A WATCHER OF FIRES

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1717, 25 January 1905, Page 12

A WATCHER OF FIRES

(By W. Gascoigne.)

“1 wish I could get rid of the fellow. He presumes upon his position at every turnT Even Ellaline and he have some secret understanding between them. x>y George if I thought " , _ ~ Geoffrey I>are stopped and silently reflected on this new possibility. Apparently it grow and strengthened a©a e proceeded. Suddenly he rose, a determined look on bis dark face. <<-ah “I see it," he exclaimed grimly. Ail •my plans are to go for nought. Here stand, on the verge of a financial crisis * To avert this. I have schemed to bring about a marriage between Ellaline and young Carew, who is heir to a fortune. And all the while this impudent secretary of mine has been cutting the ground from under my very feet. But he can t do that with impunity. 11l checkmate tvinri in a way that shall vastly uncomfortable . Let me think. He dropped h;s eyes to the library carpet and knit his brows with an ominous and somewhat sinister frown. (Something gleamed and sparkled in one oomer of the room. He picked it up and examined it. ~ , , “Why, if 8 that fellow's ring," he muttered. '‘He must have dropped it just now as he stooped to pick up those papers." , , ... He stood with it in hie hand, while an idea slowly grew in his brain. Presently he looked up. It was growing dusk and he rang the bell which summoned his »ecrel?ary. The latter came in a tall, good-looking, frank-faced young man of five-and-twenty, The frown faded on Geoffrey Dare's face, and a smile of kindly familiarity took its place. “Ah, Raymond," he said genially, "I wanted to have a word with you on your own account. Now, don't be offended at what I am going to say. You have had one or two tight pulls on your resources of late. You have yourself been under the doctor for a goodi&h period. And I am not altogether ignorant of affaire connected with your own people. Illness has been there also. I am heartily glad you have now recovered. But all these things mean money, so don't be offended if I offer you something to kelp you over these temporary difficulties/' He opened a drawer in his secretaire and drew forth a twenty-pound note. There were five others in the drawer, but these he did not touch. .

Ernest Raymond flushed. But the offer of his employer had been expressed bo kindly and delicately that he hesitated. Moreover, he was startled and surprised. Philanthropy was quite the latest acquisition to the virtues of Geoffrey Dare. The latter observed his hesitation and pressed the note upon him. “Raymond," he said, “you'll offend me if you don't Fake it. It is not a loan. It is a gift, with my very good wishes and a sincere hope that it may be useful to you. I only exact one condition. Promise you will not mention the circumstances to anyone—-not even to my daughter Elllaline." Ernest Raymond reluctantly took the proffered note. “It is extremely good of you," he began.

But Geoffrey waved him aside. “Don't/' he said with a smile. “I can't stand thanks. Now leave me, Raymond. I have several matters to attend to. I sha'n't need you again this evening. Now, don't forget—silence!" Again he waved his hand, and Ernest Raymond left the room. As soon as the door was shut Geoffrey Dare threw himself back in his chair. The kindly look of benevolence died out of his face, and it became darker and sinister as before.

“I think I've managed that without a hitch," he muttered below his breath. “It’ll mean a longieh term of imprisonment for him, though. Bah! What do I care ? He's in my way, and that excuse© anything. Ellaline will, no doubt, make a scene. But she'll soon get over that, and young Carew can be managed later. By Jove, it's got to .bo done, for I'm in a desperate plight 1" He opened the drawer from which ho had taken the note, extracted therefrom the remaining five, put them safely into hi© breast pocket, and finally dropped the ring lie had found into the now empty drawer. Then he turned the key in the lock and transferred it to his pocket tor future use.

How often it happens that, in the schemes of clever rascals, the whole ingenious fabric is spoilt by one gigantic aw. Had Geoffrey Dare contented himelf with the note he had given to his secretary, the plot would have lacked nothing. But in adding thereto the remaining five he unconsciously stored up evidence which, years after, was to substantiate the innocence of his victim.

He erroneously argued that, merely to abstract one of the notes, would prove a suspicious circumstance. The supposed stealing of the whole six would, no doubt, •dd to the heinousness of the crime, and the work be more effectually accomplished. So he hid the remaining notes and bided his time,.

It came within two days. A couple of police officers tapped E'mest Raymond on the shoulder and arrested him for the theft. They had already examined the forced drawer and discovered the secretary's ring.

Then they began a careful and systematic search in Raymond’s rooni. The missing key of the drawer was discovered hidden in the chimney. It was Geoffrey Dare who had forced the drawer, only, as he informed them, to discover his loss. One of the notes was traced to the doctor who had attended Raymond, and who declared that the latter had proffered it in payment of his account. It wae useless to swear that Geoffrey had himself presented him with the note. He a philanthropist! The idea was absurd. Besides., where were the other notes F _ , . So the trial came on. In speechless bewilderment, Ernest Raymond stood in the dock and listened dumbly to the evidence against liiin Two hours of slow torture, and he went staggering down to the dark vault below.

“Two year©!" That was the sentence that kept ringing in his ears. it * **

The fires were burning with a dull red glare. An odour of baking clay penetrated the air. Behind rose the tall shafts of the brick kilns, grim and ghostly against the purple sky. In front stretched a broad expanse of stunted grass, and l>eyond it tlio fane© tnat skirted the road. It was night, and the stars shone fitfully in a dark sky. All around was solitude, for the town lay far up the winding road to the eastward. A step came round the steaming k ins. It was the watcher, wheeling hie bairrow to feed the red mouths of his hungry furnaces. But who was this? The face was changed, but yet the same. The mouth wao firmer, the eyes less gay than of yore. But the man was there. Two years had dragged wearily by, and the law of the land was satisfied. Ernest Raymond was free.

But who would trust him now ? The fruitless quest for employment had driven him almost to despair. And now —yes, he was a watcher of fires through the long dark hours of the night. And, strange to admit, the work was not unpleasant. Silence and solitude were now his best friends. No one here could level the finger of scorn at him and say: “There he goes —the man who served two years in His Majesty's prisons!" Silently he began to shovel the fuel into the gaping red maw of his furnaces. Then he sat upon the edge of his barrow and let his Droughts go back to those dear dead days before the shame of that false accusation had been furled at him. Has love for Ellaline, heir love for him ! Ah, how happy they had been! To remember it now was not all bitterness to his soul. It pleased him to revive those happy memories of his Love. Where was she now? Who could tell? Her father had turned her adrift when bankruptcy came upon him. She had openly rebelled against his commands, and they had patted for ever and in anger. So much he had learnt on his release. She, at least, had not believed him guilty. Oh, why had she not met him that first day of his newly-found liberty? He had no right to expect it. Yet he felt terribly disappointed. Where could she be? Day by day he asked himself this question. But no answer came. The future was black and hopeless. He must content himself with the past. But ivhere was he? Oh, if he could but wring the truth from that cruel liar who* had called him thief! He started violently. A man was standing at his elbow. “Hallo, there! Can you direct me to the house of Mr r Wilmot? I think he lives about here somewhere. I was coming down by train, but the engine broke down a couple of mile© from the station, and I've had to walk." Ernest Raymond stood up suddenly. The red glow of the furnaces fell alike on the face of each. The stranger gave “Who the dickens are you?" he began, backing away a little. “I thought He stopped suddenly. Ernest Raymond was gazing steadily into his dark face. “That was foolish of you, Geoffrey Dare," he said b.tterly. “The two years have long expired." For a moment there was a complete silence. Then the elder man mad© a movement as if to depart. A sudden desire to wring the truth from those cruel lips seized hold upon Eirnest Raymond. Was not this the opportunity for which he had prayed ? Summoning all his strength, he gripped the other by both arms, and dragged him back to the roaring fires. The heat struck them as they came near. But Raymond heeded it not. His blood was on fire. Now was his chance, and he did not mean to let it slip. “Now, then," he said sternly, as he came at last to a halt before one of the fires, “I want the truth about those notes. You sent me to prison with a lie upon your lips. Now I want to clear my name of this stain. Come—out with it." Geoffrey Hare realised the hopelessness of a struggle. He was by far the weaker of the two. i\ or would his cries for help be heard in that desolate place. But no man could make him incriminate himself. The position was absurd. “You fool," he said, his face twitching with rage. “Unhand me, you dog, or I'll have you charged with assault next, □'yon hear? Unhand me, I say." But Ernest Raymond paid no heed to the command. “Listen," he ©aid decisively, “I will have the truth from you. Gome, out with it, or by Heaven— l —" He was checked by a terrible wrench from the man in hie grip. One arm released itself, and, the next moment, Raymond felt a stinging blow vn his cheek. Rage had got the better of his adversary.

A hot flush mounted to the young ■nan's brow. The blow had roused all the latent anger and thirst for venge nance witMn him. In a moment he was at the man's <hroat. To and fro they swayed in the red light of the roaring fires. Infuriated to the last degree, the hand of Geoffrey Dare crept to the side pocket of his hip. There wus a flash, and Raymond felt a sharp, stinging pain in his right arm. With a frantic effort, he tried to wrench the revolver from his opponent’s hand. The muzzle bent round. Then came another flash. The hand that clutched the weapon relaxed suddenly, and Geoffrey Dare dropped limply to the ground. The sound of the shots had attracted the notice of a passing waggoner, who now came running across the grass. As ho drew near, the dark eyes of Geoffrey Dare turned full upon him. “It’s all up with me," he said hoarsely. “The bullet’s gone half through me. It’s my own fault. I shouldn't have drawn on him. I suppose there's some truth in Divine retribution, after all." For a few moments he lay quite still. Then he opened his eyes and spoke again. “I live at Fern Villa, Oakwood,” he said. '“Raymond, you'll find the other notes hidden in my secretaire. You were charged falsely. I lied to bring it about.

This man will corroborate what I have mid. The finding of the notes w.ll do the rest. I wanted to marry Ellaline to young Carew. But she had a will of her own. That's all. Shake hands before 1 Raymond bent down, and, notwithstanding the pain of hi© wounded arm, •*hook hand© with his adversary. As he did so, the latter fell back and a shudder passed through his frame. Geoffrey Dare was dead. « * • «■ ®

“Come, Ellaline—we haven't a moment to spare! Now, do leave that diess alone. You look quite killing enough as :t is. If you waste anotliei moment you 11 be Tate. ' Your first appearance m public, too \* 9 Hilda Merry pushed her friend from the room. Ellaline Dare was to sing that night, for the first time, in St. James s Hall. Her name was on the announcements, and everyone predicted a brilliant future for the young contralto With the severance of the bond between herself and her father, she had gone to a aster of her dead mother, who had welcomed the girl with tenderness and SSS£ m As lC the two’giifl drove together to the lapsed IntfsUent "speculation. Suppose he F should read her name m any of the papers. It was more than possible. ¥et she hoped he would not. _ A strong conviction that her father was responsible for all the shame and misery which Ernest had endured, made hea shrink involuntarily from meeting him. He had loved her so dearly. And, m return her own father had wrecked both his life and honour. It was a thought SI could hardly endure. Never, she told bar self, could she look into Ms noble face aS £he sighed a little at the reflection. He might see her name in the newspaper reports of the approaching concerte But to-night, at least, she was safe. She forgot that the announcement of concert always goes before its report Even toSfchf he might be there to look her m her two songs with Recess, and received an ovation that ampfy verified the predictions of nor menas. A fl 3 i, e stepped into the waiting cariiag thl ccSchiskm of the concert, the figure of a man, standing on the paie nieiit, attracted her attention. She. tn an abrupt halt, and, her heart in ker mouth peered into the darkness Suddenlythe man stepped forward and U »£Ls Dare," he said quietly, “I .should be Sof a few word* with. you. May I well-remembered voice All her resolution forsook her. She loved him, and that was enough “Yes," she sa d m a low, soft Y° 1C ®* “T will see you in the afternoon. I avn living with iny aunt at Earlwood House, Hlghgate. Good-night."

She held out her hand timidly. Ernest took i; gratefully. . , . „ T ... '“Thank you,” he said simply. I will come at three." Ellaline lifted her eyes. They were swimming -n tears. “Have you forgiven me?" she asked humbly. tiniest smiled down at her. “I have nothing to forgive," he said gently. “But—my father!" urged Ellaline. “Hush!’’ he whispered soothingly. “Your father has gone to his account. I shook hands with him in the moment of his deatn. I think he died repentant, Filial.ne." „ . , , A sob shook her as he finished speak-

ing. “And you?" she asked presently. Ernest held her hand more firmly. “I am getting on much better now," he said gratefully. “It was up-hill work at first. A year ago I was only a watcher of fi r es To-day I have reached a higher leveh”' „ . , , , ■ ‘ijut your innocence, she protested. “Has not that been established? Did not my father " Ernest hesitated. But he saw she knew the truth. , . . f v 'Tanly," he answered slowly. ‘lour father made it quite clear before he died. Following Ms declaration, the police succeeded -ii proving my innocence. They now urge me to make this publicly known by means of the Dress. But I shall not do so." Ellaline looked up m surprise. "You will not do so?" she repeated. Ernest smiled to himself. . “You bear his name," he said simply. She comprehended in a flash. A lovely blush overspread her face, and her eyes sank lower and lower. “I will see you to-morrow, she said. He still held her hand. “W-ll you do anycMng elsef he asked. She turned her face away. “Perhaps," she whispered, ana moved back to the waiting carriage. Ernest Raymond stood in the shadow of the tall buildings till the carriage had disappeared. Then lie turned Ms face northward. „ ~ "Th o r» was a tune, he said reflectively “when the past afforded me all the consolation I had. That was when I was a watcher of fires. But the past may go now. The future is enough for me. He smiled and walked on, with his head erect and a new light in his eyes, for the hope he had cherished was near its fulfilment.