FROM PRIVATE TO PEER.

Cromwell Argus, Volume LI, Issue 2656, 26 January 1920, Page 2

FROM PRIVATE TO PEER.

(COPYRIGHT.)

By Ralph Venour, Author of "Tales from an Old Curiositjr Shop," etc. — I PART ELEVEN. Here the boy seemed to have returned with the drinks ordered. "Aw, well, George ! 'Ere's another thousan' a year !" "Ditto to yeou, Bill." And with aching jaws Jim the Snag could hear the glug-glug of the Leer as the bargeman and his friend imbibed. "Best drink I've 'ad this long Haft, Bill," said George. "Yiss. Old Bunyan, 'e do keep rare gude ale." Then there was a pause for a few moments. "So the trial comes on to-morrer, •hj ?" "That it does. An' they do say as 'ow the young feller 'll swing, for 'e were took in the act like." "Sarve 'im right, then." "So say I. For if so be as 'ow 'e's the old 'un's son, it's 'orrible." "What did you say 'is name was ?" "Clive, I think. Morgan Clive, or some such as that." "Lor, now." Then there came a hail from the (ock-keeper. "Got to go now, Bill." "Well, so long." "See you day arter Only goin' to Tring this v'yage." "Right yeou are. Ta-ta." ■"Bye-bye." Jim had heard every word of this and he writhed and cursed his helplessness as he listened. If he could but get free, free, he would go all the way to London on his knees to give the lie to the foul :harge against the "young feller." This desire was, perhaps, born more of hatred to Abraham than out of any great goodwill to Mervyn. But the desire was there all the same ; it was there, and it was there) wery strong. He turned and twisted in his despair, and the cords cut deeper into his wrists. What was that ? Something bright flashed in at the window. It was a lighted match. It fell among the straw of his b:d. The straw was not very dry, for the foundations of the mill were damp. But one or two straws caught fire.

Heavens ! Was he to be burned alive ? No, no ! An inspiration , zigzagged tbrongh his brain like a streak of lightning. With a tremendous effort he raised his arms and, ' stretching them out, tried to hold the cords that tortured his flesh in the tiny flame. If only the straw would burn ! rhen the fire that at the .first moment threatened death wotfild give him liberty. As if in answer to his unspoken prayer, the little flame leaped higher. Me felt it scorching his skin ; but what matter a little skin ? Yes, it was catching. The rope had a tiny spark on it. Closer, closer to ihe flame ; the nearer the fire, the nearer to freedom ind —revenge. Among the straw was a dry twig. It flamed up steadily—it was a surer thing than the straw. Oh ! how he held the oord to the ilaze. His hands were burnt ; but what lid he care for that ? Notfiing ! Ah ! the flame was going down! A thousand curses on Fate ! No ! There was still a spark.

He blew steadily.' At last the cord snapped. Hitt hands wtjre free. Yes, his hands were free ; but it was some little time ere he could use them. For the cords had been so tight tha& they had impeded the cir;ulation r and the return of blocd into his tmgers made them so painful that tio move them or touch anything was exquisite agony. However, having achieved so much, he eagerly looked forward to accomplishing more. Besides, the twilight was beginning to close in, and that foretold the hour when his gaolers would come with his food. Therefore, he had to hurry. He first removed the gag. That took him quite five minutes. Then he stooped and began the ft'ork of undoing the rope that fettered his ankles. This was a more tedious task. It took him quite a quarter of an hour. And when he essayed to stand, he found he could not. For the reason that his hands had at first refused their off.ee, so for the same reason lira feet and legs failed him. But he heard steps descending the stor.2 stairs that led to his prison. He must move if he wanted freedom. He staggered to his feet. There were some staves of wood stacked in one corner of the dun--eor.. lie seized one of these, seeing his choice was limited to a fraction of time. - A key was inserted in the lock ; the doer opened and Schmiedelied entered, pistol and lantern in hand. Jim th2 Snag had taken up his position behind tiie door. Crash ! Do-ww came the stave on the German's He tumbled to the ground ; the lantern flew into a corner, going out ; the pistol fell at Jim's feet. He seized the weapon and dashed jut at the door, colliding with Amelia, who was just coming in, a plate 5f food in her hand. Then up the stairs as if all the fiends were at his heels, and in ancrtfcer moment he had the open sky tbove him and the highway under his ieet-, The blow he had dealt the German had been such a heavy one that he rnew well it would be some time before Schmiedelied would recover sufScicntly to attempt pursuit; and he knew well that Amelia would not Vara to arouse the ivillsgers.

He did not know the way, bat he crept on through the village and took to the country road. After he had gone about a couple of miles he came to another village. He spoke to a man returning from work, and asked him how far it was to London. "Twenty-one miles," the man replied. So Jim set his face towards London. But his progress was at a very slow pace. And it was not until midnight that he reached Watford. A few hundred yards from the town he broke down utterly. He had had no food since the day before, and, then, his feet refused their oflice. He crept behind a'hedge, and, despite the nipping air, fell asleep, weary and exhausted. When he awoke the sun was up. It was seven in the morning. He was faint with hunger. His feet were swollen, and the cold of the night had made them stiff. For one moment the thought came—why should he trouble himself about a stranger ? But revenge came uppermost, and again he faced for London.

It took him until eight o'clock to reach the Old Bailey. At the door of the court he inquired about the trial, and he was told that it was not yet over, and that be had better get out, or he would find himself in Queer-street. He attempted to explain that he wanted to give evidence, but the officer would have "none of his chaff." He,waited until the back of Cerberus was turned, and then he made a dash for the court-room. At the door of the room he was stopped by two policemen ; but the spectre seemed to have been granted superhuman strength—he brushed them aside, and before they knew what he was about he was in the room, crying aloud, in a voke that made the judge pause in the midst of the customary pious exclamation : "Stop, stop ! For God's sake ! That man's innercent !" Then he fell to the floor in a faint. CHAPTER XVI. Abraham—like all cowards, careful of his own hide had made all arrangements to clear out of England at the very first sign of danger. He had sat in court all day, weighing every smallest scrap of evidence with a practised judgment, eagerly on the outlook for anything that would imperil his liberty. For Porterfield's safety he cared not a straw ; he would sacrifice him readily—his own skin was his first consideration. Sir Robert Findlater's cross-exami-nation of Porterfield gave him some qualms, but he saw there was nothing serious to be apprehended, though he wondered greatly how the lawyer came by tbe knowledge of the questions he had put to Porterfield that afternoon at the Avondale. When he heard the foreman of the jury say "Guilty" he heaved a long sigh of relief, and he began to see the substantial cheques that would presently come to him signed "Isledon." He listened to the judge's speech, and he listened to the .sentence of death. Then came Jim the Snag's voice, crying to the officer of justice to stay his hand. He heard the voice and recognised it. He muttered a malediction on the German and his wife for having been so careless as to allow Jim any chance of escape. One brief curse, and he slipped from his seat, through the press of eager listeners who came forward to hear what this desperatelooking man had to say in defence of the prisoner. Abraham knew what the man had to say. There was no need for him to wait. On the contrary, there was every need for him to get away as soon as possible. A cab to Bedfordrow —the opening of his safe (the cab could wait) —the transference of a package of bank-notes to his handbag—a quick drive to Victoria, and France would hold him in a few hours. Yes, the game was up. He had played for a big stake, and he had lost- But, thank goodness, he had by him a sum that would serve to keep him in comfort for the. rest cf his days. He laughed at the thought of Porterfield being left to face the music alone. He sprang into a cab at the door of the court. "Bedford-row. Get there in seven minutes and there's half a sovereign for you." "All right, sir." The cabby whipped up, and the old horse set out bravely. The asphalte on Holborn Viaduct was slippery with wet, and the cabby had his work cut out to keep the poor brute from coming down. As the cab nearcd St. Bride-street, the horse began to slide. The cabby tried to hold it in—it was no good. A 'bus was coming up from Ludgate Circus full speed. Crash ! Tbe pole of the 'bus smasiied into the hansom as if the latter had been a match-box. The cabman was pitched off with a broken leg. Abraham received the 'bus pole on the side of the head, a wild cry of ■ anguish burst from his lips, and the tale of Abraham's days of deception and villainy was told. Justice had claimed one of her victims. The time of the other was not yet. * » » » Jn the morning room at Rose Cottage four people sat at, breakfast. The frosty air outside was clear and crisp, and the sun seemed to shine into that little room with unwonted brightness, casting an air of joy on tbe faces of the four. They were Rose, Mervyn, Michael, and Julia. There was joy on their faces, but their tongues were silent, for happiness filled each heart full. At last Michael broke the silence. "Well, Mervyn, my son, now that things is tieaiin' up, it's hoigh toime Julia an' me was bundlin' our traps and gettin' back Lome. Eh, Julia ?"

"Michael ]" said Mervyn, putting up his band deprecatingly, "not another word ; not another word." "Very good, me bhoy ; but ye'U be plased to moind that we haven't as t yit spint a wake in our own little cabin sin' we Was jined in howly mathrimony." "Michael, Rose and I are under an obligation to you that we can never repay," said Mervyn. "Whist, man." "You stood by us in the day of trouble and we want you to share in a little of our joy. But before that there is something yet to be done." "I know phwat ye mane."

"I have sworn an oath to slay that fiend Porterfield with my own hand, though 1 should search the world over to find him. And I ask you to help me, Mrs. O'Shea," added Clive, turning to Julia ; "it may seem cruel in me to ask you this favour, remembering the plea Michael has put in ; but I ask you to spare Michael to me a little longer. We were comrades-in-arms and always the best of friends. His advice has been of infinite value to me times without number ; and in this task I have undertaken I know his help will be invaluable to me. Am I to ask you in vain ?" "Lord Isledon"- began Julia. "Don't call me that, Mrs. O'Shea. Mervyn is my name, and Michael and you must never call me anything but that." "Well Mervyn, then," said Julia, hesitatingly. "Hiven knows you're welcome to him if he's anny good to yez. Two heads is better than wan, they say—an' " Michael held out his hand to Mervyn, and the old comrades shook heartily. "Mervyn, me son, yer oath's a sacred one. Ye have to avenge yer father an' yer mother, lavin' yen own account out av the reckonin', an' I am wid yer t'rough thick an' thin." "I knew you would not fail me, old friend," said Mervyn, heartily, while Rose, her nerves ready to respond to every wave of emotion,, first laughed, and then burst into a flood of tears. "We have friends, Mervyn," she said ; "but none so true as these two good Irish friends." "That chap, Jim the Snag," put in Michael "was a fellow wid a good h'arrut in 'im. My sowl, to see the judge'd face phwin he boorst in upon the coort wid 'is tale ! An' to see Portherfield's face turn a greeneryyallery ! T'ough, how he got away bates me." "Yes, Michael," said Mervyn, "and beats a good many besides you."

From tbe foregoing conversation it will be seen that Jim the Snag succeeded in gaining the ear of the court, and that in the excitement of the moment Porterfield bad succeeded in making good his escape from the clutches of justice, which would assuredly have fallen o'n his shoulder in the name of law and right. In truth, Porterfield had seized the moment when Jim the Snag had reached the psychological moment in his story, the moment when everybody in court hung breathless for the next word, and when Mervyn was inwardly thanking Heaven for this unknown saviour—Porterfield had seized this critical moment to slip from his place unnoticed and steal out to freedom.

When Jim the Snag turned to Porterfield, whom he had noticed as he entered the court, and found that he was no longer there, he looked round the court in search of him, and yet not finding him, said lamely : " 'E ain't 'ere, yer worship, but 'e was a-sittin' there" —and he pointed to the vacant seat. Everybody in the room knew instinctively whom it was he meant, and gasped with expectation. But it was true —Porterfield was gone. Detectives and policemen rushed from the room without waiting for a word from the bench, for, somehow, it came home to every heart —even to those hardened officials—that this uncouth criminal was telling the truth ; his every word bore the stamp of truth.

But Porterfield was gone—vanished as completely as if the earth had swallowed him up. It took some time for the formalities to be arranged that set Mervyn free. But the Press took the matter up. And after showing how illegal it was for a man to be condemned on mere presumption, the daily papers had no difficulty in enlisting popular sympathy. The judge defended himself on the ground that the jury had brought in a verdict of "Guilty," and that, in his administration of the law, he had no option but to pronounce sentence of death. Anyway, agitation and justice between them procured Mervyn's release, and Jim the Snag's evidence being found accurate on investigation that worthy was hailed as a public hero. Immediately on his release, Mervyn employed a staff of private detectives to endeavour to find out the whereabouts of Porterfield, but their chief achievement seemed to be drawing their salaries, and that did not appeal to Mervyn, who, after all, had a fairly level business head on his shoulders. So after a few weeks of their idle services, he dismissed them and retained their chief whom he paid just double what he had received formerly, on the condition that he gave all his time to the hunting of Porterfield. This, Mervyn thought, would be productive of more tangible results, and he was not far wrong. It was two days after the conversation chronicled above had taken place that Mervyn received the following communication : "Mervyn Clive, Esquire, Rose Cottage, Pinner. "Sir,—l have to inform you that the gent took a ticket at Victoria this afternoon by the train de luxe for Monte Carlo. I am following by the nine o'clock to-night. He goes byPar is. The police there will help me. There's a Scotland Yard man on the job, but he's no good. Any instructions you may have, please wire to me at the Hotel Corneillc, Rue Cor-

neille, Paris, until six to-morrow evening. Wire twenty pounds at the same time the Continent is expensive, and the Paris police don't do anything for nothing, as I know of old. ■ Will keep you posted.—Ycur obedient servant, "John Marlow." When Mervyn had read this he called Michael into his room. He handed the missive to his staunch friend, who read it carefully, and then ho said : x, "Well, phwat's the nixt move, me son ?"

"What do you say to a trip across the Channel ?" "Ye don't mane that ?" "Michael, what was my oath ? Do you think I care to see that fiend in the dock ? No ! I swore that that man should die by my hand. Have I nothing to do but keep still ? That man dies by my hand, if I can but come nigh him." "Ye're right, Mervyn, an' Oi'm wid ye, if Oi can help. Tell me phwat ye are goin' to do ?" "First of all, wire to Marlow to await us in Paris ; secondly, start—you and I—from Charing Cross at 2.15, and get to Paris about midnight. Then the three of us follow him to Monte Carlo. He is a gambler, I know, and he cannot resist the temptation of spending a few days at the tables." "And then ?" "Then—we shall see what we shall see." And with that Mervyn went away and telegraphed to Marlow to wait their arrival. By two minutes they missed the 2.15 at Charing Cross, and had to wait the nine o'clock from Victoria. They reached Paris next morning without incident. They took a cab and drove at once to the Rue Corneille, which lies in the old Quartier Latin. As they turned into the Rue Racine, Mervyn realised for the first time that his hunt for vengeance had begun, and he felt the thought act as a stimulant. As they alighted at the door of the Hotel Corneille, Mervyn saw Marlow sitting at a table in the room to the right of the entrance hall, reading the morning newspapers. He got up as he heard the sound of a voice asking for him, and coming forward, drew Mervyn and the Irishman into the room. "I am sorry, Mr. Clive, that you wired me to wait for you, but instructions is instructions. I'm afraid I've missed my man, but I have squared an old pal in the Secret Police here and he has wired particulars to a chum of his at Monte, so that we may get him alter all. But I'd rather have followed him by myself." "There's no fear of him getting away from us—he's a gambler, and he won't miss the chance of playing, I'm sure."

"Perhaps you're right, sir." "Now tell me what you've done, and how you discovered hirn." "There isn't much to tell. Simply this—l've a friend in the booking-of-fice at Victoria who puts me on to little things at times. He had seen the gent's picture in the illustrated papers, and he thought he recognised the face. When I showed him a photograph, he said, 'That's the man.' I left hy the nine train. My French friend was at the station to meet me. He had seen the gent, for I had wired him to be on the look-out, and he says the gent went on to Monte all right. And here's a wire from my French friend's pal at Monte saying he's there for certain, staying at the Hotel des Ames Perdues. He's going to Keep an eye on him till I turn up, Mr. Clive."

Next morning Mervyn and Michael were looking on the brilliant blue of the Mediterranean. They had breakfasted, and were now enjoying the balmy air, also a cigar. Mervyn had been about early and had already seen Marlow's friend, the Casino detective who was watching Porter field. The report was to the effect that Porterfield had been in the rooms the previous night, and that he had been winning heavily. Indeed, the tall Englishman's luck was the talk of the place.

Mervyn was relating this to O'Shea as they strolled along. A newsboy dashed to meet them, calling out "Suicide of a MurdererHorrible Tragedy !" Mervyn and Michael each found himself with a copy of the chief local paper, printed half iri English, half in French. Instinctively, both turned to look for the "Suicide of .a Murderer." And this was what they read : SUICIDE AND CONFESSION OF MURDER. FAMOUS ENGLISH TRAGEDY CLEARED UP. COLONEL PORTERFIELD SHOOTS HIMSELF. Early this morning as one of the attendants at the Casino, was passing through the grounds, he found in the shrubbery the body of a man who had evidently taken his own life. A six-chambered revolver was lying by his side, and two chambers had been discharged. The unfortunate man had evidently held the revolver so close to his face while committing the deed, that the features are almost unrecognisable. On the police being called an investigation was at once made, with the result that the body was identified as that of Colonel Porterfield, for whose arrest in connection with the murder of the Earl of Isledon a warrant is still in force. The principal thing in determining the identity of the late ofticer is a confession found in his breast pocket to the effect that he murdered the earl, and that he was now taking his own life because the horror of his crime had seized on him, and he felt, himself going mad. The body was removed to the morgue, and the papers found are to be forwarded in due course to the English authorities. This was all. Mervyn turned to Michael with a look of relief on his face.

"I am thankful there is no Btain of blood on my hand." "Do you know phwat Oi'm thinkin', me bhoy ?" asked Michael, unheeding Mervyn's remark, and letting his hand fall on his shoulder. "Oi'm thinkin' we're goin' down to the morgue an' scein' afther our frind the colonel." * "Why should we go there ?" "Bekasc Oi'm thinkin' the colonel's not dead at all." CHAPTER XVII. "Not dead at all," echoed Mervyn. "What do you mean ?" "Jist phwat Oi say," replied the Irishman. "Colonel Porterfield is the soort of dodger Oi would thrust as far as Oi would throw a bull be the tail, an' that's not so far as from here to the ind av me nose." "What makes you think that ?" "Oi don't know, but Oi mistrust the villain, an* if he was able to put the murdther av the earl on to you, he'll be aiqual to a hunder other thricks as well." "Well, let us go to the morgue, although I have no desire to gloat over the corpse of my enemy. He has passed beyond human judgment. May he find Heaven more lenient than he would have found me." "Don't you despair av your revenge me son ; something tell me ye're not to go to ycr grave widout fcastin' the swatest thing in the wurruld, barrin' love." They passed into the cool shade of the morgue. Behind a thick plate of glass they .saw the corpse of a man lying on a slab of slate, a jet of water playing over the rigid limbs. The shot had mutilated the face of the dead almost beyond recognition, yet it was possible for Mervyn and Michael to see that the dead man bore some resemblance to porterfield. "We can't see very well through this thick glass," said Mervynf "Suppose we get hold of the attendant. A couple of francs will surely buy permission to have a nearer view." A little hunting and a little palmoil, and a side door was opened, admitting them into the cold chamber in which the dead lay on their slabs of slate.

After a hasty glance Mervyn was of the opinion that this disfigured body was Potterfield, but Michael ■was more sceptical. He pushed back the black hair from the right temple, bent down and examined the skin attentively. Then he turned, and said : "Yer trouble isn't over yet, me bhoy. This isn't Portherfteld —no more than me. He got a whack on the side av the head, playing polo at Umballa tin year ago, that lift a scar that would niver lave him this side av Jordon." "Are you sure of this, Michael ?" "As sure as sure can be. Man, I wuz wan av the fower that carried him off the field to the horspittle. An' I seen that scar in coort phwin he WUZ in th' witness-box. He ran his hand through his hair, lifting it aff the temple. I saw it thin just as •plain as a crown-piece." "Then this is not Porter field ?" "No more than Julius Caysar." "But the pacers found on him?" "Do ye t'ink a map that wud do wan murdther wud stick at another, if it was to make tilings aisy for him ? Portherficld wuz nivcr a sticker, me bhoy." "Well, I suppose we had tetter go to the commissary of police and lodge an information." "No, ye don't do no sich thing," said Michael, putting his hand on Mervyn's arm. "Av ye do, the thing goes into the newspapers, an Portherfield will see it. He'll know that we know all about it, an' he'll take ivery precaution possible. Jist lave him to t'ink we belave him to be dead an' buried, an' he'll spin a rope long enough to hang himself." "By Jove, Michael, I Lelieve you're right'." "Roight," laughed the Irishman. "Av coorse Oi'm roight. Phwat we'll do is to lie low, an' put that weasel av a detective on the scent." "Let's go round to his hotel, and give hirn the pointer," said Mervyn. "Now ye're a-talkin' sense," and and Michael gave his comrade a slap on the back that nearly knocked the breath out of him. Away they went to the Hotel du Vreux Temps, where Marlow had put up. (To be Continued.)