AN ENEMY HATH DONE THIS.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LI, Issue 15517, 27 January 1914, Page 4

AN ENEMY HATH DONE THIS.

■—' —40* A NOVEL BY JOSEPH HOCKING, Author of "All Men An Liars," "Th« '. Scarlet Woman," etc., etc. 8 l- COPYRIGHT. Ie PART 11, j- ' 3 CHAPTER IV. i- " Under what circumstances did you see j Count Fanfarre?" was my first question s. to Imla on my return, j " You are not going to let him see me, F are you?" he asked fearfully. "He's a friend of—you know who." " How do you know?" " I saw them together at Truro. I had to meet him there." ' " You mean your master ?" " Yos. Of course he might not know me again. But he might. I only saw him that once." ] I asked him several questions on this j point, but could elicit nothing further from 3 him. " Tell me something else," I said presently; " tell mo where those ladies are ; now." x " I don't know." "But you've some idea." " I've not a shadow of notion. I haven't really. He spirited them away the night after you left. I'd give something to r know where, but I don't.!' I looked at the man suspiciously, I was J afraid lest he was trying to deceive me. i "I'm ready to take my oath to that, doctor, I am really," and he spoke with ■ such sincerity that I was convinced in , spite of myself. I had hoped that I was near the discovery cf their whereabouts, but the man could tell me nothing. I questioned him closely, so closely that he grew suspicious. "What are they to you?" he asked. " Did you ever know them ? Why should you care so much? Did you fall in love with Avenel? If you did, I'm glad I , can't tell you." "And you've told me all you know about them?" ' "Yes, I have; I'm ready to take my oath on it. Now I've kept my part of the bargain, now it's for you to keep yours. What about curing me? Does it mean an operation ? Good Lord, I hope it doesn't!" " No, you've not yet fulfilled your part of the bargain," I replied, "you've told me all you know about the twoprisoners, ,but you've told me practically nothing about the man." " About him!" "About your master. About the man who is at the back of everything." "Don't ask me, doctor, don't ask me. Besides, I know nothing, or practically nothing." " You know a great deal. What is his name ? Where does he live? What were the circumstances under which you first met him?" The old fear came back into his eyes again, and his lips trembled. "I wish you wouldn't ask that, doctor," he said. " But I do ask it, and I insist on knowing" He sat in silence for a few minutes, then he said sulkily " I've told you all I know." "That's a lie," I said quickly, "and you know it is a lie;." He was silent. " You are not going to tell me? " He did not seem to notice my words. He looked steadily into the fire. "Very welf," I said, "we may as well say i good-night. As you know, I've another visitor, and I can find out from him. But as you've not kept your part of the bargain, I shall not keep mine." "You don't mean that!" he gasped. " Certainly I do." I replied firmly « " But what can I tell * ou l he whined. " I know nothing—that is for certain. i say, you are as cruel as he is." - I sat and waited. . , \ "Well, what do you want me to tell you? ; he enarled presently. "First his name." "Oscar Prideaux," he replied; "at least, that t,he only name I know him by." I reflected. Yes, Prideaux was a name associated with Cornwall. I wrote it down with care, although I knew there was no danger that I should forget it. " Where does he live? " "I daren't tell! I daren't! don't ask me! "".Where does he live?" I repeated "You will know?" "Unless you tell me I shall not move' a finger to kelp you." Imla Jordan glared at me in mad pasI 1 0? j And then he cursed like a trooper. I had no idea his vocabulary was large until that moment. " That does not tell me," I said quietly, when he had finished. "It is very interesting to know that yon have such pronounced views about my ancestry, but I am at present more interested to, know where this Oscar Prideaux lives." "At Mountleven." The man's voice was hoarse as be spoke. There was no doubt but that he was filled • with fear. "But the Mountlevens live there," I said. " I have made inquiries, and I know." " He lives there," he said hoarsely. "I swore to him that I'd never tell. But he has nothing to do with Squire Mountleven. I know that." " How do you know?" " Good Lord, do you think I didn't try and find out about him? I've seen Squire Mountleven, and he's no more like him than chalk is like cheese. A nice quietspoken gentleman the squire is. But here's the fact. Whenever I've had to send a message, I've had to send it to Mountleven. The day after you came to Trevadlock I had to tell him. I swore to tell him everything. So I rode to St. Judy and sent a telegram to him at Mountleven. And he came." My heart beat wildly. I felt that at last I had a clue! I felt sure I had made the first step towards discovery. "And what do you know about Squire Mountleven ?" " Not much. He doesn't live much in Cornwall. People say he doesn't like it. I hear he has a. house in London, while some say he lives abroadin Paris and in Italy. But I saw him years ago. He was on the bench whenbut never mind that." I made careful note of link's reply, but I said nothing. I had much food for thought now, and I did not feel like asking any more questions that night. Besides, I had Imla Jordan in my power. ' The man feared death, and he believed that I alone could cure him. That was the fulcrum by which I could mdve him, and without which I could not have made '. him speak.. " You must come to me to-morrow morning," I said, "and I will fulfil my part ' of the bargain, but before you go tell me where you are staying in London, and ; where you and Bathsheba live." ] "You will not tell him, doctor!" he i cried. "You'll not—oh, my God, even ' though you cure me, he'll kill me!" \ " You needn't fear," I replied. " He'll never know from me that you've told me anything. But answer my question." "I'm staying at the Western," he re- ] plied. " It's a nice quiet cheap place just j off the Strand. As for me and Bathsheba, ( we've got a house at St. Mabyn. It's a • quiet pretty place. We've got to stay , there till we're wanted. What time must , I come to-morrow morning?" "At nine o'clock. After ten I'm booked < up until five. By the way, did this i Prideaux come to see your prisoners i often ?" 0 j "He came twice, but I did not see him." < " How do you know he came then? " i "Didn't I tell you I could always feel when he was near? He came late at i night both times. They told Bathsheba i the next day." 1 "But you didn't see him? " " No."" c "Nor Bathsheba ?" •No." t A few minutes late* Imla Jordan went e away in the cab I had sent for, while I sat i for a few minutes collecting my thoughts. < With regard to Avenel and her mother I -

had learned but little I didn't know before, • but in relation to the man I had been more fortunate. I had learnt his name, and I knew where he lived. This opened up all sorts of possibilities, and I found myself rapidly making plans for the future. io Having once discovered his identity and his place of abode it seemed to me that the rest would be easy. ••So engrossed was I with my thoughts that I sat some minutes without thinking of my other visitor, and but for Peters, I am afraid I should have forgotten him altogether. As it was at least ten minutes had elapsed after Imla's departure before I'found my way to the waiting-room. "I must apologise sincerely for keeping you waiting," I said, as I entered the room, "but I have had a long and serious con--6 sulfation. a "I into understand, M. Ie Doctenir," he said, bowing: "indeed it is for me to apologise.. Your servant tells me you have had » a.very busy day." • js d the way to the room here ImJa and I had been sitting, and pointed my visitor to a chair. , "I am right in thinking that I am speaking to Dr. David Launceston?" he said. "That is my name," I replied. » He put his hand in the pocket of his a overcoat and took a book from it. "I am also right in'assuming that yon are the author of this book ?" he queried, 5 passing me the volume which had been 1 published only that day. "I cannot deny that either," I replied. • "Ah, thank you. That clears the ground 5 entirely. lam not a doctor, Doctor Launceston, but I have a strong interest in medical subjects. No wonder," he added With a sigh. "On the whole I have not J been favourably impressed with the Eng- '' lish medical school, but that is of no " moment now. Still I read your medical journals, and this morning I bought the ! Lancet. Almost on the first page I saw a review of your book." ' I was favourably surprised. I had notL expected that the Lancet would have not--1 iced it. ! "I have been so busy to-dav that I forgot ; to open it," I replied. "Ah, here it is," • and I tore the postal wrapper in which 1 it had been sent. Yes, the count was right; almost on the first page a lengthy article was devoted to my book. As I have said, I was sur--1 prised that a conservative journal like the Lancet should have noticed it at all; that it should have devoted a lengthy article on the day of publication was flattering beyond words. No doubt the publishers had sent an advance copy for review, and this was the result. . "I cannot say it is very favourable," ■ said the count, noticing, I suppose, the eagerness on my face, "but it had the effect of my sending for a copy immediately, and throughout the day I have done nothing but read, and re-read the part of the book which especially interested me. I put aside the paper for future reading, and wondered why I had not opened it earlier. "Oh, the review is not favourable?" I could not help saying. "If it had been I don't suppose I should have come to see you," said the old man, and I noticed that his voice was contemptuous. " Orthodoxy, monsieur, whereever it is found, is always fatal to investigation, to light. Had your book received the blessing of an orthodox medical journal, I should have known that you were an echo and not a voice, 1 a mere dresser-up of old fallacies in new clothes, and in no sense an original thinker and investigator. But the article condemned your ideas so unsparingly, and ridiculed you so mercilessly, that, as I say, I sent for a copy at once. Whether'you are right or wrong you have interested ime greatly; you have more than interested me, you have very nearly, convinced me " He paused as if waiting for an expression of my appreciation of his good opinion, but as I was silent he went, on. % * "The fact that the'fellow devoted so much space to trying to pulverise you,' is of course proof that the work is not to be dismissed lightly; besides, I have serious Teasons for being interested in your work." "I hope you are not ill yourself," I said. "No, lam well enough—for an '• old man; if it were I who were ill, it would hot matter so much. I was born; on the first year of the . present century, doctor, so you have no difficulty in arriving at my age. When a man is seventy-one, i and has seen what I have seen, he feels*hehas no right to - cumber the earth much longer. , As a boy I heard all about the Napoleonic wars, and since then, • Mon Dieu, since then—the reign of the Bonapartes, the straggles of the Bourbons, the carnage of rebellion,' the ' debacle of last year, the loss of Alsace and Lorraine* yes, I have seen enough. But no, I have \ not come to. you about myself. I have an only daughter, doctor- I married in 1845, and it was five years, before my marriage Was blessed with a child. Ah, and when she was born she killed her mother. Can you guess my feelings? Yes!" >~;;: I murmured some commonplaces, but I do not think he heard, them. He was a Frenchman, and did not, like an ordinary Englishman, try to repress his emotions. ~ "For years I hated the child!" he said savagely, after a long silence. "Did she not cost me her mother's life ?—her mother : whom! worshipped as" though she were a saint! Ah, and she was too! Her memory has kept me a believer. . My whole nature revolts against the idea that that beautiful soul has become nothing, s But forgive me. After years I grew 4olove my child: .Little by little she became my -joy, my hope, my consolation, my life." He hesitated a few seconds, and then went on: "Some time ago she was, stricken down with 'some terrible disease, and although her life is in no immediate danger,! am told that she can live only ; a few months. And she is a great sufferer, too! Think of-it, my little Adele suffering torture,while I who am old, and nearly useless, am healthy and strong!",/ "Of course you have consulted your French physicians ?" I said. ■ "I have sought the aid of the most famous men in France,", he replied- "I have even, because I love my child so. consulted the most famous Germans. I, who hate the Germans, I who am an Alsatian by birth, and who have an estate there yes, I have gone to them asking this favour, I have besought them to save mv child. J ''And they?" Tasked. "Are as helpless as our own men. They have been only guessers. They have not got near the heart of the trouble. Mv child steadily grows worse." t "And did you come to England hoping that we could do what your own men and the Germans, failed to do ?" I asked! ' Ah, no! Affairs of importance brought me here, but not that, no not that. I Had no faith in your medical schools; I never expected to receive help. Still I am interested in what they are doing—what wonder? And, as I said. I read the Lancet totday, and.l have read that part of your book which especially interests me again and again. I did so because it describes my Adele's symptoms so minutely, because you might have been watching her dav by day." J "What is the part of the book to which you refer?" I asked; " what are the symptoms which I describe?" He told me. I will not enter into a description here. It would not interest those who read this history, neither has it any relation to the events I am .trying to narrate. I need only say that the disease from which his daughter was suffering was one which I had been studying for years, and concerning which I had advanced theories which were evidently sneered at by the writer in the paper I have mentioned. " I have 'to leave England to-morrow," he went on presently. "I should have left to-night but for my desire to see you; you : see I promised my child that I would : hurry back as soon as I could, and I will be with her to-morrow evening. I would not disappoint her for a king's . crown. But this is the question, doctor, ' do you think you can help , me? Ah, I '. forgot! I have here the diagnosis of the , most famous physician in France. I made : him write out a detailed statement of the ] case. I do not know why I did it; but , it was my whim. Here it is." , He passed me a piece of paper, which I \ read carefully. There could be no doubt .< that from his standpoint the Frenchman j had done his work thoroughly. , "Well," said Count Fanfarre; "what i do you say?" , I shook my head. "No man can afford < to be guided by another's diagnosis," I said. " I must see the patient myself before I should be justified in giving an opinion." , , - (To ba continued daily.) ] ■