A BLIND LEAD.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XLIX, Issue 14888, 13 January 1912, Page 3 (Supplement)

A BLIND LEAD.

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT..

BY LAURENCE LYNCH, Author of " A Slender Clue." " High Stakes," " The Unseen Hand."

COPYRIGHT. CHAPTER XXIII. YES, OB NO. The girl in the room under the skylight aat beside a little table, littered with books, magazines, and needlework, with a current magazine in her listless hands. She had almost ceased to count the days as they passed, and her face was growing dull and set. She talked little now with the woman who was her only attendant, and for days past had refused almost altogether to reply to the calls, requests, and demands that still came from time to time through the speaking tube, her words, when they came, being few,, and always the same. "I will not— will not! I will write nothing— nothing! For — am not Iris La Croix !" She had lost much of her energy of movement and speech, her step was growing languid, and her food— was very good —often went back almost untasted. But the look of obstinate resolve that spoke in her eyes and in the firm set of her lips was as strong as at first. It was the morning of the day that saw a triple departure from London for Edinburgh. The girl's breakfast stood at her elbow almost untouched, and as the woman entered to carry it away ehe exclaimed loudly : "You poor foolish child, to go starving yourself just when as like as not you 11 need all your strength. See—l've brought you some different reading this morning. The girl glanced up, indifferently at first, and then she let the magazine fall from her hands and tared. For the woman was placing upon the corner of the little table, with elaborate carefulness, two or. three books and several newspapers—the first newspaper the girl had scon since her imprisonment. " Why is this?" she asked, with a show of indifference. . .. , "I'm sure I can't say, missy. Maybe they've forgot themselves." And she made a great pretence of going about her work of dusting, brushing, straightening, and all the little details of her regular morning's duties. But from the corner of her eye she was keeping close watch upon the girl by the table, who had picked up her dropped magazine, searching for her lost place with a little petulant murmur of impatienceand resinning her residing. Jiut she—toowas watching; and when, presently, tho woman entered the next room, she ' took from the little heap the topmost paper, and unfolded it with hands that firm, but with lips that were indrawn between fierce little white teeth. , . As the rustle of the paper came to her ears the woman in the next room began to croon softly, keeping her back toward the door between, so that, while she must have heard, she could not, or would not, see that the paper soon fell from the girl s hand, and lay for a long time unnoticed at her feet, while she sat trembling and dazed, flushing and paling, clinching and unclinching her small hands, fighting for self-mastery, and all the time silent*, almost moveless. . , Presently she bent forward, and, in the act of taking up the dropped paper, turned her head far enough to obtain a view of the inner room and its occupant. Tho woman was sitting upon the extreme edge of a chair, and her hands were moving to and fro above a something of filmy lace and muslin. . Her head was bent above it, and she was still crooning. The girl lifted the papers, and softly changed her position so that she might see the occupant of the other room, and then slowly began turning the pages. She was pale "still, but her lips were firmly shut, and her face set and cold. Slowly, methodically, she took up and searched the pages of all the daily papers. They were all of recent date, but only three were of the previous evening. And now she glanced carefully over the headlines of each one, making sure that she had missed nothing of importance, while over some she lingered, hesitating, and seeming, at some moments, almost upon the point of an outbreak of nerves or temper. At last, with a decisive half-laugh, she tossed the papers all away, arose with a quick bustling movement, and called "Mammy—what are you doing?" "Lor, child, I'm just a darning your gown, that got torn. Do you want mo?" " No," the girl yawned ostentatiously. "Can you tell me why, after all these days, you have been permitted to bring me these newspapers?" With the girl's first word, almost, the woman had thrown down her work, and she now came, soft-footed .and swift, out into the room, where tho girl stood staring down at the scattered papers. She crossed the room silently, pausing nearly opposite, and facing the capless speaking tube, and then she tip-toed across to the wall, applied her ear to the open tube, and, after a moment, drew away a pace, and said, her voice slightly lifted : "Why, I just thought you might like to see the news, and the pictures." "Oh, indeed! Nobody told you to bring them, I suppose?" " Why, not special. I was just told to bring you up some reading." Mammy still stood near the wall, and here her hands began to gesture, and her head and face to keep them company; the pantomime clearly meaning that explanation could not be given so close to the open tube at her back ; and when the girl had •so interpreted it she said, slowly, petulently: " Oh, well, I should know better than to try to get plain facts here! It's a very mixed-up lot of news, and some of it rather ancient. —oh, well, you may leave them, and when I have finished the thing I am now trying to read 111 look tliem over. Do your dusting, and then I'll lie down for a "bit, I think." And, turning with a nod and a gesture, she went quietly into the inner room, mammy tip-toeing after.

"Now," said the girl, in a half-whisper, " what does this mean The woman, still on tip-toe, retreated to the farthest wall, beckoning tho girl to follow, and then in a low murmur she began, pleadingly: " Ain't I told you, right from the first, how me and my man is fixed here, an' how I don't dare to do nothing to get us into trouble? Gawd knows I'd help you if I could —and know.'d how ! And you understand it about the hole in the wall?"

The girl sank down in the nearest seat, and for a moment covered her face with her hands, then rising, she began in a low monotone, " I understand you now, but— will you help me when you can?" "I surely will, child." " I know. Listen, then. Will you tell them what I wish you to?" " Yes."

"Wait! There was something in those papers that they wished me to see?" The woman nodded.

Tell them that when I glanced over the papers and saw, in two or three, the mention of a Miss La Croix, you heard mo laugh, and say to myself: '' They'll have to give up trying to make me believe I am this rich girl now,' or something like that. And say, too, that I did not read them first, but went back to my magazine, and she shot a quick glance at the woman's attentive face. "Don't you reckon they'll let me go soon now? They surely can't believe I am Iris La Cvcix after this!'" Then, as the woman opened her lips, " Yes, tell them I said that, too. And when I do get away, if you'll calj, or send to an address I'll give youl am not rich, but I have a little money, and you shall have enough to buy you a little home and " \

" Sh-s-s-sh ! Something a movin' outside there." For an hour that had seemed like an endless day almost, the girl lay upon tho couch, her face buried in its cushions. There had been no signs from below to indicate the success or failure of her message ; for, somehow, she felt that the old woman would, in so far as she safely might, keep faith with her. And

then, from the little' mouthpiece in the wall, a low sound came, a new sound, that caused her to start and lift a face that looked as if it had . lately come alive, through a severe shock, or a time of mental anguish. "Miss— Croix?"

She got up and went slowly to the tube, and if her face was wan and woeful, her voice did not falter as she said :

" The person you are addressing is, at present, in her house in Londonif the newspapers are to be believed; and they sometimes'are."

" Ah! Yes, will you allow, me to explain? You have persistently declared that you are not—Miss La Croix, —it looks, I must admit, as if you were right. As somewherethere has been a— blunder. Butyou have never given us any other nam© by which to call you." There was a pause here. "You may call me Miss Smith, if you like." She seemed to hear a chuckle from the other end of the tube, and she was wondering what new element had entered into her case, for, not only was this voice a new one, but it was different, more cultured, kindly, and—respectful. It gave her—for the moment—new courage, but only for the moment. " Very good," came the reply, after a short silence, " for convenience we will make ' Miss Smith' serve, although Ido not like it so well." And now the girl stated, and listened with renewed and eager interest, for, as the voice went on, she fancied—she was almost certain she had heard it before. But where, where, where?" . "However," the new voice continued. "As I say, Miss Smith will serve; and now, since circumstances have combined to convince us that you really are not the Miss La Croix we thought you, we are ready now to compromise and set you at liberty." The girl started—she almost forgot that she was trying to identify the voice as it proceeded and grew, somehow, more familiar.

Yes? " she replied. And she strove to make the word sound indifferent, while she was clutching at the wall and trembling. " If you will be reasonable," the voice continued, and meet us half-way you may soon have your freedom. And now, since we know the truth about you, and you know that we do, surely you need no longer object to signing this name Iris La Croix to a' slip of paper or two. If you will do this— there can be no risk in it for you —all that will be ours— will then pledge yourself—solemnly not to make the fact known— fact of your signing, I mean— shall be set at liberty very soon.

—soon?"

" In twenty-four hours after you have signed the paper you will be set free." "And—if I refuse?" Something like a muffled oath came in her ear, and then:_ " Young woman, I never threaten, but you must know that by refusing to give us this signature you make yourself responsible for whatever must come. Of one thing you may be assured, we shall protect ourselves, at whatever hazard, and to turn you loose without your signature, and your oath, will bo too great a risk. I make no threats, but you must surely see that, to keep you here, as at present, longer than is best for ourselves, is not to be thought of, and to let you go back to your home, your friends, is still less so. We have reached a crisis.' I must have your answernowimmediately —at once."

"Ah!" She clapped her hand to her mouth to smother the exclamation, and staggered to the nearest seat, trembling and aghast. Was it possible. Could it be? But the voice was still speaking, and with a new note of sternness, and she went weakly back. And now she could hear— she could not doubt other voices, two or more, mingling and murmuring, expostulating, excited. She could hear the first voice hush them with » tone as of authority, and then: "Miss Smith?" " I am here," icily. " —you will sign? " " I will not! Now or ever! **■ " Again she, could hear the buzz of anxious, excited, profane discussion, which died away into the merest blur of sound as the opening at the further end of the tube was shut off— a hasty hand, she fancied. Then presently she again heard the voiceVery husky now. " There's no time to falter," it said. "In forty-eight hours this place must be abandoned. Wo will give you twenty-four hours for reflection. At the end of that time you will either yield to our demand, or—you will pay As between our own safety* and yours we cannot hesitate, for we cannot afford to turn you loose to work us a possible hurt. There will be no more discussion." He paused for a moment, as if hoping for an answer. Then, "In twentyfour hours it must be yes or no. If, after that time, you are still with us it will not be for long. When we leave this placo we shall leave you behindand when you will no longer bo able to hunt us— anyone. You hear? "

"I hear." The voice was cold and clear. She stood for a little time beside the wretched metal mouthpiece, her eyes fixed and staring, her hands tightly clenched. Presently she took one—two— slow firm forward steps, and something in her brain seemed to give way, and with the fourth step she reeled, swayed for a moment clutching at the air, gasping, fighting for her strength, her reason, and then —she fell forward, and lay outstretched, senseless.

An hour later the waiting woman entering found her thus.

CHAPTER XXIV. THE WRONG MAN.

Miss La Croix left her stately home for the northern city without ostentation. She had carefully impressed upon all the La Croix household her desire that she make her journey without publicity; in fact, she made it so plain, and reiterated it so frequently and forcibly, that it caused them all to wonder and question, and stirred Jerome La Croix to caustic comment.

One thing she said which fell with especial force into the mind of the cautious aunt, and which later gave La Croix, pere, food for serious thought and sudden action.

"I don't want you to tell anyone that I am out of the city," the girl had said more than once. "If it's known it will be in the newspapers; and if it is, Edinburgh papers will copy, and—oh I suppose I'll have to tell —now auntie. I—l'm a little bit anxious. Two or three times of late I have been almost sure that I was being watched —followed. Once in a down-town store a horrible-looking woman made strange signs and tried to speak to me. I may as well confess it, ever since I came back I've been afraid—a littleand to be known too well, under the circumstances, is sometimes to be in danger. Please see that papa makes every efforts—you understand." And then, quite naturally, Aunt Randa was herself reminded of two or three instances where she, too, had observed a suspicious follower in their wake, and, once the girl was fairly off, she lost no time in informing her brother, who stormed and demanded to know why she had not told him at once.

But the warning served its purpose; the servants, the newspapers, all tongues within reach were prompty silenced, and Iris, herself recalling this one thing forgotten, iii their last interview, had written to Val Effingham at the last moment, saying: "My Friend,—For I hope you will be more my friend in the future than you feel that you can be now—at our last meeting L forgot to say that while I am going away as you know, for'a little relaxation/and to pass a few quiet days— hope— a friend, I do not wish my going to bo exploited ; and I ask you to help me, as you may and can, to keep the knowledge of my absence from town out of the newspapers, as well as from the dear public, and my friends in general. Trusting to your long tried kindness, I am, your friend."

It was this note that sent Val Effingham promptly, and in hot haste, to Bruce Abingor's door at the moment when the young man was emerging, gladstone bag in hand, to make a leisurely journey to Euston, with Larne close at his heels.' In his eagerness and anxiety to relieve himself of his errand, Val did not observe the bag, and was not aware that, while he talked, and they listened, Lame became its possessor, and still held it, when, having unburdened himself, he turned to go. "1 thought it safest to speak to you both, for while not certain just what 1 did say the other day, 1 feared to take a chance."

His friend gravely assured him that they would guard their, lips, and then, his mind relieved, Effingham found time to note that gladstone. , " Leaving town, Lame?" he asked, falling into step beside them.

Not for long," was the reply, and in a moment they separated; for Effingham's car waited at the curb, and the other, pleading an engagement, declined its proffered services.

" It's fortunate for us," said Abinger, as, a moment later they entered a cab for Abinger desired to avoid a too prompt encounter by arriving early, and taking his place unobserved. "It's very fortunate that Val put his request so briefly, otherwise we might have been obliged to prevaricate."

"It might even have required a plain lie,", laughed Lame. "Let's hope we, or you, may dodge all the rough plans' as easily," and the subject was dropped, for all that was necessary for their plans had already been said, behind closed doors. And now Lafne, bidding his friend goodbye and good-speed as he left the cab, drove back in it to his own quarters, pondering by the way the possible and probable meaning of this strong desire for secrecy on the part of Miss La Croix, and assuring himself that Effingham's timely arrival was most fortunate—for Abinger; and ho smiled as the thought of the possible difficulties his friend might encounter should the young lady see fit to still further envelope her movements in secret and difficult ways. And then. he thought of Oarnea, and bis smile broadened.

• Meanwhile Abinger, adjusting himself and his belongings in his luxurious full compartment, had remembered to think it a bit strange that Larne had not waited to assure himself that the young woman, in whose interest he was taking this, journey, did not miss her train.

But this thought had not troubled Lame, who returned to his office, and the boy entered with a thin yellow envelope.

"Telegram, Mr. Lame!" he announced needlessly.

Larne opened it swiftly. The message was signed " C," and it said, Carnes fashion :

" All aboard. Passenger in time, accompanied by maid only. No display going aboard. By chance two are in the same coach.—C."

"So," Lame unused as he touched a match to the thin sheet, " so the game the last round—is begun !" and then, with a quick indrawn breath,'" I wish it were ended—now!" i They were an hour outside the city when Abinger walked through his coach from the rear, looking neither to left nor to right, and remaining, for full twenty minutes, forward. When he came back ho was face to face with his fellow passengers as he came down the aisle, and his quick glances, quite naturally, scanned their face* as he passed. She saw him as he entered. She had seen him, indeed, when he went out; and when he paused beside her. she met his pleased, welcoming glance with one quite as ready, quite as open and friendly; and, after the usual greetings had been exchanged, she drew away her draperies and smiled again. "Will you share my seat, and entertain me by telling me whither you are bound — and why?" "If you call that entertaining," he laughed, " I am willing to exchange confidences. But mine will not interest you. It's simply business; and has to do with a man in gaol, who—wants to get out." "Oh, dear! I can't make my story as interesting as that; for I am simply going to visit my friend Miss Hartwell; just a quiet visit, no society—why, I even made pap make sure that my going is not known —is kept out of the society columns. We're to make no calls, and receive none." "Is that a warning?" he laughed. She shot at him a quick questioning glance. " How long do you remain?" she parried. "That is uncertain. Not a moment longer than I must, seriously. I may find myself quite busy. But— I can serve you in any manner be sure I will find time for that ! *

Something in his look, or his words, caused her to start slightly, and to turn ■ away her face, keeping her gaze fixed ' upon the passing panorama without a mom- ! ent, then facing him once more to look at him earnestly, inquiringly, anxiously. What she read in his face, his eye,' must ; have satisfied her, for presently she said in a lower, a more serious and almost hesitating tone ; "Do you mean that you would serve at need in matters other than the mere social requirements Would you do me a service? Would you aid me— leastgive me your best —should I find myself in need of it—before I leave Edinburgh ?" Abinger turned his back to the aisle, his broad shoulders thus screening her, and bent a trifle towards her, his voice also sinking, his face grave. - . „.'•,, "Believe me," he said, "should you have real need of me, now or at any time, you need not hesitate to call upon me! For your own sake, .and for the sake of my friend, I am glad to serve you." She flushed rosily, and for a moment her eyes were veiled. Then she looked lip, meeting his gaze and speaking _ firmly, "Mr. Abinger, I must not claim your service because of your friend Mr. Effingham ; for wo have no claim upon each other now. If you have not been told this, he will no doubt tell you soon that—that there is no longer anything, any tie, binding us." "But surely this will not last? What seems wrong now must be righted—soon/ " Nothing is wrong. Things never were so right between us two, as at present, and we shall never be more to each other than we are now. Mr. Abinger, please believe that I cannot accept your help because of him. But I thank you for having proffered it." She closed her lips and sank back in her place. For long moments there was utter silence between them. Then again Abinger turned to face her. " Will you let me speak quite frankly?" She nodded a silent assent.' " I want you to understand and to believe that what I have proffered of aid or friendship for my friend sake I now repeat— urge— your own, and because I ask nothing better than to help you to the utmost limit of my powers. I 'have felt, at times, that you were not quite happy— something was troubling you. I hope I am wrong, but should it be true, and should you need a friend, I beg of you let me serve you." She looked at him in wonder. "Do you know what you are saying— pledging yourself to? " "It is to your service! I do not need to know more."

She sighed heavily, her voice faltered, grew hesitating and uneven. "My friend," she spoke very gently, "I hope the need may not come; still, it is possible. I fearsometime—that I may find myself in real trouble— real, very serious, very difficult to deal with, and I have no other friend upon whom I may call. Do you still bid me look to you? "

" I do, —and more than ever ! " He put out his hand, and, after a moment's .hesitation, she laid her own within it.

"And now," she exclaimed, as one who tosses away an unwelcome burden of thought, "let us forget all this until— mu6t remember. We shall soon be in Edinburgh, and I,shall drive straight to my friend's house

"You will let me see you there in safety? he interrupted.

She hesitated. Then, " Yes, you may go with me to the door," she assented " and will you give me an address where I may reach you at need. This need, if it comes, will come soon. And— you do not hear from me by to-morrow night you may know that the need has passed ; but—l fear! I fear more and more, somehow, that I shall have heed of you! Only pray understand this, you are not bound, not pledged to me when you have heard what I claim your aid — I must tell you. You will still bo at liberty to withdraw."

"Thanks," he laughed. "I'll remember."

"And now," she said, "if you mean to bear me company still, we must talk of pleasanter things. I should like for a time to forget .London—lris La Croix— all her—possible—troubles."

" I shall certainly bear you company, so long as I may," he answered, feeling each moment a growing surprise and wonder at her words and attitude. It was not what he had counted upon. The adventure was beginning strangely. She was puzzling him more and more.

ffo ha «>iituui£d. on, Wednesday, cejf^