A SHORT STORY.

Marlborough Express, Volume XLV, Issue 185, 12 August 1911, Page 2

A SHORT STORY.

ROSE AYLESWORTH'S LOVER

Jt was a blustering winter's night; the rain beat furiously against the windows of a house situated m the very heart of Dartmoor, England, the residence of George Chapman, bachelor and magistrate. 4.t the present moment he was seated in a comfortable easy-chair before a blazing fire, and was apparently quite indifferent to the stormy elements without. He was \ handsome man, seemingly about forty years of age; but there was something cruel in the expression of hia thinly-compressed lips, and from time to time his cold grey eyes would glitter like those of a snake. Yet withal George Chapman was a highly respectable and respected mcliVlpresontly he took up a daily paper, and his eye'fell upon a_ column headeil • "Escape from Dartmooi : A Criminal at Larg^." Mr Chapman appeared to bo deeply interested in the following *tC™AhouT" three o'clock -yesterday.

afternoon, when some batches of prisoners who had been working in the farm grounds were being taken back to prison, a heavy mist suddenly enveloped the Avhole party. Three convicts in the front rank made a dash for liberty, overturning a civil guard in their mad rush.

"Matters became exciting, and a, chase ensued. Close to where the prisoners bolted there is a strip of copse, and it was thought the men had made for it. The place was searched, and two men were discovered. One, on being sighted, turned and ran in the opposite direction. At this two officers fired simultaneously. One of the charges lodged in the- prisoner's back; he threw up his arms, and, with a groan, dropped dead. The second prisoner was captured after a desperate struggle.

"In the meantime the third had got clear away. As many officers as could be spared from the prison, both mounted and on foot, scoured tiie moors for miles, but night closed in without the fugitive being sighted. The escaped man is under sentence of jenal servitude for life, having been convicted for murder. He is of! splendid physique, tail and mus-

cui&r, arid goes by the name o|{/Joe Curtis.' •' -"'■■'■ ;, ,'•■ ~ Mr Chapman laid down the paper, with, a sigh •<)s'" wlief, • then leaned forward and rang a bell. , . ~"S<?e the house is well locked up to-night, Jenkins,'* he said to the servant,who appeared in answer to his summons,, < {for I see by the paper that one of the convicts from the prison ia stUl;at large; so take extra precautions. : I shall not want you again to-night," he concluded. * When the servant had' gone Mr Chapman rose, and crossed .over to Ms writing-table. Unlocking a drawer, lie took from, it an old copy otthe Standard. It was worn and crumpled, and dated 10 years back. He turned to one of the leading praagraphs headed, "Mysterious Murder of Sir John Graham." He had read the account a hundred times, but each time it seemed to afford him fresh interest. "Convicts always make one think of thiV he muttered to himself. Then, replacing the paper in the drawer, he sat down once more before the fire. Two hours later, as he was on the point of retiring, for the night; he heard a peculiar scraping sound outside one of the windows. He listened attentively, and distinctly heard a noise -as of the falling away of j some of the stone masonry. He [ went cautiously toward the window, but a loud bang, mingled with the noise of shattered glass, caused him to start back. The next moment the shutter fell into the room, and behind this appeared the figure of a man in convict's garb. "Silence! Do not speak or give the alarm, or you are a dead man!" tbe new-eonier said, in a quick, low voice, for Chapman had made a hasty j movement toward. th€ bell. He recoiled, however, on seeing the barrel of a revolver m close proximity to his face. "Lock the door," continued the unwelcome visitor, in hard, metallic tones, "and if any one comes, do not in any way reveal my presence— that is, if you value your life. I am a desperate man, and mean every word I say." Chapman had no choice but to obey, but he was closely followed by the convict, who kept his revolver on a level \with the other's head. "Now, put the shutter up; it will hold together with the help of some pieces of furniture," continued the intruder, and again Chapman obeyed mechanically. He seemed under some sort of spell. "I want a change of clothes^quick!" said the convict, after his orders had been executed. "But—" began Chapman, his courage gradually returning. "No 'buts,' please," interrupted fie other, sharply. "I give you two minutes; if you aro not back by then I will—" Chapman did not stay to hear more. He hurried off in obedience to his strange visitor's command. His first impulse was to arouso the household, but something held him

'jack. When ho< returned to the room he had recently quitted lie found the convict kneeling on the heartrug. He -was burning his clothes. "I think this suit will tit you. It

once belonged to someone about your tifcight and build,'' * observed Mr Chapman, handing the convict the suit of lough grey tweed he had brought. With a sudden change of expression the convict started ,to his feet. "By Jove!" he exclaimed, in astonishment, "these are my own tweeds. How wcil I remember ijbem, and—see here—in the pocket is an old letter from Rose Ay . But, great heavens,! What are these,dark stains? Blood!" and he fixed a pair of piercing eyes upon Chapman, who started as if an electric shock had passed through him. Then the color of his face changed to a sickly green. • "Richard Graham!" he gasped, clutching the/nearest chair for support. .

"Yes, George Chapman, I am Richard Graham, alias Joe Curtis, the convict, the man who 10 years ago was charged with the murder of his uncle, old Sir John Graham. Of course I knew you would recognise me sooner or later, though doubtless I am changed a bit since the old days," and he gave a bitter laugh. "I was found guilty, as you know," he went on, "but, owing to extenuating circumstances, the judge kindly spared my neck, and sent me to a life which to me was worse than any death." "Your tone implies that the sentence was unjust," observed Chapman, now, quite himself again. "And so it was," was th© fierce response. "God knows I was innocent of so foul a crime, and you !know it, too, George Chapman!" he said, advancing a few steps nearer the latter, who recoiled under the convict's scrutinising gaze. "I suspected you at the time; but sufficient proof was lacking, and I was condemned instead. This^ old suit of mine, which disappeared so mysteriously, tells its own taJe. All, you tremble—lying fiend, coward, murderer! By heaven, I'll " '"Mercy! mercy!" yelled Chapman, in an excess of fright, for Graham's finger had moved toward the trigger of his revolver.

"Bah! You are not worth the trouble," sneered the ex-convict, contempt visible in every feature ; "and as for mercy—is that all you think of now? Get up, you grovelling coward, and go and sit at tliat table." ■

Chapman obeyed sullenly. "Write a full confession of the crime. Begin: I, George Chapman, do hereby confess that Richard Graham is wholly innocent of the murder of Sir John Graham, which took place on the evening of December the Stli, 1882, and—now go on and finish. I give you 10 minutes to do it in." He then sat down in a chair opposite. Presently Chapman looked up, and his face was ghastly to look upon. ITo handed the paver to Graham, who read it carefully thiough. •"Good!" he said. "Now tell rao what became of Rose Ayle.sworth? Did your treachery succeed as well in that quarter?"

"Yes,"

"You ]ie! Take care, or, :is there is a heaven above us, I will shoot you dead."