BUCK TREACHERY: or A Bird of Prey.

Northland Age, Volume 4, Issue 3, 3 September 1907, Page 5

BUCK TREACHERY: or A Bird of Prey.

(COPYRIGHT.) • f

By 'jfiHN K. LEYS, Author of Moseley Myitarj-,,” etc., etc, * > PART ,7. CHAPTER XIV.: IA BRAVE GIRL, 'After Ned Thornton left Sir Philip’s house, Evelyn felt more lonely than ever, and she had, at the same time, a curious sense of being abandoned. As if instead of risking his life in trying to save her, Thornton had deserted her. Try as she aright she could not throw off the feeling that there was not a single creature in the wide world who cared -what she did or what became of her. As she had told Ned, all her London friends were of the smiling, fairweather type—excellent husbands and brothers, or wives and sisters, perhaps, but quite useless in an emergency like the present. 3ho could not make an excuse for asking Ned to come and see her, for they had agreed that since it was pretty certain that for a time, at all events, his actions would be closely watched it would be better that they did not attempt to meet at present. She did not even know his address, and it seemed to her that he had altogether passed out of her life. She had no one to advise her, so one to consult with, no one to sympathise with her.

She was sitting alone in the library one afternoon when a card was brought to her bearing the name of Mr. Everard St. John Beauchamp. The name had an air of distinction about it, she thought, so, although she could not at the moment remember having met its owner, she told the footman to show the gentleman in.

When the stranger entered the room she started visibly, and for a moment or two felt so bewildered that she was unable to speak or even to think. For in the well-dressed, well-mannered stranger she recognized the leader of the band of Anarchists who had kidnapped her a few months ago. It seemed impossible that this quiet, gentlemanly fellow should have planned and carried out such an outrage. Yet it was certainly he. She was sure of it, and as she gazed steadily at him, a feeling of hot indignation rushed into her mind like a fire, consuming all other emotions. To think that this man, after subjecting her to insult and humiliation—not to speak of what he had done to her father—should dare to approach her! It was a fresh infamy. She moved towards the bell, but with two rapid strides Beccles placed himself in front of it. From his position he could at the same time command the door, so that the girl was, in a sense, at his mercy. “Leave me this instant, or I will have you arrested,” she said, in a tone that trembled with passion. Beccles gave a low laugh that sounded quite natural. “Easier said than done. Miss Norton,”• said he. -“But we won’t quarrel about that. I came here for a few minutes’ talk with you only I prefer that it should be uninterrupted.”

“You prefer! I wonder at your audacity. Perhaps you have forgotten the outrage you were guilty of but a little while ago.” “I believe I know what you are referring to,” said • Beccles with a pleasant smile. “But to call it an outrage is really too bad. Say, rather, a disagreeable necessity.” “What have you done with my father, sir? You may deny that you know anything of him, tell me that I have no proofs ” “I have no wish to deny it,” said Beccles quietly. “Then you confess it,” cried Evelyn starting to her feet. “You confess that in some way you have had him kidnapped! You shall not leave this house till you tell me what has become of him.” And before Beccles could suspect her intention, she had sprung past him and touched the electric button on the wall. Another instant and he had pushed her hand away from it, but it had rung, and Evelyn knew that in a few seconds one of the footmen would make his appearance. “You are making a great mistake” said Beccles in a hurried manner, very different from the one in which he had spoken before. “Possibly you may get me arrested. What then? Of course, my lips are sealed. If you choose to tell the story of that night in public ” The door opened. “Did you ring, ma’am?’3

“Which I rather think you will not do when it comes to the point,” went on Beccles imperturably, “I may suffer some inconvenience. But the consequences for Sir Philip—may I ask if you have carefully considered what they are likely to be?” Evelyn turned pale, and looked at the servant with doubt and anxiety written on every feature. “Did you ring, ma’am?” the footman inquired. “The consequences for him would be—death,” said Beccles in a low voice. Then, raising his voice, he coolly said to the servant, “Nothing at present, but remain at hand in case you are wanted;” and Evelyn did not contradict him. “I must beg you not to be so rash another time,” said Beccles, when the dodr was closed. “It makes the servants talk, and that is one of the things we want to avoid” “You may want to avoid it,” said Evelyn with spirit. “You mave a strong wish to avoid observation or remark. I have nothing to conceal.” “Very good ; we’ll let it go at that,” said Beccles, with easy impertinence, in the tone 'he might have adopted towards a forward and troublesome child. “But no more bell-ringing, if you pleeae.'* “Be good enough tq tell me what yon have come here ter, and go,” said Bvfclyn haughtily. But before

you do know what has become of myi father, have pity and tell me.” “When I last heard of Sir Philip he was in perfect health,”- was the reply. “Thank God for that ! And what do you mean to do with him?” “That, my dear lady, remains to be seen.” .

“I cannot understand how you can contrive to keep him a prisoner so long—in England, I mean. Abroad it might be different.” “Sir Philip Norton left this country some time ago,” said Beccles, gravely. “And where is he now?” “That is more than I can say.” Evelyn heaved a sigh. It was evident that this man would tell her nothing. “And how long do you mean to keep him prisoner?” she asked. “I do not think he is likely to return to this country before some arrangement is come to.” “You mean not before he is ransomed ?” “Precisely.” “Then you may make up your minds that you will not get a single penny. You don’t know my father. I do; and I know he would a great deal rather die yield an inch to your band of cutthroats. He will just hold out to the last.” “That is just what I was afraid of,” said Beccles, in a tone of profound sympathy. One might have supposed that he was condoling with her upon some family misfortune with which personally he had nothing in the world to do. “I was afraid that Sir Philip would prove to be of an obstinate character. If he gives way to it it will simply mean that he will never be allowed to return to this country. The Society dare not let him go—to speak frankly—until they have obtained from him the means of securing their own safety. It seems to me madness for a man of Sir Philip's wealth to allow a few thousand pounds to stand between him and liberty, and all that makes life worth having,” “But supposing that you are right —that it would be wiser for my father to give in—l don’t see what I can do to persuade him to dhange his mind. I can do nothing, for you won’t allow me to see him.” “Pardon me, Miss Norton, I assure you you can do a very great deal. Indeed, I came here expressly to show you that virtually your father’s liberty—and I might say his life, for he could not survive a long imprisonment—are in your hand!.”

“In my hands? He would not listen to me on such a subject. I repeat that you don’t know my father if you imagine that any one could persuade him to do what he has made up his mind not to do. Nothing, not even the prospect of death could make him alter his mind.”- 1

“I believe you are right, and it is precisely because I am .so convinced of his inflexibility of purpose that I have come here to-day—at some personal inconvenience, I may say.” “I am grieved to think that you should have inconvenienced yourself on our account,”- said Evelyn, satirically.; • “You are very kind,” said Beccles, just as gravely as if she had spoken seriously. “But I fear we are wasting time. I agree with you that there is a danger that your father’s obstinacy may be his ruin—and I have come here to ask you if you are willing to save him?” “But how ? I have already told you that he will not listen to me or to any one on the question. Independently of the money he would not give up what he considers a point of honour in exchange for his liberty.” “No; but he might exchange it for yours.”

Evelyn turned pale. “Do you mean that I should take his place?” she asked, making a successful effort to steady her voice, and speak in her ordinary tone. “Certainly not, my dear Miss Norton,” said Beccles. “That would be too unreasonable. All I would think of suggesting—l will not say asking, for Ido not ask it—is that you should go into a voluntary seclusion in some place in the country till your father yields the point my friends insist upon.”

Evelyn was silent. Her cheek flushed, then paled. “Do you mean that I should be your prisoner?” she asked, after a long pause.

“Our hostage, l would rather say. You would have comfortable rooms, and your own maid to wait upon you. The house I have in view has large grounds so tha.t it would not be necessary for you to go outside the park boundaries for exercise; and everything that books or music could do to make your period of seclusion agreeable would be within your reach. You understand that we have neither the intention nor the desire to treat you with anything like harshness; it would be quite opposed to our interests to do so. All we aim at is to make Sir Philip understand definitely that if he wishes to have you restored to him he must agree to our terms.” Again there was a pause which was ended by Evelyn saying:

“It seems to me that I have no right to force such on alternative upon my father. ” Beccles shrugged his shoulders. “To part with ten thousand pounds does not seem to me a matter upon which Sir Philip Norton need hesitate long under the circumstances.” “Ten thousand pounds !” ejaculated the girl. “Is that all ?” ”It is a mere trifle to a man possessing your, father's wealth. In reality, it is merely his pride that stands in the way of his immediate release.” “Yet I understand and sympathize with my father’s feelings in the matter. Under ordinary circumstances it is disgraceful* to pay blackmail.” “No doubt,” interposed Beccles ; “but these are not ordinary circumstances. I may tell you at once, Miss NQrton,” he added, with a pensive sfcule, “that if it rested with me, Si*J Philip would be liberated at once With humble .apologies for the inconvenience he has suffered. But unfortunately it does not rest with me. I only a spokesman/* v • Ar. scornful smile passed over Even's feature*. It was evident to BeealwUatiwoacabe ta wte.

sum of ten thousand pounds had been demahded—had. apparently not been suspected. “Why has my father been singled out for this infamous treatment?” demanded Evelyn, her colour rising as she thought of the insolent injustice of the blackmailers. “On account of his connection with a rubber manufacturing company which systematically ruins the health of its work-people in order to increase its dividends,” said Beccles, with unblushing effrontery. “But with part' of the business I have nothing to do. I was sent here to propose a plan which, it was hoped, might end the whole difficulty. If it does not commend itself to you, there is nothing more to be said ; I will leave you, apologizing for my intrusion. But you will clearly understand what this means. It means that Sir Philip will remain in confinement—not such comfortable confinement as was suggested in your case, I may say—until the sum demanded is paid. And his imprisonment may be perpetual. It is not at all likely that his captors will limit their demands to the small sum I mentioned, if he is obdurate.” As he said this Beccles rose from his chair, and slowly moved towards the door ; but, as he expected, when he laid his hand on the door-handle Evelyn stopped him. “Stay a moment,” she said. “What time can you give me to think over what you have said ?” “Not an hour—not a. quarter of an hour,” was the reply. “If you consent to this act of self-sacrifice—-which does not seem to me so very serious a matter, after all, seeing that you run no personal risk—you must perform it at once ; for if you consider a moment, you will see that I could not possibly run the risk of your communicating with your friends or the police. Personally,” he added, “I would gladly, place the most implicit confidence on your lightest word ; but it is well known that many people who call themselves moral, hold that no faith is to be kept with those who are not at war with society. And that being so, my comrades would have just cause of complaint if I did not take every precaution.” “You shall have every precaution you can desire against my breaking faith with you,” / said Evelyn haughtily, “but I must have time for consideration.”

“That is only reasonable,” said Beccles, quietly. “I can spare you ten minutes.” •

He seated himself, and for some time there was absolute silence in the room. Evelyn sat perfectly still her chin resting in her palm and her elbow on the elbow of her chair. She was not deceived by the strangor’s soft words and specious phrases She knew that in taking her father’s place she necessarily put herself in the power of men who recognized no authority, no restraining power, and owned no law but that of their own pleasure or convenience. It was a dreadful thing to contemplate. But her father! How much greater was his peril ? She shuddered to think how those miscreants exasperated by his obstinacy, might revenge themselves upon him. And in any case, was he not her father? To whom could he look for help if not to her? She moved her arm from the arm of the chair, and looking her visitor in the eyes, said: “I have made up my mind. I am ready to go with you when you

“I thought you would come to that decision. Miss Norton,” said Beccles, in his calm, low-pitched voice. “I thought so as soon as I saw you. We must go soon, but no doubt you wish to give some directions to the members of your household.”

“The housekeeper will do all thdt is necessary. She has been with us for many years.” “Good. Then all you need say to her is that you are going out of town, and will be absent for two or three weeks, perhaps a month. And your father’s secretary—do you wish to send a message to him?” “W T hat do you mean ?” asked Evelyn calmly, though her heart was beating furiously. What did this sudden reference to Thornton mean? How much did he suspect? “I thought Sir Philip had a secretary. Has he gone?”

“You mean Mr. Thornton? He is not living here now. He left soon after my father’s disappearance. But what interest can this have for you? Do you know him?” “Slightly,” said Beccles, and he immediately changed the Subject. Evelyn knew that she had just escaped a grave peril. She had not a doubt that the question thus suddenly sprung upon her had been introduced with the object of seeing whether she would show, by some trepidation or confusion of manner, that there was a secret understanding between her and Thornton. (But for once the woman's wit, the woman's command of tone and feature the woman’s habitual look of unsuspicious frankness had imposed on the cunning rascal. Her tone and expression were perfect; both betrayed a slight surprise, but neither annoyance nor apprehension. Beccles was confirmed in his belief that the reason Ned had given for wishing to join the society—that he was out of employment—was the true one.

“Will you take your maid with you?” he said, after a moment's pause.

Evelyn hesitated. The girl who waited on her just then had not been with her long, and there was no special friendliness of feeling between her and herself. Evelyn did not feel that she was in any way devoted to her . interests. If she took her with her explanations must be given, and the girl would be sure to tattle, and secrecy was, above -all, what Evelyn

"No," she said, "I will hot take my own maid. II you can procure me a maid—if possible an elderly person—to be my companion I shall be obliged.” "I hope to do better than that,” said Beccles, with a smile. "A thought has occurred to me. I know a young lady, in every way fitted to be your companion, who, I dare say will consent to remain with you as your companion during your absence froip home.” "In* that case a maid will not be ..interrupted Evelyn, an■,S£\3ijg3jS < . rig* %

some one to bring down your hat and jacket?"

Evelyn started. •> "But I must take some things with me," she cried, "and I must leave a note for my father." "The letter you can write here," replied Beccles. "And you can tell your maid to find a small trunk—it cannot be large as w$ must take it with us—and pack in it whatever you require." Evelyn made no reply, but rang the bell and sent for her maid, to whom she gave directions in Beccles’s presence. She saw that he had made up his mind that she was not to have the opportunity for which she longed—the opportunity for writing a note to Ned, explaining her absence. She thought it would be dangerous to insist; it would infallibly arouse suspicions and. it seemed better to yield with a good grace. She wrote her note to Sir Philip, and handed it to her gaoler, as he might now be called. He read it carefully, and returned it with a bow. "That will do admirably," he said Evelyn's maid now appeared, bearing her hat and jacket and a large shawl; behind her came a footman, carrying a portmanteau. "I will take charge of this," said Beccles, laying his hand on the portmanteau. "There is no need to call a cab; we can get one as we go along."* The man stared, but surrendered the portmanteau without a word.

"I am quite ready," said Evelyn, when she had put on her things and drawn on her gloves. Beccles looked at her with wonder and admiration One might have supposed that she was going for a stroll with a friend, instead of setting* out on an enterprise full of dangers, and putting herself into the power of men whom she knew to be practically outlaws.

"Give this letter to Mrs. Simmons, to be handed to Sir Philip the moment he returns," she said to her maid, "and toll her that I am leaving home for a few days. Most likely Sir Philip will be home before me."She made a sign for Beccles to follow her and went out into the hall and down the broad flight of stairs. As she crossed the threshold her courage sank for the first time for at that moment her heart misgave her, and something whispered in her inmost ear, "When shall I see my home again?" A CAGE WITHOUT IKON BARS. Just round the corner of the second street a motor-car was waiting. Evelyn looked at it with a shudder • it recalled too vividly the night when she had seen it last. Then she had been an unwilling prisoner, carried off by violence; now she was, in a sense, a voluntary one. But was her position now a bit more desirable or less dangerous than it had been then? She doubted it greatly. There was still time, she knew, to turn back. A portly blue-coated policeman was standing at a little distance, viewing the proceedings with faint curiosity. Should she cry out and appeal to him?

Indeed, there was no need even to do that much. She might turn round and go back. Under the eyes of the constable Beccles dared not raise a finger to hinder her; but if she did that, or if she accused him to the policeman, what would be her position? She could prove nothing, except that Beccles had promised certain things. Suppose he were to declare—as, of course, he would declare—that he knew nothing of Sir Philip’s whereabouts and that Miss Norton had voluntarily consented to pay him a visit, what could she say? She had not a tittle of corroborative evidence to offer, not a scrap of writing, nor an independent witness, even to the most trifling detail. And even if Beccles were to be detained in custody, how would that help her to release her father ?

These thoughts passed through her mind with the rapidity of lightning, as Beccles was handing her bag up to the chaffeur, to be stowed away at the back of the *ar. But that last consideration decided her. She would not abandon her effort to gain her father's liberty on the vague chance that an appeal to the law would help her. With a resolute, unconcerned face she gave Beccles her hand, and allowed him to assist her into the car. Then came a warning toot, and with the usual puffing and hissing the machinery was started and the journey began. The pace of the car quickly increased. Street after street was left behind, then rows upon rows of suburban villas, and then the long hedgerows that told that the boundaries of London had been reached. Still at frequent intervals there came a cluster pf shops and houses; but soon the intervals became longer, and sthe vacant spaces at the side of the road broader; the hedges became higher and more straggling, the character of the villages changed. They were in the country. The car was now' travelling at a high rate of speed, and Evelyn found the sharp cutting of the wind in her face, most trying, till Beccles opened a large umbrella and held it, so as to shelter her. He also arranged the rugs belonging to the car and her own great shawl so as to keep her warm, and she conld not but feel grateful to him for -his attention and care for her comfort. The car was driven by a Frenchman whom Beccles addressed as Garnier, sometimes as Antoine. He was a short and very stout man, possessed of very great muscular strength, and a nerve that nothing could shake. Rather it seemed as if he had no nerves, and did not require them—did not feel the need of them. He whizzed past terrified women and angry policemen with a contemptuous toot, several times narrowly escaping collision with carriages that came down a cross street as he flashed by. "Doucement, Antoine, doucement," said Beccles to him, in a half-whis-per, "I don't wish to excite attention. You are giving the police only too good a cause to remember us. Go slower." The Frenchman scowled but said* nothing. The speed of the car did not diminish one yard per minute. Evelyn looked at her companion and saw his lips lightning, and his cheek growing pale. The Frenchman went on rather faster than before. Bending over him Becoles said, in a voice soft as a woman's; "Do you wont to to attiktd out tn

front of the wheels ? Slow do,wn this instant." The man turned his heavy, insolent face slowly round and met the Englishman’s eye. Evelyn thought she had never seen a more revolting face, but the expression had changed Only the* sullen darkness remained in it. He muttered something, touched a lever, turned a wheel, and at once the speed was reduced. "What a very unpleasant-looking man!” said Evelyn, forgetting for a moment that she was speaking to an outcast and a criminal. "Yes, but useful," said Beccles, with a smile. "Only he requires firm management." "How did you manage to make him obey you just now ?"

"You heard what I said ? "But you were not speaking seriously ! " Beccles shrugged his shoulders. His manner invited the next question : "You would not really have thrown the man out of the car ? That would have been murder ! " "I would have thrown him out, and it would have been—an accident."-

"But he is ever so much stronger than you."

"Is he ? I am not so sure. But if he is he forgot" it, and did what I told him."

"Suppose he had refused, and defied you ? ~ "He wished to as perhaps you observed ; yet he did not because he could not."

With this explanation Evelyn had to be content, and for the first time she felt something like genuine admiration for the land pirate who had her in his toils, steal into her heart. It was possible, she said to herself, to detest a man’s principles and conduct, . but to respect and even admire the qualities of his brain and his spirit. Somehow she was less afraid of her gaoler than she had been before. She felt that she would infinitely rather have him as her opponent her custodian, even her enemy than the sullen-browed Frenchman. The car now turned down a rohd to the left and plunged into the heart of the country. In the distance a pine wood lifted its bluegreen spikes against the sky. There were scarcely any houses now by the wayside; for the most part the country consisted of wide-stretching commons, clothed with heath and fringed with pine-trees. Presently the car slackened its speed and turned down a cross road on the right. A short way down they came to a cottage which stood at the; foot of an avenue. There were no gates, but the cottage had evidently been intended to serve as a lodge. As yet the way lay open before them—a mere road bordered with trees, most of them pines; and then suddenly, at the turn of the path, they came upon the house. It was large, and had evidently been built recently; but only from one chimney did a thin spire of smoke rise into the sky. The walks were indicated, not properly gravelled. The flower-beds were almost empty. There was not a sign of any living thing about the place. No bark of dog nor sound of garden or farm work broke the stillness. The motor car puffed on for a few yards, and then stopped. "We will alight here," said Beccles and offering his hand to Evelyn he helped her to get down. While he and the Frenchman were getting but the portmanteau and sundry baskets and packages that bad been brought down from town, she gazed around her. Seldom, she thought, had her eyes rested on a more desolate spot. The newly-planted, sickly shrubs the great pools of stagnant water, the wide lawn of rough grass, the ungarnished walls, all testified to the fact that the house had been built by some one who had had a fancy for living in a wilderness, and had changed his mind before his abode was properly finished. Everything was on a scale of unnecessary magnificence. No one who could afford to keep up such a house would care to bury himself in such a desert. That was the explanation, no doubt, of the air of neglect that spread all round.

"Will you come this way, if you please, Miss Norton ? Things do not look quite so bad at the house itself." There, indeed, there had been some attempt to impart a look of habitation to the great empty building. Some flowers and shrubs had been planted, and' a freshly-painted gar-den-seat stood against the sheltered side of the garden wall. Inside it was much the same—long echoing corridors and wide staircases, with bare floors and walls on which the plaster was still damp. "This is your sitting room," said Beccles, throwing open one of the doors. "I chose it rather than one of the larger rooms, as being cosier for one or two people. Your bed room, you see, opens out of it; but if you prefer to have your bedroom upstairs, choose which one you like, and it shall be furnished for you. The room intended for your maid or companion is just across the passage."

There was a cottage piano in one corner of the room, and a quantity of novels in cheap editions and magazines on a side table. The room was comfortably furnished, and Evelyn said to herself that she ought to be able t© endure existence there, lonely as the place was, for a few weeks with tolerable resignation. "You must be hungry after your ride," said Beccles, after Evelyn had gone to her bed room and taken off her hat and jacket. “I have brought the materials for a makeshift dinner from town with me. Will you allow me to join you?" Of course the girl could make no objection to this, although she would much rather have dined alone Was she not his guest, if such a word could be applied to such a connection ? They dined, waited on by a Frenchwoman, Garnier's wife—whose appearance,- by the way, Evelyn did not at all relish—and by the time dinner was over darkness had fallen. Beccles then left her, saying he must get back to town that night, and that he hoped to return next day, bringing with him a lady who would live with her, and keep her from foeiing lonely. She let him go, and live minutes after he left the room, she heard the noise of the motor-car as it whizzed down the unformed avenue. Evelyn';.-sat for some time staring into the fire, which had been lighted on her arrival. The Frenchwoman tamo in *o tmbov* Um dUfawr Ud

Evelyn had an opportunity of seeing her more closely than she had done before. She was, unlike most Frenchwomen, tall as well as stout, with a flushed complexion and a quantity of coarse, dark hair.- She spoke only in monosyllables, saying that she knew little English. Evelyn did not know whether to believe her or not.

For the rest of the evening Evelyn sat by the fire trying in vain to read and distract her thoughts from the strange and. melancholy situation in which she found herself. The wind rose, bringing with it some heavy showers, and the sweeping of the rain against the window panes and the dreary sound of the wind added to' the feeling of profound depression almost of despair, that had taken possession of her. She’ almost regretted now that she had put herself under the power of Beccles even with the hope of delivering her father. She seemed to realize all at once how helpless she was—how easy the committal of any crime—of murder itself—would be in that desolate place. Finally, frightened at her own thoughts she rose hastily went to her bed room and tried to forget her misery in sleep. (To be Continued.)