A DOUBLE MASK.

New Zealand Times, Volume LXXVII, Issue 5559, 10 April 1905, Page 2

A DOUBLE MASK.

Bl r R. NORMAN SILVER. (Author of ‘‘A Daughter of Mystery,’’ “The Golden Dwarf,” rtc. efo.) CHAP. XXXIX. (continued.) Hie detective chuckled. “It was Jelf did it,” ho said, “and Jelf made that fake fmgor of him, too. The people in the house found the moulds alter they had gone. Oh! it’s a well-worked-up case, sir, though I say it myself that shouldn’t, seeing I’ve done most of the work. I’m a Scotland Yard man, sir, specially detached. Hard luck, to lose them at the last; but we’ll nab them—bo sure of that." “It is— it is to be hoped so,” said Cyril vaguely; “hut I’m afraid I can’t help you much. I—l got to know Lynch* through Mrs East, whose, name you may have hoard as being the chief beneficiary under my father’s will. She had the long lease of this place, and sublet it to him on going to the Court. How—how horrible that we should have been in any way associated with him, ami he my father’s—ray father’s “Quito so, sir,” observed the detective sympathetically. “1 suppose now they've no really intimate friend in these parts that they might make for? They can’t hope to escape in those clothes.” “Scarcely,” said Cyril; ‘hut I can think of no resources that they might have. If—if anything occurs to mo, I will let you know. Just at present I am stunned. Lynch my father’s murderer; it—it seems impossible!” “It is rather a queer affair, sir,” responded the detective; “but we’ll get it all ravelled out by-aud-by. . The queerer a case, is the hatter we like it, sir, if you’ll forgive my frankness.” Ho paused at a corner. “Well, sir,” he said, “I’ll get back to the depot; sorry to have spoiled your evening, sir.” “Don’t mention it,” answered Cyril, and kept on down the dusky high-road. As the darkness swallowed him up and the strain of tho imperative self-con-trol lessened, his whole frame shook and his teeth began to chatter. He had to stop and support himself by a low stone wall. So the hunt, was up after the man Lynch, or rather, after the unknown spectator of his own crime, who had returned to Inglefield under that alias. Who would ho the quarry to which that trial would lead in the end? He had a horrid vision of himself at the dread bar of judgment, of himself in a white cap, with a noose round his neck, of a trembling chaplain, and the fluttering leaves of a little book; almost he seemed to hear the sacred words of the Burial Service, so hideous in tho doomed yet living ear. The sweat burst forth on his brows and temples. But if there was terror in his mind, in his heart there was the fierce fire of a thwarted passion. Eor Gertrude East, Gertrude Ferris, he had dipped his hands in tho blood of his own father. To possess her he had stained himself, body and soul, with the guilt of tho parricide—and lie had not won her after all! An oath too dreadful for indication hurst from his parched lips, and he moved on again, galvanised into a sudden strength.by the fever of his thoughts.

As he grew saner a kind of reassurance came over him. He must aid George Lynch' to escape, if that wore possible. But even if tho attempt failed, what confirmation could the latter offer for the ghastly story in which he had threatened to give the world tho explanation of John Marsden’s death? Of that death he, George Lynch, now stood accused. Would it not be deemed a clumsy fabrication if he should allege that tho dead man’s son had committed, the crime, and in his presence? George Lynch was at the least a robber and a blackguard—would his word be taken against that of Cyril Marsden.?

But there was Gertrude Ferris. Mr George Lynch had blackmailed her, and Cyril Marsden had been privy to the blackmailing. If Mrs East were involved in the case by any chance, she might tell the truth; that John Marsden’s son had sought to woo her—her, his father’s betrothed—and had vowed to betray her should she repulse him. But no, surely she would not bo so reckless—so vindictive; she would have to think of Nora; she would have to deny all—if necessary, to perjure herself on oath. He might even be able to use the position to force her to surrender—that surrender which he felt she had always contemplated. Had not Lynch, in that few moments before the breaking of the storm, given him a new weapon against her, the suggestion that she had been implicated in the death of her husband?

Encouraged by this review of the situation, he quickened his step, and pushed on towards Ingle Court. When he arrived at the great entrance doors he was himself once more.

While he waited for them to open, a brougham drove up and he glanced at it. It was one of the Court carriages, and empty. The footman got down, saluted, and followed him in as the doors swung wide. Cyril halted. There were a couple of dress-boxes and a portmanteau in the hall. He looked at the luggage; a tab, face upwards, showed him conspicuously the word “Paris.” Dress-boxes and portmanteaux wore marked G.E., and near them, attired as though for a journey, was a woman whom he recognised as Mrs Bast’s maid.

A thrill of desperate anger flashed across him. He was only just in time; she was going away. Was it to escape him, or had her departure anything to do with the attempted arrest of Mr George Lynch ? , He lingered by the hall fire for a moment; then, as he had expected, she herself entered the hall, grave, stem, impenetrable, in her long travellingcloak and black hat. He went to meet her.

“WTiat is the—the meaning of this?” he said hoarsely. “Are you mad? Do yon think you can play with me?” Gertrude Bast buttoned a glove quietly. “I told you,” she declared, “that your power over me was at an end. Also, I told you the reason.” Qyril resisted tacitly her effort to pass him. “It’s a lie,” he retorted in a fierce whisper; “you know that your husband is dead, and what is more, you are the one who knows most about the way in which he died.”

Mrs East’s eye settled on him questioningly, but there was no fear, in them. ‘Do IP” she responded. ‘‘So you have that card inf your hand, have yon? I can guess who put it there.” Cyril shrugged his shoulders. “You mean Lynch,” he said; “well, he did, and ho seems to know more about you than most people do.” Gertrude East stepped to one side. The servants had carried the luggage out to the brougham, and Nora, with wet, girlish eyes and' a tremulous

mouth, had come out into the hall, dressed to accompany her mother to the station. Austin Damcr was with her. “Good-day, Mr Marsden,” Gertrude East observed, raising her voice, as she moved towards the door. Cyril kept at her side. “Go if you will,” ho said; “I shall follow you, and there will he r. scandal.” “You must do as you please,” she answered him, aud swept, by. As she passed out of tho doorway a man, clean-shaven and commonplace stout, and flushed with running, encountered her and took off his hat respectfully. It was her former butler at Deepdene. “Oh. ma’am,” ho gasped, “I thought it was you going out, aud made bold to come to this entrance. I was going round to ask if I might see you for a minute. Deepdene is full of police, ma’am, and tho gentlemen we took son-ice with arc nothing but common criminals. They’ve got away, ma’am, but the police are scouring tho place, ma’am—both for Mr Jelf aud Mr Lynch.” The atccipient of tile news thus blurted out staggered. Cyril Marsden had stolen up behind her; he supported her with a repellant familiarity. “You see,” ho said in a whisper, as ho drew her back into the hall, “there were other cards in my hand.” CHAPTER. XL. “WHEN THEY KNOW ALL.” “Nora, dear!” “Yes, Vi.” Nora paused on the threshold of her mother’s boudoir to answer the low call. Violet Marsden stopped from the shadow of tho adjoining gallery into the light of the small private staircase that led to Mrs East’s rooms. A single electric pendant illuminated tho square, cab panelled landing. “Is—is your mother any better?” Nora was asked softly. She sighed, but did not meet her questioner’s glance. “Mamma is going to try and get some sleep,” she answered evasively; “nothing else really does these terrible headaches of hers any good. It would bo madness for her to think of setting out for Paris to-night.” Violet laid a hand on the speaker’s arm. “Nora, dear,” she rejoined, “I don’t want to be inquisitive, hurt—but your mother had some rather startling news, hadn’t she? I was going down the great staircase just now and heard two of the servants talking in the hall below, by the kitchen entrance. They were talking about Deepdene and Mr Lynch. One was telling tho other about the butler from Deepdene, who had stayed on with Mr Lynch when your mother let the house, coming up to the Court to say ” Nora averted her young head more determinedly than ever. “Mamma was very much upset, erf course,” she said; “and in any case it was impossible for her to go to Paris and leave Deepdene full of police. You see, the house was only sub-let to—to Mr Lynch, and mamma is responsible to tho owners.” “Then it is true,” faltered Violet—“true that tho police tried to arrest Mr Lynch and Mr Jelf, and that tbey nearly killed a policeman and got away 1”

“Yes,” said Nora heavily, “ij; is true, Vi. But I must get back to mamma. Good-night, dear.” And with this abrupt conclusion she glided into the boudoir and shut the door. Violet stood a moment, fixed in a statue-like rigidity, her fingers locked before her.

“Oh!” she murmured, “and I rode in the wretch’s motor-car and quarrelled with poor Phil because ho warned mo against him! I let him flatter me and all but make love to me, while—while the police must actually have been in search of him for—for some crime.”

In a spasm of disgust she had uttered the words aloud. The sound of her own voice recalled her to herself; die regained.hastily the obscurity of the gallery and passed down it to the more central portion of the Court. Her quick step across the landing jarred a loose plank under the carpet. The door of Mrs East’s boudoir opened again, and Nora scanned the deserted stairhead. She re-closed the door and want back into the apartment. “No, mamma,” she said; “Violet has gone, and there is no on© there.”

Mrs East looked up. She was sitting in a low chair by the embers of the neglected fire, her travelling-cloak flung behind 'her, her hat still on, her features drawn and white. ‘‘He—he must be here soon,” she murmured; “he would not have any difficulty in ascertaining if this story were true. But, indeed, there is no reason to. doubt it—none. All along I have feared such an ©vent; I knew that one or other of your father’s unpunished crimes would bring the law on his heels, even to this quiet comer of the world.” Nora slipped the pins of her mother’s hat and took it off. "I am sure, mamma,” she said, “that Austin will be as quick as possible. He knoll’s how anxious you must he.” Gertrude. East put her hands on the younger woman’s shoulders and gazed into her face. “My little daughter,” she exclaimed, “you have found a very true and loyal gentleman to love you. It was my one comfort, my only comfort. Yet I dare not think how you both will endure the storm of obloquy and shame that may, that I fear must, break upon us.” Her daughter’s lips were pressed to her own cold check. “I shall not mind,« mother dear,” she answered simply, “except for you. And when people know all—if they have to—how you were innocent all the time, how you suffered, and how bravely you fought to make a living, how you thought he was dead, and that you might ho happy once more—surely, surely they will only respect and nity you. And I shall be proud of my mother, prouder of her than I shall be ashamed of my father—when they know all!” Mrs East bit her lip and covered her eyes. They were too full of tragic horror for her to reveal their expression to Nora. “When—when they know all!” she repeated; “when they know all 1” She glanced at her watch again. “Go—go and see if Mr Darner is not in now,” she said; “the servants may tell him we have retired. He—he may be in doubt whether to send up.” Nora had sunk upon the door beside her mother’s chair. She sprang to her feet, and, with a pitiful elanoo at Gertrude East’s bowed form, acted upon the suggestion. She did not see that, the latter, as she passed out, had started from her seat and flung herself down by a couch, to bury her face in its cushions, stifling the sobs that her will was no longer, able to suppress. (To be continued.)