THE FATAL GLOVE.

Auckland Star, Volume LV, Issue 115, 16 May 1924, Page 11

THE FATAL GLOVE.

By R. A. J. WALLING. Author of "A Silver Dagger," "A Sea Dog of Devon," etc CHAPTER XVIIL Marjorie'a Story. " Miss Playfair," said Pinson, " the first question I will put to you is this : Are you here of your own free will, prepared to give evidence in this case, and desirous of giving it _" " Yes." " Now, Miss Playfair, you are acquainted with the prisoner. We have been told by him that on an evening in the month of October two years ago —he cannot give us the exact date —you met him at a dance* at the house of the late Sir Richard Fallofield in London, and that on that occasion he made you a proposal of marriage. Is that cor. rect ? " " Yes," said Marjorie, looking Pinson straight in the eyes, and disregarding every other person in court. " Were you aware before that evening that the prisoner had a strong affection for you ?" " I think I was aware of it; I thought so." " The prisoner has declined to discuss the feelings you entertained towards him. Will you tell us what those feelings were ? " " Yes," said Marjorie, in the same steady .way ; " I cared for him very much.? " But when he proposed marriage to you, you did not accept his offer ? " " Xo. Something occurred to put an end to the talk." What was it that occun-ed ' " " Some people came into the room." " Who were ■ they 1 " " Sir Richard Fallofield and Mr. David Brewster." " Did you see the prisoner again that night ?" " No." " When did you next see him ?" " Not for two years." " But did no communication pass between you and him in that interval T " " Yes, one. > On, the day following the dance, I wrote to him and told him that the marriage which he desired was impossible." " And shortly afterwards, did you enter into an engagement of marriage with another person I" " Yes ; .with Sir Richard Fallofield." " Now, Miss Playfair, please tell •mc whether any other person than the prisoner and Sir Richard Fallofield has made you an offer of marriage within the last two years." " Yes, one other person." " And who was that ? " "It was Mr. David Brewster." Pinson glanced down the row of counsel to the end where Mr. Brewster sat. He had withdrawn from the desk 'n front of him, and was reclining against the back of the seat with closed eyes. Others looked at Mr. Brewster. He did not take any notice of their stares. "When was that offer made, Miss Playfair ? " "In the week after the death of Sir Richard Fallofield." " Was any other person present when it was made ? " " Yes ; it was on the lawn at Stoke Michael. Mr. Lysons came in unexpectedly and walked up to us just as Mr. Brewster was in the midst of his speech. He overheard what Mr. Brewster was saying." " And what happened then T * "Mr. Lysons quarrelled with Mr. Brewster, and struck him." " Now, we will leave that," said Pinson. " After the letter of which you 1 have spoken, what was. your next communication with the prisoner t " "On the day before the death of Sir Richard Fallofield, I wTote to Mr. Lysons." " But Mr. Lysons had only just come back from Africa, and nobody in Devonshire apparently knew of his return, did they _ " " I knew of it. My father told mc." " Do you know how your father learnt that Mr. Lysons was in England T" " No, I do not know of my own knowledge. I can guess." "Very well. You are only to tell us what you know of your own knowledge. You wrote to Mr. Lysons. Why?" "I wanted to see him. It is a little difficult to explain. 1 wanted to see him to tell him that I did not mean all I said in that letter two years ago. I wanted to say . good-bye to him. I wanted to " Marjorie hesitated. She had dropped her eyelids for the first time during the examination. "May I take it shortly, Miss Playfair —if my learned friend does .not object—that you still had a certain fondness for Mr. Lysons?" "Yes." She whispered it. "Was your engagement .with Sir Richard Fallofield a happy one?" "No." • "Did you look forward to the marriage with him in anticipation of happiness." ; "No." "Were you going to marry him of your own free will?" "No." Then why?" "My father strongly desired the marriage." "So you wrote to the prisoner, and suggested that you would like to see him to take a farewell. Did you make an appointment with him?" "Yes." "Where was the meeting to he?" "At Underwood Cottage. That was where my old nurse, Susan Farthingale, lived. It was the only place I could think of where we could meet in secret. I told him I should go there to stay for a day or two, and suggested that if he would like to see mc he should come down at once." Among all the intently listening throng in the Court, none listened with such strained attention m Lysons himself. He had bent forward with his face on his hands so that none could see him, Pinson's questions, Marjories quiet replies, revealing all a girl's romance, fell upon a dead silence. "You wanted this to be a secret meeting?" said Pinson. "Did you keep it from your parents?" "Yes; they understood I was staying with some friends in Exeter for a day or two." "You went to Susan Farthingale's cottage. When did you reach there?" "On the afternoon of October 15." "It was wild weather, was it not?" "Yes, very rough." "How did you get there?" "I walked from Newton Abbot, and came in over the hill; I did not want to be seen by anybody at Buckfast or at Longstones, which was close by—l had not realised how close." "Jn fact, the cottage, though it is not on the Fallofield property, is few hundred yards from the house, I think?" 1

"Yea." "It is in what is called Banging Wood?" "Yes, I understand it is." "And you know that it is quite close to the spot where the body of Sir Richard Fallofield was found!" "Yes; I did not see the spot, but I have been told so." "This, then, was the cottage where you went to stay, having suggested to the prisoner that he should meet you there. Did you appoint any special time for the meeting?" "No; I merely told him that I should be there for a day or two." "Now, Miss Playfair, did you receive any acknowledgment or a communication of any sort from the prisoner?" "No, none whatever." "Did he keep tße appointment?" "Yes." "And when, did he reach Underwood Cottage ?" "As nearly as I can remember, it was about eleven o'clock on the night of the fifteenth." ,"That was the night of the murder," said Pinson. "Would you be surprised to know that the prisoner has refused to say where he was at that particular time, and that in his evidence to-day ho has declined to tell the jury anything about it?" Marjorie, for the first time since she had begun speaking, gave a glance towards the dock, and saw the bowed head of Lysons.^ "No," she replied, a little colour flushing her face, "knowing hUn as I do, I am not surprised." "Were you surprised to see the prisoner at Underwood Cottage at such a time "on such a night?" "A little—not because it was late, or stormy, but because he could only have received my letter the same day, and I thought it was hardly probable that he would be able to get through that night." "You had a conversation with the prisoner? What was the purport of it?" "He urged mc to abandon the marriage with Sir Richard Fallofield, and to go away with him. I refused." "How long did he stop?" "About an hour, I think. I heard the bells of Buckfast sound midnight before "Yea—before what?" "It is difficult to explain. There was a scene. Susan Farthingale had not been very well and had gone to bod early—long before Mr. Lysons came. He was angry —furious about the marriage. I suppose he thought—he did think —■ that as I had asked to see him I had some idea of abandoning it. When he found that I had only asked him to come to say good-bye he was —well, he made a scene. I was afraid he would disturb Susan. He repressed himself. In the midst of this, I heard a sound, and thought I saw something outside the window of the kitchen where we were standing—" "What was it you thought you saw?" "I thought I saw a man's face. I don't remember anything after that, i must have fainted. When I came to, Mr. Lysons had gone, and Susan was in the room with mc." "Now, Miss Playfair, did you ascertain whether Susan Farthingale saw the prisoner or knew of his presence there?" asked Pinson. "I found that she had no idea of tha sort. She had been awakened by the noise I made in falling, and came down and found mc on the floor. I told her I must have gone to sleep and fallen off the settee where I was sitting reading." "And this was after midnight?" "Yes. It was nearly one o'clock when I went up to bed." "Will you tell mc how the prisoner was dressed when he came to the cottage?" "He wore a large cap, a big waterproof motor-coat, and motorists' gloves." _. "While he was in the kitchen with you, did he keep these garments on?" "No. It was a terrible night. His coat and cap were "very wet. I suggested that he should take them oft and sit by the fire while we talked. He did so." "Now, Miss Playfair, at what time in the morning did you rise?" "Quite early. I could not sleep. It was about seven o'clock when I got down. Susan was then about. She said to mc that the previous day had been so rough that the baker from i Buckfast had not made his usual call, and she was out of bread. She was going over to Longs tones to sec whether she could borrow a loaf from the housekeeper. And she went out." "What happened then?" "I remained in the kitchen." "Well, did you see anything in the kitchen which attracted your attention?" "Yea. I saw that Mr. Lysons had left his gloves upon the table in the window, where he had thrown them when he came in." "Ah!"' It was an involuntary cry from a hundred people which suddenly broke the tense silence in the court. Sir William Apps crumpled the papers ho held in his hand, the judge on the bench dropped his pen, and the usher forgot to cry "Silence!" Pinson went on asking questions calmly. "What happened then?" he repeated. ' "I was looking at the gloves when there was a knock at the door. I dropped them and answered the knock. A man came into the kitchen and asked whether (Mrs. Farthingale was in." "Did you know this <nan?" "No; I did not remember having seen him before." "What sort of man was he?" "A youngish man, about thirty, cleanshaven, with good clothes, but crumpled and dirty. He had no collar." "And this man asked you whether Mrs. Farthingale was at home. What did you say ? " "I said she had just gone out. Ho looked at mc curiously, I thought, and hung about a minute or two. Then he went away." "And after he had gone, did you notice anything?" "Yes, I thought about the gloves again, and went to pick them up, thinking it was as well that Susan should not see them. But they were gone;" "Where had the man been standing while he talked to you?" "He came in and leant against the table in the window. I thought he was a thief, and then forgot all about the matter till later on—much later." "When did you hear about the death of Sir Richard Fallofield, who had been killed that night, not far from the place where you were staying, and where you had talked with the prisoner?" "Not till the next day, I went back home to Stoke Michael by the same way I had come. A telegram reached my father soon after I returned announcing the death. "And when did you hear that a charge had been made against the prisoner in connection with this crime?" "Not until he told mc himself that he was under suspicion and was going to give himself up." "Had you seen him in the meantime?"

"Yes, on the Sunday week following the visit to Underwood Cottage. He came to Stoke Michael and spent the afternoon with us." "And you next saw him ?" "On the day of which I spoke, when Mr. Brewster and I were talking on the lawn." "It was after Mr. Brewster had left that the prisoner told you about the charge against him?" "Yes—immediately after." "Will you tell mo what you said to him?" "I cannot remember exactly. I was. highly excited. But I know I was dreadfully afraid that the circumstances of his visit to mc might become known, and that they would add to the evidence against him." "How could that be when, as a matter of fact, the evidence of the glove was an important part of the case?" "He insisted that I should be kept out of it. He tried hard to make mc promise that I would say nothing about it. On no account, he said, would he allow my name to be mixed up with such a business. He had friends, he said, who were looking after his interests, and lie would get clear without the need for uny breath of scandal on my name." "But you were afraid—afraid of what?" "I hardly know; it was a nimelcss sor of fear that the fact might become known, and then that the concealment of it might give it an ugly look." "And did you come to a determination about it?" "Yes, I did. I determined to see you, and to tell you what had really happened." "How did you know that the prisoner had not told mc?" "I asked him about it. But, in any case, I was sure he would not tell." "And you would not be surprised to learn that he has never said a word on the subject, either to mc or to any other person ?" "Not at all surprised." "And he has had no knowledge that you would appear to-day to give evidence ?" "I believe not." (To bo continued daily.)