Evidently Mr. Percival Bentley had come to that opinion too. He was shok- ? ing with fear. . The threat of a prison ■ unnerved him. "I—l'll tell you all! ,, he said faltering- ; Iy, seeing no other way out. "Let mc > have a drink first. I—l'm upset." s '"First, you must answer mc this: Is - mv wife Joy living!" The older man seemed to swallow 2 something in his throat. "Yes," he said huskily, "she is living." Mechanically Duchesne relaxed his hold. A sudden dizziness swept o-veT - him. His wife living! He crossed unsteadily to the window, and flung open, s as the other man poured himself out a c tumbler of whisky and gulped it down. Joy was living —the wife he had loved - and mourned so deeply, by whose gravei stone he had stood in the great London 5 cemetery—that tomb that hid a lie! Duchesne passed his hand over his 3 brow; for the moment he seemed dazed 3 by the shock of his discovery, incapable : of any thought beyond that one tremend- : ous outstanding fact. Joy was living! f He turned to Bentley, who was wnatchy, ing him furtively, uneasily. 3 "Was this your work—this incredible r infamous plot to separate us, to keep my wife from mc?" he demanded, hit J passion flaming out suddenly. A vindictive look of malice flashed into the other man's face. ,' "Keep her from you, do you sayi > You can't conceive, then, of Joy herseli wishing to snap the bond?" he said s with a veiled sneer; "or her planning tc . rid herself of you?" "I won't believe that!" cried Duchesne i passionately. "At least Joy loved mc I How or for what motive she may have been coerced into this vile plot, I don't 3 know; but I refuse to believe —' "Anything against her! but you want r the truth, you say. That letter was from her—l admit it. If I had engineered this plot, as you put it, to keep hei from you against her wishes, would she continue to write affectionately to hei 1 old uncle? You say she loved you! You ' insist upon the truth, but I warn you ' it may hurt you," said Mr. Percival Bentley, as though he -were glad of the 3 opportunity of wounding in turn the man ' who had just given him a bad quarter " of an hour. "Joy loved you? Now, I " wonder if she ever loved any one but herself? I doubt it." Duchesne looked at the man with incredulous horror in his face —horroi fc and pain could it be true? But surely Joy had loved him! All the love she 1 had professed could not have been a lie; he would not believe that it could '' have been a lie. In spite of this man's • words, he would not believe it without ' proof. r "You hadn't come into your wealth, i you see, when your wife—shall we s«.y t died? Who could have foreseen that t within a year you would be a very rich . man?" went ou Bentley. "That might have influenced Joy, altered her plans. ■ Only, you see, you were poor then, and she was tired of poverty—tired oi you. if you like. She wanted fine clothes, 1 hixurv —all the things you couldn't give her. You asked for the truth —well, , you are hearing it now. Oh, you mustn't - blame mc! It was not my plot—it was ! hers. I tried to dissuade her; I didn't f like it at all, I can tell yon—only she i forced mc to help her." Hβ paused; out suddenly:

« "Why couldn't you stay at the other side of the Atlantic, instead of coining over here and making trouble?" "You say that my wife devised this infamous plot?" There was such a depth of agony in Duchesne's voice that even Bentley, ir callous old reprobate though he wae, c felt a sudden pity for the man. After all, Duchesne had been generous to him. S "Yes. I didn't want to tell you, but ** you would ha-ve it. Now, if you'll take my advice you'll go back to Canada " and not waste another thought on her. s She isn't worth it. I could have told *» you when you were married that Joy )j hadn't a thought that wasn't selfish — * only you wouldn't have thanked mc." "Your advice is disinterested, no y doubt," said Duchesne; and his voice had suddenly changed. Bentley was * conscience of a steely ring in it. "But I ' am going to see my wife before I leave j ,- England. And how was this plot man- *» aged? You may as well favour mc with x the details." c Bentley looked at him nervously. *■ "Hang it all," he said weakly "you " can't expect mc to incriminate myself." "I think you have done that already," '' said Duchesne dryly. "I think, too, that for your own saie you will be well ad- " vised to tell mc everything." v And after a little more persuasion Mr. Bentley came to the conclusion that he r hadl. s "It was an idea suggested by some r novel Joy had ibern reading," he said s ' sullenly. "Briefly, it was this: Joy knew c a girl in poor circumstances dying rapidly a of consumption. Well, we looked after her, kept her in comfort sh e "would not c otherwise have got, during the last c weeks of her life. She died, and was ■ buried in your wife's name." "And this woman who was my wife— " wher<. is she?" asked Dueh<«ne. His c manner had suddenly become cold and indifferent. His feelings within might be a raging fire, but no trace of them ' appeared outwardly. "And has she at- ' tainedi the luxury she craved for? And, if so, by what means?" "I —I don't know," the older man ". stammered. s "That's a lie!" said Duchesne coldly. "You do know. And you are going to tell mc." For a moment Bentlov looked at him c helplessly; then he blurted out: k "Well, if you must know, she—she has married again. Oh, I am not proud of it—not proud of my share in it Only what could I do? Joy had a will of her r own. She took the bit between her teeth. I couldn't stop her. And I was ■ desperately hard up. Poverty and con- , science don't go well together!" ' c "Married! My wife married!" i (To be continued on Wednesday next).