THE RED STAR OF NIGHT

New Zealand Times, Volume XXXVII, Issue 8560, 24 October 1913, Page 2

THE RED STAR OF NIGHT

[Published bt Special'Arrangement.J

By W. A. MACKENZIE, Author of “ The Bite of tho Beech, “ His Majesty’s Peacock,” “ The Drexel Dream,” “ in the House of the Eye,” “ The Secret of the King,” etc., etc. [COPYRIGHT.] CHAPTER XIX. As he went, he felt for, or rather snatched at, his revolver, for he knew well that with Galbraith it would bo a life or death struggle. He knew the stuff Galbraith was made of that he was a man who thought as little of a life as another man would of a straw, and if it came to shooting—well, he, Willingale, would have to get tho drop first. He bounded down the stairs with the agility of a man twenty years younger, and without a second’s hesitation, dashed into the room, at the door of which he had seen his prey. There .was no Galbraith, no Farmiloe. there. There was only a blind man, wearing a coarse and rather dirty white canvas jacket and a wisp of red scarf about his scraggy neck. Willingale knew him well by eight, had even dropped a penny in the tin mug slung to a button-hole. What was ho doing hero ? But he had no time to question Joe Blakeney. He flung out of the room: asked a hasty question or two of tho footman in the hall, and got negative replies; dashed into tho street, which was empty, at least of foot passenger.,. “Biffed 1” he mattered, and returned to the house. Ho went back to tl e room where the blind man was still sitting.^ “And what are you doing in Ullavan House, Mr Joe Blakeney?” “Blimy, guvnor, you orter know as much abaht that’s mo, if you’re ’et leddysiip’s secretary.” “Well,'l’m not her ladyship’s secretary,” said Willingalo, slipping his revolver back into his hip-pocket. “But all the same I’d like to know what you’re doing here.” “Well, guvnor, that’s soon answered. I’m ’ere on the invitation of ’er leddyship. Seems to like the cut oi my jib, she do, an’ bein’ hof a charitable diopersition, she wants to do me a good turn, so she sez.” “There was a man in hero a couple of minutes ago." “Well, there was me, guvnor, though I ain’t much hof a man now.” >( “No, it was another man —not you. “Alfred Davy, guvnbr, there was only mo. I ain’t got me heyes, but I’ve a pair of flappers can ’ear a fly a-walkin’.” “Now, listen you to me. Mister Joe Blakeney. I’m Willingale, of Scotland Yard, and ” “Now, you listen to me. Mister Inspector Willingale, ot Yard, I’m not Joe Blakeney, but— — And the upturned whites of the eyes ■.vere -burned down. Galbraiths terrible glare was fixed on tho detective, but too late for Willingale to draw his weapon. The villain was upon him, and vith two terrific blows, one under the aw and the other over the heart, stretched him senseless at his feet. A couple of minutes later, Dr Biemner, finding that Willingalo did not return, took hasty leave of the Oountess, to w’hom ho did not explain the object of their visit, and coming down to the hall was told by a footman that “tho other gentleman” had departed in a great hurry. As Dr Bremner left Ullavan House a handsome carriage with a couple of horses drew up at the door, and frpm it descended a nurse carrying an elaborately wrapped-up bundle that nobody could mistake for anything but a baby. ’ It was the six weeks old heir to the earldom of Tomplemar. Tho “Red Star” seemed to be m the ascendancy. As a rat-trap, or mouse-trap, or whatever you choose to call it, Ullavaa House was getting uncomfortably full. As far as accommodation was concerned it was not so; but the redoubtable Farmiloo ivas all tho same x trifle disturbed in his mind. He bad on his hands no less than four prisoners. Little as ho cared for human life, even he shrank from sacrificing lour lives at one fell swoop on the altar of tho Red Star. He felt that in all likelihood ho should ultimately have to do so, but for certain of them at least ho had present uses. The mind of tho man envisaged the situation with horrible and almost machine-liko calm. Darner -would have to go, because he stood in the way of the vast fortune that would put world-power into the hands of tho iconoclasts of tyranny Equally, the baby heir to the earldom would have to disappear. Lois —that was a question; she knew nothing thai could possibly damage either him or the cause. And Willingale—yes, he would surely remove that vigilant watch-dog from his path, as much for security’s sake as to gratify his old revenge. Biit with whom to commence? And when? Very likely with Willingale—and now. But before doing anything, he must see Lady Ullavan and find out from her why the detective had come to the house. It might be for some important reason. So he changed swiftly back into his Farmiloo disguise and sought the Countess’s apartments lie found her with Sylvia Spackman. Their conversation was animated, and both were evidently in a high state of excitement. Sylvia was pale as snow and Lady Ullavan flushed, whence Farmiloo gauged that it was Sylvia who was making tho attack, and a violent attack, too. He judged rightly. After hearing Kowalski’s story, she had sat for a few moments as if frozen to her seat, her heart refusing its office, and her forehead as if bound with a band of steel. The Russian feared that ho had dealt her a deathblow, so still she sat, and so staringly she gazed. “For God’s sake, speak, Miss Spackman,” he whispered. “All this is true?” Her voice was husky. “1 swear it by my sainted dean wife, I swear it by the angel non watching and hearing me.” Sylvia thought of the pity and love Scheftel’s sudden illness had awaken in her —for the moment she forgot her doubts of his identity—and with a sudden fierce gesture she plucked her handkerchief from her pocket and rubber her lips, as if to remove from

them all trace of the touch of the villain. But thou she remembered tho change in Schoftel’a eyes, the change in his voice, his asseveration that he was not ill, his assertion that ho was not Scheftel but Darner, tho eagerness of Lady Ullavan to assure her of this strange delusion on Scheftel’s part—and almost without thinking she plucked from her bosom the letter with which the sick man—-be ho Scbeftel or Darner—had entrusted her. Here was a means to arrive at the truth, or at least at some indication of it. The handwriting, tool Sho tore open the envelope. • The handwriting on tho sheet was the same as that on the envelope, and it was not Scheftel’s, it was not that of the papers in Lady Ullavan’s case. She read:— If you want to seize Sholto’s murderer, you will find him in ray rooms masquerading ns me; and me you will find in Gllavan House, forcedly masquerading as him. His name is Scheftel. Get mo out of this, and I’ll hang him. Michael Darner. Could this bo the writing of a madman? And even if Scheftel had succeeded in disguising his handwriting to this point, was it at all likely that ho would accuse himself of murder —she did not stop to think who Sholto was—when, if it was really Darner who was in the Jermyn street rooms, proof of his identity could be so easily established. Sho felt her brain in a whirl. She recognised her helplessness to draw anything like a sane conclusion from this tangle of conflic-iiig hypotheses. So she d.d tho best thing she could have done under tho circumstances; she showed tho letter, and she told all sho knew to Kowalski. Tho Russian, in spite of living for so long in the mad company of a “fixed idea,” still a brain that had not lost all its clearness. He questioned her acutely, and from her necessarily vague answers, contrived to piece together a theory of substitution not far removed from the truib. “Then you really believe,” she said, “that the man at Ullavan House is Michael Damer?” “I’m positive,” replied Kowalski. And again Sylvia remembered how sho had spoken to Damer, how she had laid her lips to his, but although she blushed deeply at the memory, she did not this Jimo make use of her handkerchief. All her maiden modesty was up in arms, waving the crimson banner in her cheeks, but in her heart there was a clarion-eall, a splendid music, that sounded the reveille of love—in that swift second she knew it, and like the fqarless creaiiur© she was, she was neither afraid nor ashamed. It had come to her, this passion which sent the blood pulsing madly through her veins—it had come to her like a. thief in the night, taking her heart’s ciiiadel by surprise; but she was bravo enough to acknowledge defeat, to accept the inevitable. Instead of rebellion, her first thought was for the safety of the man she loved, and her first word was for it. too. “What is to bo done?” sho asked Kowalski. “For you nothing,” said he, “for m© everything.” “But this letter,” said she. “I charge myself with it.” “No, no,” said she. “I promised to deliver it. I must not fail.” “Very well,” said Kowalski. “But if this—this Earl of Templemar decides to act at once. Suppose he calls in the police, and they move—it will be a blunder. They will catch—my son, but I foresee that bigger fish will slip through the meshes of the net.” “What do you mean?” “This substitution of my son for Damer and of Damer for my son means that there is some great game afoot* The exchange of on© man for the other is but one of the early moves in the game. Wo must let time help us, we must not startle the players.” “In any case let me go to Templemar House,” said she, unwilling t® think of Damer remaining without succour. “Go, then,” said he, “and come back here—l will waiL—and tell mo what the Earl proposes doing.” (To bo continued.)