THE DOUBLE CHANCE.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XLIX, Issue 15174, 13 December 1912, Page 4

THE DOUBLE CHANCE.

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.

I — BY J. S. FLETCHER. Author of "The Threshing Floor." "When Charles I. Was King." " Daniel Quayne. " Tho Pinfold," etc.

COPYRIGHT. CHAPTER XlV.—(Continued.) Stead pickcd up the bunch of grapes, half-showing from its wrappings, and glanced at the stairs. " I wonder if lie s asleep," he said. " I should just like to see how ho is." " Why, you'd do no harm by stepping up and seeing, sir," said Mrs. Hardacre. ''He does a deal of dozing, .off and on." The cashier stole up tho staircase as softly as a cat. Just as softly and quietly he turned the handle of a bedroom door, and, entering, closed it behind him. Mrs. Hardacre in tho living room beneath heard no sound from above.

The room which Stead had entered was of considerable size; it filled, indeed, the' whole of the upper storey of tho cottage. Tho floor of plain wooden planks was baro of carpet or rug save in places, but was as scrupulously clean as soap and water could make it; the walls, colour-washed in a pale lilac tint, were destitute of picture or ornament save for a few texts printed in the midst of floral designs on strips of cardboard, The furniture was plain, but neat; there was a scent of lavender in the room, which seemed to add to its homeliness.

But Stead was noticing none of these things. He tip-toed across the floor to the side of the bed, which stood between the door and the window, and looked down at its occupant and, seeing that the occupant was asleep, ho remained perfectly quiet, watching him with speculative eyes. The man who lay in the bed, muttering incoherently in his uneasy slumbers, was apparently of middle age and of over medium height. His head, well formed and handsome, wa3 covered with a mass of hair which, originally dark in colour, was now thickly shot with grey; his beard, somewhat thin and straggling, was also rapidly grizzling, and had here and there a white hair in it. The face was thin, especially about tho nose and the temples; and the eyes, around which were many wrinkles, were deeply sunk. As for tho features, they were finely modelled and intellectual. One hand, which lay outside the coverlet, was long and shapely, with the slender, tapering fingers of the artist or the inventor of delicate mechanism. Stead remained at the bedside in an attitude of perfect quiet, until the man in the bed stirred restlessly, and at last opened his eyes with a murmured V Who's there?" He seemed as if meditating a rising movement. The cashier laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Don't try to rise," he Said, soothingly. "You've only just awoke. Lie still a minute or two." The man turned h i eyes on him with something like a frown, and then let his head drop back. " Ah, yes," he said, in a half-weary, halfirritable tone. " I remember now. This confounded broken leg— ribs, too! Let's see. you're the doctor, aren't you? No, no —you're the other one, the one who's been kind. I'm much obliged to you, sir— you're very good." "Not at all— at all," said Stead. " I'm glad to find you so much better tonight. See, I have brought some grapes for your acceptance. Let me break some off for you; they'll cool your mouth." The sick man eyed him wonderingly as he gave him some grapes one by one, and at last he passed his hand over has forehead with a half-impatient gesture. "You're very kind," he said again. "It's queer that I can't—of course, I know that I've got a broken leg, and broken ribs, and that I'm amongst strangers and- being very well and kindly looked —but I can't remember how I got here. How did I get here, and where .am I?" " The doctor has given strict orders," said Stead, "that you are on no account to talk, or to be talked to, on that subject. You are to rest and be nursed, and you will be all right." The man's fingers toyed restlessly with the • bed clothes. " I expect I've injured my head somehow," he muttered. " Other- j wise I'm all right." " Oh, you're all right," said the cashier, reassuringly. "The last, thing I remember," said the man, dreamily, as if he were half-asleep, " the last thing I remember —" He paused, and Stead 1 made no comment, although he was listening keenly for what the other might say. But the man laughed gently, as if amused at his own discomfiture. " It's queer," he said, " but I can't remember what ii? the last thing that I remember. Any way, I've got smashed up somehow. Those "are very good grapes. Thank you." Just then tho nurse came into the room, and, after a word or two with her, Stead quietly took his departure. He said goodnight to Mrs. Hardacre, and went out into the now dark night. And Perrett, who had kept a patient watch behind a convenient bush, once more dogged the cashier's footsteps. _ \

This'time Stead went straight home. He .ived not far away from the cottages he had just left, in an old house which stood near a disused lime quarry. He passed within its portals, and for that night Perrett saw him no more.

Once at home Stead went to his private room and ato the simple supper set out for him. And that over, after some striding about the room, he went to a safe set in the deep wall, and, unlocking it with a combination key, took from it a brownpaper parcel, from which he drew an object that would have seemed of no significance to anyone but him, but which he knew to contain the real clue to the Mannersley mystery. The object was— man's deerstalker hat. CHAPTER XV. When Marshall Stead left Phillipa Mannersloy in the morning-room at the castlo lie left perhaps the unhappiest young woman in England behind him. For fully a quarter of an hour Phillipa remained wliere she stood by the table, drumming upon it ceaselessly with her fingers and staring | at the vacant space where the cashier had I stood. She could not realise what had happened. She had never liked Stead, but she had never actually disliked him. She knew that her father liked and trusted him, ,<nd that had been enough for her. But she had always had an uneasy feeling, an instinct, that there was something behind Stead's smooth and quiet manner; now that he had revealed himself to her she knew him not only for a schemer, but for a villain. She felt the blood in her veins turn to fire and then to ice as she remembered what had just occurredshe was to bo the price.of this man's bargain! She felt shamed and humiliated to the very core. And she had given him her word to keep confidence! She was to go about with this shameful secret, live with it, be with it always—that ho was bartering his knowledge against her. She was to give her life, herself, her all to him in exchange for divulging a secret which, if lie had been an honest man, would have been no secret. And she had given him her word— word! " Oh, if I only had someone to whom I could speak!" she said to herself. " Someone to whom I could turn and tell everything! But —" And then the dreadful truth forced itself upon her once moreshe had given her word. And tQ a girl of Phillipa Mannersley's stamp, a girl who had been brought •up with the strictest notions of honour, and who, moreover, had equally strict and natural notions of her own, the mere idea of breaking faith was as dreadful as the idea of high treason would be to an ardent r °'Sheknew little of sleep that night, and she could eat no breakfast next morning. The distant relative who was staying with her (she had no near relations except her cousin Clinton) was anxious and troubled about her, but thought that she was still fretting over her father's death. But before she came do*n Phillipa had formed a resolution, and early in the forenoon sho left ,the castle to pairy; it. out.. She. was At~" ~ * 9

going to ask advieo on a question of con« science, and so sho went across the roud and through tho churchyard to tin* vioM' age to find tho old vicar, who had Known, her ever sinco sho was horn, and hud iv great affection for her. Him »ho found in his study poring over ono of his trenailred books, and sho plunged at once into tho matter which had brought her there. "Mr. Scott." sho said, when she had dropped into her fivvourito chair at tho old parson's side, " is it ever right to break one's word?" Tho vicar pushed liia spectacle# high up on his forehead and looked at her as if ho wanted to hear more. " I mean under any circumstances," sho said. It is generally held that ono should never break one's wold under any circumstances whatever, my dear," replied tho old man. "But," ho added, thoughtfully, "I must confess that it has been often occurred to mo that thero might bo circumstances which would justify ono in doing so." "Supposing," said Phillipa, "supposing you had given your word to somebody whom you subsequently found out to bo very bad, very wickca indoed, and that that somebody ought never to have exacted vour word from von — then?" Tho old vicar took oft his spectacles and polished them thoughtfully. " You mean, I suppose, my dear, a caso whero ono's word has been given under compulsion?" he said. "Yes, yes!" exclaimed Phillipa, with groat eagerness. " —that's it^—under compulsion. Whore you wero made to givo it, you know." , " Under a threat of what might happen to yourself, or to some person, to your or the other person's hurt?" asked the vicar. <

"Yes, yes!' replied Phillipa. Mr. Scott put his spectacles on again with calm deliberation. "There is a certain school of theologians," he said, with a sly smile which Phillipa did not understand, "which would tell you_that a promise made under such conditions is no promise at all; that a promise or vow exacted by threat, or compulsion, or necessity has no moral or religious obligation. And I am not sure that I do not agree with that school,'-' he continued, with a quiet chuckle. "I am quite sure that if a man came in here and held a pistol to my head and threatened to shoot me unless I promised to give him his dinner next Sunday I should certainly promise, but I should feel very reluctant to keep my promise." "Oh, thank you, thank you—you are always so wiso!" exclaimed Phillipa, and darted out of the room as suddenly as she had entered it, leaving the old vicar to wonder what was the matter with herr. She ran across to the castle and into the hall.

" I want the brougham tit once, Dauncey, please/' she said. "Tell them to be quick." Within a quarter of an hour she was driving down to the colliery. Naturally quick-witted and active, she had determined to lose no time in doing what she had made up her mind to do. And in the interval of leaving the vicarage and getting into. the brougham she had decided to tell Mark Quinton of all that had passed on the previous night between Stead and herself. She felt that of all the people about her Quinton was most to be trusted. But Phillipa was not the girl to take a mean advantage. She was going to break her word to Marshall Stead, but she was also going to tell Marshall Stead what she was about to do before she did it. She would not speak behind his back. And so, when the brougham drew up at the offices of the colliery, and Phillipa stepped out, she turned to the counting-house, and, entering the cashier's department, asked to see the principal. There was scarcely a clerk in the countinghouse who could remember ever seeing Miss Manersley there before, and the young proprietress of Mannersley Main was received as if she had been a princess. And Mr. Marshall Stead himself came out all business, decolrum, and politeness, and bowed her into the private office, where Phillipa at one glance saw that they were alone.

" I do not wish to sit down," she said, ignoring the chair which ho placed for her. " What I have to say will be said in a few words. I have come to tell you that I unreservedly take back that promise which I gave you—or, rather, which you forced from me— night. I intend to make known all you told —and at once.'* If a sudden explosion in the workings far beneath them had happened at that moment Marshall Stead could scarcely have been more astounded than he was. His usual sang-froid left him; he turned red and white, and finally a sickly grey; his mouth opened, and his face twitched. "Butyouryour word of honour!" he stammered.

" You extorted my word from me in the vilest of fashions she said, with blazing eyes. "I am advised that lam under 110 obligation to you to keep it. I am not going to do so. There is one thing more I have to say to you. After last night I know what "sort of man you arc. I will no longer have you in my, employ. Mr. Quinton will pay you a year's salary— ——ten years' salary, if necessary, and you will go!" Stead had recovered himself by that time. He allowed a little of his true self to peep out. " So you mean your cousin to be hanged," ho said, with the sneer of a man who suddenly finds that his game is up. " I would rather see my cousin drawn and quartered than owe his life to a man like you ■" she exclaimed. " But. I am not afraid, for now I do not believe your story!" I "We will see," ho answered, quietly. " You do ill to turn me into an enemy." Phillipa made no reply. But with her hand on the door she turnod and looked at him.

• "Remember!" she said. "I am mistress here. I will not havo you in my employ one hour longer." Then she swept out, feeling very dignified and much older, through the countinghouse and round to the general offices, and there demanded the manager. And while she waited during the moment which elapsed before Quinton came to her, she realised that all the weight of the horrible night had dropped clean away from her.

(To bo continued daily.)