THE GRIP OF GOLD.

Gisborne Times, Volume XXX, Issue 3578, 18 July 1912, Page 3

THE GRIP OF GOLD.

By ROBERT HALIFAX.

(Author of “The Drums tof Fate,” “The House of Horror,” “A Woman in Their Web,” “Law Society,” cot., etc.)

(Copyright—All Rights Reserved.)

CHAPTER XX

WHAT CAN I BO?

“It came like a climax to all the suspense,” she whispered. “Like a thunderbolt at our feet, stunning us all. And yet, of course, something ought to he done. If that man deliberately planned—’ ’ “Precisely!” He had seen her hand shake in the pause, and pressed it between his own. “I wanted to bring you round to that. You have not realised, but I know nothing yet beyond the bare fact. I waited to hear it all from your own lips, before the. impression fades. Be quite calm ; tell me all you can—what was said, and what was done. Let nothing slip!” And in a low, voice she told him, taking up the threads from that moment when the hall bell had first jangled wildly. The listening man never once took his eyes from her face. He heard so distinctly, grasped it so well, that his own'face grew more grave, more stern, more troubled^ “It- grows darker!” lie said, in the silence following. “Tc was like the moment between life and death-—and L missed it. There was the library—the man stood there —the key had gone——the door was locked. He did not actually enter the room—could not have done so, whatever his motive; the windows beyond were also fasten--ed. And yet”—he slowly rose to his feet. “How was that? I mean, how came the key to be in its place in the lock thirty minutes afterwards, when I went to look ? Answer that!” And Mrs Saxon swayed up, too, her cheeks ashen.

“I can’t answer, Mr Spun*. I can’t hear any more to-night. I don’t want to say so, but I feel that those are two of the things that will never lie answered in this life ; why, the clock in there should have stopped at the very moment, one might say, of the master’s last breath ; and why the key of that door should be missing just then—to be found a few minutes later. Yes—yes. it was lying at his very feet, as he stood there. One of the maids picked it up a few moments afterwards.” One more pause. The pulse oi the mystery could almost be felt to beat. “What can I do?” Spun- whispered, bis arms straining out. “A life’s secret, that my uncle had guarded so closely, given into the keeping of a villain who may be setting to work upon his knowledge to-morrow-now ! lam playing into his hands. By to-morrow, naturally, the police here—”.

“Would have done nothing,” she put in. “Felcote police! They would stride in and out of the house, take plenty of notes—and refreshments—an Igo off to report progress. They can’t help it. They were chosen for their size and muscle—not for their brain-power! It was too late to use the telegraph, too late to put a ring round the county—what is it, Mr Sntirr?”

He was net listening. He had drawn back the balcony doors, stepped out, and shaded his eyes to look all ways. Now that he knew all, the analytical faculty flickered up in him less hazily. He was tensely following the dropped thread. “We are sure—morally sure-—that he could only have escaped by that dining-room window. In that case, he would have dropped to the path below here just as I faced you and Miss St. John in the haIJL. In that moment ail was lost—and all gained. .... This grass plot stretches away for some distance, 1 se,e. In his place, probably, knowing (nothing of the grounds or locality, T should have dashed straight ahead and made for that dense clump of bushes away over there. ,Isit a coppice? It looks too regular, and yet I can see nothing but leaves. There!” She peered as he pointed. She was glad just then of the grip of his hand upon hers. “You have wonderful eyes, Mr Spurr,” she had to breathe. ‘‘Unless 1 know, I should see only a mass of gloom. That is our maze. Mr Lodcr built it years ago for his own private use. He—he came so to loathe the prying eyes and ears of Felcota. They could, not follow him there. I was never in it, but I know it was built as a puzzle, with crosspaths everywhere that lead to nothing, and that it cost him a small fortune in money. You’re never thinking to go across there at this hour, sir k” “Not?” he whispered. He had been testing the balcony rail, as if for a leap clown. “Don’t dream of it! Wait till daylight, now!” she begged, with a:sudden tingle of misgiving as to what might lurk beyond those still breadths of shadow across there. “If anything happened to you now, what would Miss Sheba.”

“Miss Sheba?” 'he repeated, wonderingly. Something had risen in the housekeeper’s throat, as she turned away. Miss Sheba?” “I—l don’t know what made me say it. I thought it hardly right for you

to leave the house again this side of to-morrow.” And he looked at her, his lips twitching curiously. “But—you forget! I must be going, and very soon. No, lam not jesting, Mrs Saxon,! You, aiid yox’i alone, are taking me for granted; I have not produced one- tangible proof of my identity yet—l have none to produce. lam going down to the station hotel. I shall come straight here first thing in the morning. I can do nothing more or less.” The blank stare, and then Mrs Saxon was sweeping out in her stateliest manner. She reappeared with a lighted taper, a small flask of wine, and some biscuits. She was a different person. “This way, Mr Spurr!” She pronounced the name with marked emphasis. “It wants twenty minutes to 1. This is not London—-nor Toronto. The last train went through Felcote hours ago. The hotel manager would not thank you for hammering there for a single bed that would certainly not be aired. Your room is ready; 1 saw to that myself.” -? “But ” He was manifestly touched, yet irresolute. “It might appear to Miss St John that at least I ” She stopped him with quiet severity. “Eighteen minutes to 1! Let me tefl you here and now, Mr Spurr, you do not know here—you are making the mistake of your life. If Mr Loder thought more of her than of anything else in his world—well, enough ! This way!” And he found himself following her up the massive old staircase, with its niches and -galleries overhead. “Here you are! Your ulster is her; your hat I could not find, your bag is in that corner. Drink this, and sleep—forget it all for a while! Sleep is so wonderful. God bless us all, sir—good night!”

He had found everything that a man could want. He had undressed in a sort of stupor, put on his sleeping suit, drunk the wine without knowing its flavor, smoked an inch of a cigar, put out the light, placed something under his pillow, and stretched himself out between the cool sheets. Now —now lie'could realise that every bone and muscle in his body were weary with a weariness akin to pain. Ho heard 2 o’clock strike. He was waiting to hear 3 strike. And then the drowsiness stole down in spite of his whirling brain and a determination not to sleep until some clue had taken shape. He remembered nothing more until—until be found himself staring oia into darkness, every hair of his head seeming to stand up like a redhot wire. He had wnown, as without knowing that something breathed in the same room. Something was moving almost soundlessly to and fro. The blind was drawn ; he had nothing hut his animal instincts to guide him ; but he knew. “Who’s that?” he said, as a man might speak in .his sleep. A rustle, then all was still. He half-swaved. No eyes could have seen through that darkness, but his ears told him that the invisible shape was drawing away, stealthily, foot by foot. Like a blaze through bis mind went the recollection that he had placed the pistol beneath his pillow, as lie had done every night since leaving Toronto for the unknown. It was out—aimed for where the door soomed to be. “Don’t move! Not another step!” he said, clearly. “If you do, as God hears me, I fire every barrel in this revolver!” There was a long, faint moan—a sound that he was never to forget. And it came—it came from the throat of a woman. A woman! .. . . A

woman stood there, cowering from the flash that must spirt out of the darkness and reveal her—kill her. His arm slowly event down. He could neither speak nor move. And, as if ho had given a-mute, psychic offer of escape, there came the sudden swift rustle and door-click. He knew that he was alone. He sprang up, lit the taper, and looked around. Nothing had been touched ; he took all in at a glance. There was nothing but the echo of that moan to tell him that his brain had not played him false. The corridor was bare. The house was still with a stillness that lie could not break.

He shot the door-key, tliat he had forgotten to use till now. He turned, with simple 7 the knowledge that one more link had been added to the chain of mystery fettering his brain and body. (To he continued daily.)