A REMORSELESS ACCUSER

New Zealand Times, Volume XXXVIII, Issue 8653, 11 February 1914, Page 4

A REMORSELESS ACCUSER

[PtJDIitBKEn BY SPKCrAI/ Aukaxgkmknt '•[All nights Reserved:]

By EDGAR PICKERING; Author of “Dick Beresford’s Wife, “Was She Guilty?”-etc., ctci,.-

CHAPTER VH. AFTERWARDS.

•■‘Alijrder, though it hath no tongue; will ijpeak with most miraculous organ.. 1 ’ —Hamlet. It Was (striking half-past ten when Esmond Wilmot returned to hia“chara—hers, which* ho entered after assuring himself that he was unobserved. Going into his dressing-room, ho removed his drenched and mud-stained clothes, thrusting them into a chest, which he locked, and then, putting on a smoking jacket, ho came back to the diningroom,/throwing hinlSelf down into an easy chair. .'rh^fqj.wexe_,spirits on a table by his side, and pouring out a glass of brandy, he drank it thirstily—then another, for it seemed to him that a lire was raging within his i breast,. _ Ho would think presently; it was impossible to do that now. The events of the past, fow hours were like s, confused Bream, and he must wait for his brain to resume its ordinary condition. But amid the whirling thoughts there was no regret, no remorse'nor consciousness that the mark nf Cain was on his forohedtl; 110 sorrow for the cruel death he and his ac- , complice had brought to the man to whom J he owed everything he posses* sed. 'There was rather a sensation of triumph; of having achieved a victory in a Ifard-fought fight; the consciousness that ho was slowly recovering from the effect of the struggle, for his hands “shook as ho lifted the brandy, hottlo, r and a tremor, which he could not control, racked or twice.. By degrees his nerves steadied and; his mental vision cleared. The thought that he had performed the task of im-. deceiving the woman whom until a few weeks ago he had believed to bo hisj wife pleased him, and as he lay back,! listening to the howling wind, a smiloj trussed his face. Then ho began wondering whether Sir George’s body had been discovered yet, picturing tho scone when the murder whs known. The papers would have art “account of it in the morning, hut he'would not read, a word. Mrs Conypfe—how had she managed after he ah’tP'ehß'partod, ho began wondoringJ ' Thbse sind a-thousand tumultuous thoughts came crowding in his, ■mind’ ad'"ho lay back, hearing the shrieks and moans of. the..wiry!.. He-was alonp inljjis „ch?mbeijs, Jaf■vis—jhis valet—having permission to spend the evening out,and it was nearing 11 whop his mai'vrptiirned., , “A( rough night, Jarypj ” sg.j4 Wilraot,„ as the valet entered the room. “I have been asleep, I. fancy. ... How (ong ihavo-iyon been - in P” “T' luive just . returned, sir,ll replied Tarvis. “Yes, it is a very rough jvcnfng.” “Get a hansom,” Continued Wilmot, fusing from his chair, yawning and.going fipa.in to hie dressing, room he dressed himself, and upon the cab’s arrival drove off to his club.' The card room was fairly-full.. that, night, and nodding to one or two of his acquaintances., as he passed, -Wilmot made his way to notable, where sat a man, who nose, .greeting him, cordial. There was not ->a calmer face -nor more composed - manner amongst the players hrtte club that night than Esmond ‘WilmoVs ‘ fis*4n -tho subdued-light

■of the shaded candles ho shuffled and dealt the cards; nor a better piquet player than ho for all the maddening confusion of,his thoughts, or the vision which was haunting him of a pair of starting eyes and the upturned gaze of the old man choking to death. , The «Uin, white hands that hold the cards so steadily-Maiad■-done their fell work with . the grip of a vice. ' “If ;T ~had not . promised you your, revenge,’’-ho saidi' ’smiling at his companion, “1 should not have come here. I remained homo since. -.dinner-—fell asleep over the, fire.”Then suddenly the quietude of the card'room was, disturbed, and as ho spoke a setvant..c»njo„towards. .him,, bonding down whispering something, at which , Wilmot'' started ' to his feet ■with a. half-surprised cry of astonishment, blit controlling his agitation with a great effort he put down his cards, making an apology to his ,com.panion. “Lo.veday, my undo’s lawyer, wishes to speak to me,” he said quietly. “I dare aay it is nothing of tho slightest importance. Pardon my leaving you for a moment or two. I shall return

directly.” , The moment or two had passed, and many, more, hut, Mr Esmond Wilmot’s seat still remained empty. Tho gold ho had left on tho table and the cards ho had thrown down. had. been forgotten, dntl by degrees a strange, -horrible rumour,was,being repeated from mouth to mouth., in tho room. “Sir Georgo Wilmot had been found murdered,’’; buzzed tho report, and presently all London would; have heard tho news..-.- ; . ■ • Mrs Conyers, sipping a cup of tea, next morning, listens to the chatter of her maid, who had heard half an hour ago of-tho murder, and is not affected by the piece of information. It docs not even‘interest her; - “I will wear tho heliotrope gown that came from Paris yestorefay,” she tolls the maid languidly, “Prince Garstcih will bo hero by 11 o’clock.”

CHAPTER VIII. - AN UNEXPECTED MEETING. •'‘When to the-sessions of sweet silent thought, I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many o. thing I sought.”,. s . ~, , Nearly, two months had elapsed muco "Sir- George Wilmot’had been dificovercd murdered .in his library, and the event, after exciting tho curiosity of tho public, arid giving cause for a dozen or more iinprobablo'ktories/ had become one of tho many mysteries which from time totimo arise only to bo forgotten. ’ The inquest upon the unfortunate ' man' had "revealed ' facts which satisfied' everybody' that ' the crime was tho act of a burglar; but .although a large reward was offered for the discovery of the murderer, the detectives employed'hy the hiew baronet ivoro baffled in following up certain clues which they wore presumed to have found. Mrs Conyers’ evidence, given without the slightest hesitation 1 , merely proved,.that Sir George was in bis usual good health and spirits when h!io. loft him' after her visit to.'’lris house and Esmond Wilmot Could only describe, 'his 1 uncle's bstyjjJliiVßitiu "The ordinary verdict in easiss’similar to the present was returned, am!"there had

arisen other interests to distract the public mind, ,so that the memory of tiie Wilmot Lodge murder vivid enough for the proverbial nine days, faded away and was forgotten, save by those more particularly associated with the tragedy. Lord Deveroux read._ the, accounts” of the crime and the inquiry, and reluctant to enter into a world from which lie had been a strangar so long, had remained secluded at Bovereux Court.

L But now that the woman who had borne his name was dead, a now life seemed opening up before him. there 'were no hard thoughts of his dead wife nor bitterness in his heart when membered the past; yet a relief which ho experienced in knowing that she and ho were separated by death was “a source of tho deepest satsfaction. -Mo was a free, man onco more; free from the chains of a bondage that hart darkened his life and brought desolation and misery to him; free to think of one who was purer and fairer than any woman lie had ever seen before, tho memory of whom haunted him and brought a longing to gnzo upon her sweet face. But from the moment he and Sybil Montagu parted at the entrance of Beachcombe they had never mot again; for although he had sough, her, his quest had been fruitless. So time had passed rather wearily with him in his big, lonely, old house, and a restlessness not to bo resisted made him resolve to quit England tor some months. There was no reason (why ho should remain, although the Ithought that by going abroad bo would destroy all chance of meeting the woman whose memory fascinated him with a strange new hope had caused, him to hesitate, in putting his plan, of going away into execution. But at length the monotonous existence ho was living became unbearable, and .after a brief visit to Lon, don, for the purpose of making some needful preparations for his projected journey abroad, }io decided to spend a. few days at Brighton. An old friend was going down, and it was a chance word which influenced Dcvoreux to accompany him; it was some years since he had been there, and in all probability it would bo many more before he would have another opportunity or visiting the town. London seemed as dull as Devoreux Court; and, after all, it mattered very little where his wandering footsteps might lead him.

If London wore dull, Brighton was not more cheerful; and with the object of killing time one evening, he decided to pass it at tho theatre. A performance in aid of, §omo charity had been announced, and although, as a rule, ,a: play rather bored him, ho purchased a box ticket. He w.as late in his arrival at the theatre, the performance having al--ready begun, and he road the names on his programme, giving little heed to thorn, and leaning back in his seat, with languid interest in the-actors, for his thoughts were far away.. It , was strange that at that moment the memory of what had happened . in Beachcombe and. the sweet face'of the girl whom he should always remember came hack as ho watched the scene before him. That strange meeting on tho lonely road and the brave act that had saved him at a moment of peril were never to he forgotten, and the longing to hear the voice which had spoken to him, and gaze once more into the depths of a pair of grey eyes, returned with renewed power. The handkerchief she had given him seemed to form .a link,in their lives, trivial though it was, but it bore no name or initials. Were they fated never to meet again? he had asked himself. Was the sweet face ho loved, in memory only never to he seen ? ' He was thinking thus when his attention was diverted by, the opening of the box door, and with an exclamation of surprise he started'to his feet, holding out his hand. “Wiimut, by all that’s wonderful and unexpected,” ho said. .“You are the very last man I thought to have seen to-night.” Wilmot made a laughing rejoinder, and dropped into a. chair. The first act. of the piece was over, and the band was playing noisily. “I might say the same of you, Devereux,” said Wilmot, turning his look from the stage, “only that I heard you were in the theatre this evening. They told ( me so below, and I came ,up here therefore. I prefer the stalls, .however.”'

‘iThcn I presume you are a regular visitor,” answered Devereujp “This is the first time I have seen a play for months. When did you come down to Brighton? It is a strange thing that we have not met before, seeing that I have been in tho town a fortnight or so.”

“I come down fairly often,” replied Wilmot. “Brighton picks m© up, and I needn’t tell you that what happened recently has rather shaken my nerves.” ' Devereux nodded. “Ton have no further clue, I prosumo?” he said.

Wilmot’s face was averted, and his gaze set on the drop' scene, as ho answered —

“None whatever. I would prefer not to speak further on the subject. It is an exceedingly painftil one to me.” Ho was Sir Esmond Wilmot now, courted and flattered by his circle, as rich men always are, yet his manner betrayed no satisfaction at his changed fortunes. He was restless and slightly irritable, and ’it was plain that a certain gaiety in his tone was forced. The conversation between himself and Devereux seemed to have aroused a host of disagreeable thoughts in his mind, and for ft moment or two ho was silent. Then the curtain drew up for the second act in tho play, and a swift change came over Wilmot’s' face. There was a look of pleasant expectation in his eyes, which were scanning the stage, and then, turning to Devereux. ho mado a half-laughing, .reference to the. play. “Have you seen this before?” he asked.

“Plays do not interest me,” replied Dovercux, “nor players. I have nob been to the. theatre until to-night.”

“Then you have been a loser,” continued Wilmot. “I think you will agree with mo when you have seen Miss Montagu. She is not in tho first act.”

He would have said more; but an intuitive warning that Deverenx might misunderstand his motives in pursuing Sybil Montagu caused Wilmot to remain silent. A deep, passionate love had grown strong in his heart, and to win Sybil Montagu, to make her his wife, was the object of Iris constant visits to Brighton. He was well versed in the art of pleasing, and ho had cautiously used the opportunities which offered of improving his acquaintance with her; Sybil regarding him merely as a pleasant companion, whose manners and conversation were different from those of the persons with whom her lot was cast. Miss Montmorency had become his ally and

advocate, and day by day bis love for Sybil had increased. Tho second act had commenced, and Wilmot sat waiting eagerly. Sybil would be only a few moments on the ■ stage, for her part was an unimportant one, and he leant forward from his chair watching her entrance. Then a sudden exclamation of surprise and pleasure, uttered by Deverenx, who had started to his feet, caused him to glance round half angrily. “At last!” The ejaculation sprang from Deverenx’s lips, expressive of the sudden revulsion of feeling within his breast, for the woman whose image was indelibly printed on his memory stood before his enraptured gaze. The woman whom he loved, for all that their meeting had been for so brief a moment; sho for whom his solitary heart had yearned, and whose voice was like the memory of some sweet melody, had been found at last. (To be continued.)