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LADY RODWAY’S ORDEAL

By Florence Warden (Authorof ‘Tom Dawson,’‘Ralph Ryder,’ i 1 Tho House on the Marsh,’ etc.). CHAPTER XX. When they were both on their feet and standing side by side, at the distance of some three yards from John Jack, the latter said; *' Xow. if yon will tell me why you've done these things, I'm ready to listen. But first I must have that club of yours, - ’ (this to tho second man), “and you must both put up your hands ” Suddenly the man. with tho club looked at his brother for advice. John Jack saw this and spoke more sharply ; "Don't look at the other fellow. J/tok nt me. It's from'me you have to take your orders now. Give me that club.” The young man stepped forward, and gave it up with a bad grace. “Xow then,” said John Jack, as he took (he club with a nod. "You can stand Iwick, both of you. against that wall, ami you must excuse, me if 1 keep the revolver handy. You haven't acted towards me In such a way as to inspire me with unlimited confidence, you know.” I his was so self-evident that both the young men thought it better not to show any active resentment. The elder of the two, who had Had the revolver, and who bad been kept on the ground, gave his brother a eigniticcnt look, implying that they had better make the best of a. bad business and submit quietly to whatever indignity the ruffian might clioccc to put upon them. “Xow," said John Jack, having noticed the look and interpreted it rightly, " I iluii't want, to he anything but fair to you, though you've not been fair to me. You may put your hands down and just answer n few questions. Dut mind you, I want .-i might answers. Xow then, are you ready:” " Yes,” said Richard Milknly. John Ja.-k, still holding the revolver, l>nt i; ■ longe: pfintnig it at them, then said : '‘.So you re the elder, I suppose? You're Richard (he elder of the two young men nodded. “And now will yon please tell me. Richard, why you and your amiable Inothcr s r t upon me at the cross-roads the ciay before yesterday?" Roth the voting men looked .up with such • vnlcnt amazement and dismay that John ■lack knew a suspicion which had been ripening in his mind was a. good one. Something in the manner of attack of the two men on this present occasion had awakened in him the belief that the attack made ou linn in lire road two nights previously had also liecn the wc-k of 1 wo assailants. Kor it suddenly flashed through his mind that, although he had on that occasion seen only one man, the presence of a second, attacking him from behind while lie was engaged with the one in front of him. , might b- found to account for the extra,- j aid inary amount of damage which he had -offered', and for the blow which felled him. of which he had not the slightest re-coM'-ctinn. Hi' now resolved, therefore, to prci cod on the assumption that both these young men had Iwen engaged in that attack. 11c raw at once, by the manner in which Ins words were received, that ho had begun well. So he spoke again, after watting in vain for an answer. "Uell. what have you got to say for yourselves . 'i on see you're found' out. I know yon are the the sons of the late Sir Richard Rod way. and I know von both attacked mo together.'’ “ We weren't here. We can prove we were at Xewmarket,” said Richard sullenly. " So T was told. Inquiries, however, don't seem quite to bear that out.” At there words the young men both biokcd at him apprehensively. John Jack, who had not, until tiie moment when ho recognised in the young man ' ! *' l the jagged teeth his assailant at the < "css roads, had more than suspicion that i> wan by his own cousins that he had been attacked, was now quite sure, of the fact. He knew, therefore, that, strong as the evidence had appeared to be thqt the young men were at Newmarket on the day of the death of their father, they must have been in the neighborhood of Cliff ( rest at the time when they were supposed to bo away. He had. of eonrse, not the opportunity to make any inquiries on the point; but it was impossible for the young men to know this, and it was only natural that, when thus challenged unexpectedly, they s!i udd be ready to take it for granted that he had more than one fact to go upon when he brought his accusation. Atherlcy trembled and appeared to be on the point of speaking; but his brother ' silenced him by a look and spoke for them Lot it ; “ on can't have carried your inquiries very far. We didn’t got homo till ten ° '’lock at night, by which time, I understand. van were in bed at Mr Amerf.'nun's." John Jack looked at him steadily. A whole world of fresh suspicions wore* rushing into his mind. He brushed aside the suggestion of an alibi, and asked direct : “ Yon must have read my letters to your father?” “ yyhat letters? I know nothing about von.” said Richard sullenly. ‘ Crime, that won’t do. ‘if yon didn't l.now before, you have certainly learnt in the past two days who I am. You ‘act deny Hint- you know me to bo the soil of your fat tier's elder brother, and that I am now someone to he reckoned with.” U hti arc you? Who do you sav von etc?” asked (’Hiard sullenly. “ :is my name. i,s John James Rodway. and as I am the legitimate son of your father's elder brother James, f suppose my pi oner style and title at this moment is Sir John liedwav. baronet, of Clift Crest. Norfolk." 1’ was abundantly clear from the demeanor of both the young men that thev knew all this already. The pretence of sin-prise which Imth made was transparent enough. They had known all the time, be could not doubt, with whom thev had to deal, and lie now begun to understand the rwiflon of iheir roruhu’L Atheriey burst into a forced and almost cracked laugh. "Who's going to believe that?” he asked. “Oh. T don't a. k anybody to believe it without sufficient proof.” retorted John Jack CiilinK. l>nt that 1 can produce when necessary.” “So you've ‘come here with tho benevolent intention of turning us out, eh?” said Alhericy. “Well, as to that, yon might have given me a chance, yon might have tried to find out why I had come'before von attacked me. “ W'e d'dict attack you." ‘‘ton did. I shoo'd know 'h,.re teeth I saw in the head of tv- man who at-t.-ukod me anywhere. Von wore disguised, and very well disguised." he went on. turning to Richard, who was now very silent, turning over in his mind the words of his unknown cousin, and trying to find a away out of his difficulties. Us only by tho teeth I can be sure, it was you. But knowing that f'rn right, it meat b- possible to prove you wore not at Xewmatket when you said von were, and that once proved. I'don’t think there wiR bo much difficulty in tracing vou nut.’’ Richard, who was non- very palp, a Jin< ot n.tie in the shadows on his face, now spoke in quite a different tone from am- he had lifted hitherto, ft was quite inm that- his irregular teeth were enough to recognise him hv. and hr now knew that to hold- the least hope o* convincing the et ranger that he had made fl mistake was impossible. He therefore at onco became conciliatory. If you can give «:• proof that vou arc really our cousin, and entitled to the title and the property.'' he said, his manner in strong contrast to 11,:,* of his brother. “ ,ve •n ill listen to you fairly. You must acknowledge it looks rather odd to tm that vor. ehottld turn up and make this claim ori "the very day our father j-- found dead.” “ WVII. yes, it is strange. But I can't help thiil. ion don't pretend, I suppes-.

vuuu ma ucai a naa any connection wirei me.” “ Well, supposing we were to admit that we h.ul heard of your coming—had read your letters, and that wo jumped to tho 1 conclusion, when we found our father lying dead, that it was vou who had killed him?” •‘ What!” John Jack looked aghast at the enggest’on. Atherley, too, seemed amazed and oven alarmed by it. After a few moments of shocked silence John Jack said quietly : “ If so, then what becomes of your alibi?” Athcrley moved uneasily. But Richard ! was cooler than ever. I “ We must give that up—to you,” he said quietly. “We must confess that wo knew you were coining, that we came home early on purpose to be with our father when be should; hav A to meet you, that wo found him lying dead, and that, incensed at what wo believed to be bin murder, we jumped to the conclusion that you, the unknown cousin, had killed him. and that, with that idea in onr minds, we lay in wait for you. attacked you, and, as we believed, avenged our father's death to the utmost extent in our power.” Both John Jack and Athorlcy listened in breathless amazement to tliis concoction. That it was not true was evident. There were weak places in it from beginning Co end. But for the moment, coming upon him .unexpectedly, the story found John Jack unready with a protest or a reply. | For the last few hours he had had 'it in fits mind that the death of Sir Richard Rod way must lie at his eons’ door. This lame and halting story confirmed him in this belief, bat as yet be did not know enough to frame an accusation against them. | At that moment, if questioned as to his belief in their guilt, he would have given it in these words, that he considered them both scoundrels enough for anything. But such an expression of opinion ceuld not be considered proof, and he remained silent, hoping to hear from their own lips something which would convict them if. as he felt sure, the Hideous guilt of parricide was really to be laid at their door. ' The silence became uncanny. John Jack j broke it at last. “How was it,” he asked quietly, “if you thought _ I had murdered your father that you lay in wait for mo before I had arrived j in the neighborhood? I was attacked on j my first coming, and before I bad had time ; to discover where Cliff Crest was.” There was a short pause, and then Richard asked, in a tone of quiet argument; j " W ell- but how do we know that?” ( “It can ho proved," retorted John Jack warmly. I " Did you come by train, then?” I “Yes. and walked from the station. Tho porter there could prove the train I came by, because I had to ask him tho way to come. He directed me across the fields, and as there was no fly at the station, asked me if be should send one from the village. 1 think that evidence would be enough to prove the time I arrived.” “ Certainly it would," admitted Richard. He seemed quite calm and cool over tills, and it was Atherley alone who showed signs of nervousness* and of terror as the stranger went on quietly making out a case which both felt would be strong enough tc clear him. " Have you told anyone all this?” asked Richard, ns if carelereiv. Now John Jack had, in truth, told the police all these circumstances, and they had taken them as evidence of the truth of his story. But- he did not intend to tell these young rascals any more than was necessary. “ I shall tell it all at the inquest if I am called, I suppose,” he said. Richard appeared quite interested. “ It will go a long way towards dearmg you of any suspicion that may bo felt against you,’ he said in quite a courteous tone. ‘‘But what about you?” asked John Jack drily. ‘■Oh, we are too well known to be in any alarm as to what people may think,” replied Richardly haughtily. ‘ ‘ I don’t say,” he went on, in a sort of answer to the stealthy look cast at him by his brother, “that we’re looked upon as* saints in the neighborhood. But we are known to have adored our father, and nobody will suspect us of any but natural motives if we are found out to have attacked the man whom, in the first despair at onr loss, we looked upon'as his murderer.” There was a touch of romantic exaggeration in these words and in the tone which they were uttered which grated ou John Jack. wKo kn.-m Jhat this man ;..u, red I speaking the truth. “Of course.” went on Richard, “there is an interval to be accounted for, according to your own account, between the : time of your arrival in the neighborhood by train and the time of your being received into Mr Amersham’s house. I don’t mean to say yon can’t account for ' it. but only that there is the interval.” “Yes,” said John Jack; “that’s true. But I was not occupied daring that time in murdering anybody; T believe I was ! lying insensible by the side of the road,” “Seems strange, if you lay there for : some time, that nothing passed,” suggested Richard, not rudely, but in a 1 tone of argument. “We!!, it was nearly dark when I arrived. and quite dark* wh.cn I came to : myself and staggered along in the dircc- • tion of the light in Air AmcrshanTs house. ' And a. storm was raging besides,” said John Jack. “ I think it’s very likely that carts or other vehicles did pass, or even ' foot passengers, and that nobody saw me, lying as I was on the grass by the side of the road.” Richard, who was evidently interested. ! came away from his brother, and looking full into John Jack's face, said : “ It you really- came with no intention of <loing harm to anybody, I must tell you frankly that I'm sorry, very sorry, ' for my share in the-assault upon yon.” * ' “You fully admit tho assault* then?” said John Jack. “ Yes. I must.” “ And yon admit you proposed to put a bullet through my head just now?” “Oh. no, no. I didn’t. Look here. We both, my brother anil I, have been look- ' ing upon you as our father’s murderer. Can yon, then, be surprised at anything we did ? We have been beside ourselves ! with distress; we knew that you were coming, with, as we supposed, the intention of driving us out of onr property. We confess we knew that. Well. then, can you suppose we should be ready to receive you with open anus, in any case?” “Receiving with open arms is one ‘ thing : trying to knock the brains out of ‘ a fellow is quite another.” “We shouldn't have attacked you if ' we hadn't looked upon you as responsible j for the death of onr father. W r e came back to protect him, as we supposed, from , your attacks.” “What attacks?” “ Well, attacks of some sort we had to j expect from a man who asserted that ho ] was lire rightful owner of my father’s property.” John Jack was not convinced, but he , had to listen. j “Then, when we thought you’d killed , him. we proceeded to reprisals. There 1 yon have the case in a nutshell. I don’t think anybody would judge us- - very harshly for our attack on you. consider- ' ing what we had in onr minds.” , “ Then, why haven’t you told the truth j about it?” - j Richard hesitated, and looked round at < his brother. John Jack could not see his i face as he tinned, and he could not guess i that the movement was to give a signal 1 to the younger man. j The next moment, however, the two ( young men made a rush at him, and, tak- 1 ing him unawares, pushed him backwards, i John Jack tried to seize the younger man, ( but Atherley. with a clever* twist of his i lithe person, left bis coat in the stranger's i hand. j One more quick concerted movement, i and John Jack was hurled out of the 1 cave, and fell headlong upon the rocks f below. i “‘Thank goodness! We’ve done for him this time,” said Richard, as he saw t the bleed splash on the rocks upon which t tho body of John J-ack had fallen, and < where it lay motionless at the edge of the 1 incoming sea. i i CHAPTER XXI. 1 It was all very well to utter thanks- ' givings for the death of their enemy i and rival, as Richard had done, when 1

he saw tho body of the man, whom he knew to he his uncle’s eldest son, lying notionless and blood-stained on tho rocks below. .But clearly this was not the sort of incident j however .welcome from the point of view of the young Rod ways, that could occur without involving them in certain unpleasant consequences. Both brothers felt this, ns they stood at the mouth of the cave, looking down with a startled expression at the body of their cousin. “Yon shouldn’t have done that,” ? a *dj -Atherley in a hoarse whisper, as a °r?- w back a little way, white and tremblmg, trying to get away from his brother. Richard, however, although he had stronger nerves than Atherley, had no intention of taking the whole of the emit upon his shoulders, although he knew and admitted that he was the instigator of their various misdeeds. Rot!” he cried couteaaptuonsly, at the same time moving a step nearer to .brother,_ as if to intimate to him that he did not intend to let him escape his share of the responsibility of wh»t they had dene. “ Why shouldn t we have done it? What is it compared to what we’ve done already?” But these words set Atherley trembling mere than ever. He protested with a sort of whine: “ Don’t say we. You know it was all your doing. You know very well I should never hare thought of these awful things by myself. It was all your doing—all.” “ Hadn’t you a hand in throwing this fellow out? Why, of course you had. I could never have chucked tho fellow down by myself, any more than 1 ceuld have done the rest without your help. And mind, everybody will know that. You needn’t think to save yourself by trying to throw all the blame upon me; for everyone knows just how much a fellow can do without help, and they know that to lift a body and carry it a distance without touching the ground requires more than one man, just as it required more than one to throw a strapping chap like this Yankee out of the cave.” , -Atherley, impressed not only by his brother s words, but by the savagery with which they were uttered, refrained from making any reply in words, though he shook his head feebly m, 01 j 1 f ?w moments both stood silent, they had gradually withdrawn, step b ;Y ste P-. f ™> the edge of the cave, ■whore they had been standing, until now neither could see the body on the rocks below. In the meantime, howover, their view of the bit of old broken pier, and of the boat dancing on tho waves was uninterrupted. The boat attracted Atherley’s attention, and he stared at it with a fresh fear in his eyes. Whose boat is that?” lie asked a vTV? t’. as 10 pointed to the coble. It belongs to one of the fishermen Creek, I suppose,” said Richard, assuming more indifference than he felt, for it suddenly occurred to him that the presence of the boat might argue tho near neighborhood of some highly undesirable witness of what they had done. • V Then where's tho fisherman?” persisted Atherley. Oh, gone along the sands shrimping. perhaps, said Richard with impatiencc. “ You can see, at any rate, that tliere s no one inside tho boat.” Atherley strained his eves to look, but it seemed to be as his* brother had said there was, however, a little nook at the every end of the broken pier, a dangerous little perch formed by a bit of a broken beam which still* jutted out under what remained of the framework of the old structure. On this perch, unsafe as it was, adventurous fishermen, both amateur and professional, sometimes took their seat in the exorcise of their favorite occupation, f'rom where tho brothers stood it was impossible to see whether tho perch was moment occupied or not. Richard, with a hoarse laugh, reassured It is brother. If there s anyone sitting tliere,” ne said, “ it’s just as impossible for him to see us as for us to see him. IjUckily, the Yankee made no noise. n . I wish you hadn’t done it. though.” whimpered tho younger, “Even if ho wanted to take the property, I’m sure he might had and welcome. ■‘.'l -*'•-u-re-ti - fit a:.«I scrape and struggle with the mortgages all the time. And it will be worse for yon than it was for the old man, because you know nothing about business, while 1 suppose he knew a little.” His brother cut him short. It s no affair of yours,” he said curtly. ‘The title comes to me, and so does the property. There’s nothin" tor you to do but just to hold your tongue, jou'll have to keep sober, do you understand?” “ I’m not going to do that,” retorted Atherley sullenly. “ I’m not going to let yon enjoy yourself, if vou call it enjoyment to be Sir Richard Rodwav, trader the circumstances, while I "et nothing out of it. If I’ve got to have my share of the disgrace, as I’ve had more than my share of the trouble, I’m going to get something worth having too. And so I warn you. I’m sick of this place • I must have money to go away with—to go to London to enjov myself. ’ 1 ' i. one y.' there's it to come from?” Jhe Yankee’s got money,” whispered Atherley in a hollow voice. “ You know, Bob filings said so. There’s money in a belt he carries about him. It wo could only get hold of that; ” Rut now it was Richard’s turn to draw back. Ho did not. indeed, feel any punctilious scruples of honor about robbing the dead, but he did feel that lie had had enough of these risky enterprises, and that lie would rather rub along without any help from the dead man s pockets. Besides, if, as his brother suggested, there was already a danger that they had been seen in tlioir murderous work, the risk would bo increased tenfold if they were to < \ e ‘ c, ' eu< l and to be seen deliberately rilling the body of the man thev had murdered. Richard turned sharply upon his brother: ‘ AAoil, yon can’t get hold of it. You ve got to be satisfied with what you have. Remember, that’s mine now, and yen ought to give it back. It was money that I shall want to pav interest and expenses with.” “Trust me! Of course I shan’t give I, , . c ,h- It’s little enough anyhow. ii ir ,Y OU,( I on b" got a little more pluck, there’s a chance now of getting something worth having. That Yankee was rich, I believe, and had no right to come over here to try to take the little we ve got.” As ho spoke, Atherley, his eyes alight with ghoulish greed, went nearer and nearer to the mouth of the cave, until '\ as . a hle to look out upon the body of their victim. Suddenly he started back with a smothered crv. “ .H®’ B pot dead!” he said hoarsely. Richard was startled but incredulous. He was far back in tho body of tho cave, nut he did not immediately go forward to look out to verify his brother’s words. A nauseating sense of the horrible nature of the deeds in which they had been engaged had seized upon the elder brother, paralysing his limbs and making him feel sick and faint with disgust and despair. Two evil deeds, each one vile enough to brand them as the lowest of criminals, they had carried out under cover of darkness, and with what seemed to them the pressure of necessity. The remorse attendant upon those'two deeds had been bad enough to bear, especially in the night watches, and with the wind howling and shrieking about tho house, suggesting in a blood-curdling fashion the groans of wounded and dying men. But now they had done something worse than this. They had committed ' a crauo in broad daylight, in the verv ’ eyes of the sun; and heartless and brutal as he was, Richard was seized i nearest feeling to remorse which he had as yet known as he realised what he had done. j The daylight made it so much worse! The sunshine made it worse; the glittering of the moving sea and all the lieshness and beauty of the morning,

1 seemed to increase his own feeling of disgust with himself, and made nim i afraid of coming out of the dark comer m which he was skulking. • Now his brother’s words came to his 1 ears dully, with stupefying effect. I Not dead! They had done all this ghastly work fer nething, then! [ This was Richard’s feeling as his : brother came up to him and shook him , by the arm. “Dick,” he whispered again, “he’s 1 not dead. Where’s the revolver?” , The young scoundrel began to look [ about for the weapon, but his brother j Bcized him by th© arm in his turn. “ No,” he whispered, “ not that.” [ For the moment he could say no , more. Even these words were rather s framed by his lips than uttered aloud, s ’.P e was soaring from the exhaustion, ( noth mental and physical, consequent upon their hideous debauch of crime. . But it was the turn of tho younger , brother, who had had less to do and ! * less to bear upon his shoulders, to bo ( energetic and resolute. ’ U the good of drawing back , new ? said he in a dogged tone, i “^e 1 ve got to go on. Goodness knows ■ r® s awful enough, but it will be worse t° be hanged. Come, Dick, buck up, . the revolver, and lot’s make ourt. selves safe.” I , But his brother resisted, refused, . | shaking, panting, his teeth chattering 1 a ”“ ™ e .V es i roßing. That sense of , what they had done, and stronger still, , perhaps, of what they would hare to suffer m consequence, benumbed and r woighfid him down. Still, tho younger [ and hunting about on the floor i cave, at last found tho revolver : and thrust it into his brother’s hand. . “ Shoot him, shoot him!” he urged , in a frantic whisper, as he tried to drag . the reluctant Richard to tho mouth of s tho cave. , Suddenly Richard uttered a loud cry, I and turning sharply, said: [ “Who’s that?” ; The youngur sprang away from him, , and turning at the same moment, re- , volver still in hand, fonnd that they i were face to face with the butler, who had advanced into tho cave and was , close behind them before they had heard , anything of his approach. [ “Well, what do you want, here?” asked Richard sullenly, looking at the old servant with a sullen consciousness that both ho and his brother wore , caught in a trap, and that the butler could let down the door and hold them j fast whenever he should choose to do , so. “I want, first, sir, to knotv what , Master Athorley’s doing with that there , revolver,” said Prickett with great coolness. , The younger brother, with the know- ; ledge that he was trapped, lowered his arm. He was by far the more [ cowadly of the two brothers, and the energy he had just shown in urging his brother to a fresh crime was quite an ; exceptional feature in his conduct. It i was usually Richard who planned, who commanded and Atherley who , obediently and brutally helped to carry ! out his hideous suggestions. There was a dead silence. Neither of tho brothers knew exactly how much Prickett knew; he had watched them of lato with marked vigilance, but he had said nothing. Aud until this moment, when they both noticed in his wooden face a look of quiet power which alarmed them, neither had even dared to ask the other whether or no they were in the servant’s nower. Even before he spoke again, however, they were pretty well convinced that he , knew_ enough to ruin them. “ Y’ou’d best give it to mo, sir,” lie said coolly, as he advanced, apparently without any fc\r of the young ruffian, and took the weapon from his hand. “ And you needn’t go for to worrit yourselves about me knowing. For 1 know pretty well everything, I fancy.” The two young men stared, not* at him, but at each other. Although they had not been without suspicions of this, it was none the less disconcerting to hear it stated thus boldly. “What alo you moan?” Richard, who came to himself the first, presently asked with the host air of innocence he could. Priokett’s wooden features expanded with a griir. “Well, sir, 1 know what happened the night before last, the night of the storm. I know as yon were not at Newmarket quite so long as you pretended, but as you came back when it was getting dusk—l don’t quite know how—hut anyhow I know you was botli here. And I know as you wont out to the cross-roads, and attached a gentleman whom yon expected for to come and see feir Richard. And then as how you come back boro, and knowing as ho mightn’t be dead, as you’d hoped, as yon went upstairs to Sir Richard’s strong box. That was just after he’d had dinner—and as you broke it open, and shared out the money what was in it. And then you both went downstairs, not by the front staircase, but by the hack, and down and out by the garden-door near the south wing. “ And Sir Richard, he heard something going on, and ho ran out after you, and railed out, and seized one of you. And you—l don’t know which it was, but one of you—ho Hung him off, and Sir Richard he 1 ell, and he knocked his head against the iron scraper as stands just outside the verandah. “And you was a-going for to run away, not knowing whether lie was dead or alive. But he laid so still vou was both frightened of what you’d dome, and you looked and you found h© was dead. And you both whispered and then you took up the body, and you tied the pocket-haiulerchiefs you had and he had about his neck and head, so as the blood shouldn’t drip down! And then you carried him out and away over the fields and through the plantation and to the place where he was found next morning.” Tliere was a long, horrible pause when he had finished his recital, which ho did with as much apparent emotion as if he'had been delivering a written speecli. Richard, the elder brother, recovering himself before his brother, tried to laugh. “ What on earth put all this into your head?” he asked in a broken voice. My own ears aud my own eyes, sir—most of it,” replied Prickett coolly. It was entirely characteristic of the man and of his views in life and of service that, although he knew that his two young masters wore villains and that he had it in his power to make them suffer for the crimes, he did not depart from his usual attitude of respectful attention to what they said in answer, even though he showed plainly that ho knew the hold he had over them both. Riqjiard tried to laugh again. The pretence was hollow, it grated on tho ear. “Well, if you believe all that nonsense, why don’t you have us taken up?” ho said coolly. Prickett looked down with dignity upon the ground. “ My wish, sir,” he answered in his hard tones, “ is not to do anything which would bring more disgrace and sorrow upon the family. My wish is to do what I can to smooth things over and to avoid unpleasantness. At the same time,” he added, with a sudden nplook full of spite and wounded feeling, “ I wish to be treated as one who, knowing all, is behaving most generously, and 1 , wish to have my wishes respected and my suggestions and ideas listened to. That is what I expect, sir. and what I mean to have done.” There was a little bush, dziring which neither of the brothers moved. Easy as the terms seemed to be, when the enormity of their crimes was taken : into account, both of the brothers know that the yoke would be made intolerable by this man. Devoted servant though he was, staunch and faithful in his seryice though he was proving himself, they both knew how strongly he would j make them feel, by every look and “that they were in his power that they lived on sufferance from him’ apd that they must take care to humor i him, and to treat him r* ihey hated to

have to treat anybody* 'with respect? and consideration. . However, it was clear ; that for the ! present there was northing to be done but to humor him and to yield without a moment’s delay. Richard, inwardly raging, in spite of the peril be was in, was the first to yield to circumstances. r “ I’m sure, Prickett,” he said, “ that there is no one in this- world whoso wishes and suggestions’ I should be so ready to consider as yours,” The butler turned to him arrogantly. “Indeed, sir, it was not always so, you must remember,’’ said he. And in that short sentence he contrived to cram a host of suggestions, both as to his resentment for the treatment he had received from the two young men in the past and as to his intention of being more handsomely treated in the future. _“ It will bo in the future,” said Richard, as, by a sudden impulse of worldly wisdom, he held out his baud and clasped that of the butler. (To be continued.)

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Evening Star, Issue 14226, 27 November 1909, Page 3

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5,839

LADY RODWAY’S ORDEAL Evening Star, Issue 14226, 27 November 1909, Page 3

LADY RODWAY’S ORDEAL Evening Star, Issue 14226, 27 November 1909, Page 3