PRISONERS OF THE COUNCIL

New Zealand Times, Volume LII, Issue 12199, 25 July 1925, Page 20

PRISONERS OF THE COUNCIL

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.

, BTI

LEWIS RAMSDEN

Author of "Til* Wordof > Somerleigh,” "Red C»T(U*;r” “My Cannot Frank,” “Und«r n Kingly Murk,” Ac., fte, ~ .

[COPYRIGHT.] , . ;

BT!«>:PSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS.. CHAPTERS I. to lll.—The story opens m Clifton Suspension Bridge. John 9Pravia mediates putting an end to ■Arana. He is accosted by a man who taaoies he can read some design or the Hud in Trivia's. attitude. The stranger Shows a certain tear of a motor-car and ItgTticorfpants. He oilers John Travis two hundred and fifty pounds, being the naif of- his present possessions, if he will Pender him a service. John Trans, relugsjn.immediate need of funds, agrees.. {They retire to a wood. Tfie stranger Sms hw name aa John Latimer, stating at spies are after 'himself and hie wife. They- ahange apparel, and John ■ Travis'* agrees to adopt for-the time being, the- personality of John Latimer,.. th» giving the latter an opportunity of getting,, away unobserved and joining his wife'. on: board ship. Attired: as Latimer, John Travis makes his way back 'to the Suspension Bridge. He sees ,once more the 'motor-car, also the motorists. Their behaviour fills him with suspicion; and. M'eaaggea a hansom to drive him back tprth# hotel. Arrived there, he goes to Vtimeri* suite, and hw a,.,waah. change. The attendant tells him hue. latijner. has arrived: He goes, to .-the drawing-room, and sees there a beautiful young girl; who does not appear to know him. ■ She -tells him she is Helen, and. Travis remembers that Latimers wife- waa . Marie. Helen inquires . for* Marie Travia finds out that she is Latimer's sister-in-law. ■ ■ They dine. Helen tells him that lie is not llke her sister’s description of him. She saye abe has run away from the oonvent, and. pleads to be. aliowed to 6tay.; He says lb is impossible. As Marie does not 5 turn* op, she jumps to the conclusion they have quarrelled- She lets him knoweh* ia the Countess Helen Fredro. He levesleto ’ver that he is not her brother-in-law-'-. ’-".•. ..... CHAPTERS IV. and V.-John Travis tells the Countess Helen that he .is personating John Latimer, and Hells her what he knows. She gives him some, of earliest 1 recollections, before she was esht to England. After some conversation he decades to take ber to a lady friend of'his mother's. He orders a cab, and they-set out. The driver is muffled •D to toe eyes. All goes, well until , the driver stops, .and says there ia a slight accident to the harness, and asks his assistance. John Travis alights, and is captured, bound and carried to a- waiting motor. The same fate overtakes tte Countess Helen Fredro. They are taken rapidly to London, and are brought to a standstill lefore a tall house with a covered-in' yard, ' which they enter through a vellow door. CHAPTERS-VTt to VHL—Michael, the Shigman who bound John Travis, conducts them through this large building to the house. As they are ascending e stairease Travis makes a dash for liberty, hut ia immediately overpowered And carried upstairs. .He and the Countess are lodged at . the top of the house in apartments which are. evidently used as- a prison. . John Travis,: after* trying the , door and the walls, comes to the con-clusion'-thnt they 'are as fast as -if they were in a safh. The Countess gives him wine. He is troubled that her name They be, implicated through being confined in-theaame apartments as himself. They become .good friends. The follow-., tag day a letter from Michael: gives them’ theprobabie durance of, their pifisent situation. The Latimer's portmanteaux hare bean sent: on from the Ebtel., - ' OHAP’fefeß.X.—D ANGEROUS . ; GROUND. “Being in such a.desperate strait when I met Mr Latimer,’’ I said in concluding my narrative,' “and the deems heeffered. me beinj; so generous, men wdl/isademtand, Countees— r—.,.,, i -“Why fdo ' you go hack to tliat way «f-addressing mer’ interrupted Helen.. * “Because do 'not know whether, after hearing my story ” “What difference does that make?” •he deplaned indignantly. ‘ ‘Tins -.7— lt reminds me I have no right to, speak to you on the equal -terms your kindness would 1 have been outcast. I am a man disgraced, ‘however 'unjustly, in the eyes, ■of the-woHit." ■ The bitterness of . a long' and un-’ availing straggle ‘ had come back upon, me anO accordingly .' “The world?’’ 'she questioned. ,' l l> readyjier mind, and felt ashamed, w- “No; you are'right, not the world.; Jt, have stiffened in the eyes of an. ih-i Aijffljficant portion of it. The-world is .^eJ&reme-.ydt.’’ i -And,. yoUi-wiy. conquer it as other' •brave men, have done'. No; you shall’ -not , coilfiradict me. You are brave,: Jack. ' .I-may 1 .he ignorant in some nptjin this. Do yon think J| shpuldfepl.so—-ao at home with you if -1 ffjd not Jshow you were brave and true?”- w . “Thattk;yaU v Helan, ’ ’ I replied grave-: :ly and gratefully. “When we are ,oat Of I have left, you in Safety, the" remembrance of;your words Will hearten ;.me.” ' . - “Dh,<lear!” she cried, in dismay. f-'Yeu speAk asithough yoa meant to see me and then* go right . ‘T-phall to go end seek' my forteng, you. know.” L answered trying to speafc lightly,. . * • • “But. you need not go far to- do that; fend we-' are- friends, aren't -we? You apeed wa should he so.” - / see much use in Yieijig. friends if you go right away like that. ’• When you have friends—you want to see them, and ‘talk-'ahout things, and know how they ■artK getting on. ’ , .. “We ‘ could write occasionally, you Writing, That is not the same as ■eeingand speaking, is it?” «nort°’ * > ° t *° T U 8 ** hi “Oh. I see what it is!” (jhe exclaimed, her cheeks flaming. “I am doing something not proper again, in Saying I want to keep friends with Fom—*with a man. I must wait for you to say-it yourself.” - ; “Helen 1” “What is it, then?” ' ’ ; ‘‘Chiefly that there will be a gfeat social difference between ns. I ' shall .bate to work for a living. Yon will move'in .a circle high'above me.” Stuff!’ You oome of a good family. You have just tola me so yourself.” . “ft,. family of country squires. No Travis was ever a prince or king, or even a member of our despised House, of Lords.” I laughed. ‘(How horrid of you to remind me of my.-.boastful words,” she pouted. “But' you. are a gentleman, just the same as John La timer :s; that is all which matters:” T shook my head smilingly. “But it is; I don't care what yon say. As for your working for a living, why my grandfather, Count Sigismund, did that. He, also, lost his estates and bqpame dreadfully poor. He taught music qaid scarcely eariled enough to live; but he was received by everybody who-was anybody, just the "Same, and fortune cams Aaek to him.” “In what way did it come back?” “Oh! He—he-” -•■“Ban’tteUme, ; f he did anything dreadful, 1 ’ I laughed, though curious kbjjjlt the cause -of her confusion. |

• “Qf ooursa; he did nothing dreadful,” she said indignantly. “Then please do tell me. I might he ajble to follow his noble example.’' - “I wouldn't have mentioned him if I had thought you were going to make fun.” , “I*promise,not-to:make fun. What, did Count ' Sigismund do to ' get morieyP” . “He didn’t marry my grandmother to get money., '.She happened to - be rich; hut he would have—have fallen rin love with her just the, same if she had been poor.” . : It* wae. dangefous ground, although .1 knew Helen had , not, 'when ;ehe ootemenoed her allnsion to Count Sigismund, realieed the suggestion it might conyey, and -I hastily turned the subject of conversation. But, later on, sbe harked back to it. ■ “Birth does -count,” she , declared with that charminglydogmatio air* with which she asserted aome of her qld-world notions... .: « _ t . „ „ ; . J; “Things have altered ‘;since,3- Count Sigismuhd’e days,” 'I replied. “Pride of birth is merely, .ridioulous; when, it has no money to support it, and even when it goes with money it is rather bad form to show it.” ; She-laughed' gaily. , , , , "Then' Y ! plead guilty to bad form. I am "awfully proud- of being a,Fred-, ro.” '■ ■ ■ ' ■ “But your pride does not make you hold alopf -from humbler-mortals, like myself.” - Helen 1 looked at me with a pretty affectation of despair. “I 1 should like to shake you when you tSlk like that. ' You don’t mean lt- ohe bit.' YouiaxeiaiftEntSidi tfmtleman, and Marie herself wrote - to me, ’ Hot long ago, ■ that an gentleman holds nimself equal at. least to most of the Continental nobility.’ , “Your words make me suspect—— : “What?” . • A - “That you, took vour sister to task or in same way showed you did not like the idea of her marrying a simple English 1 gentleman.” “Come, now, own the truth.” “Well, I id, only—,—” . . “Yes?” ■ : “I suppose I hadra right to change my mind, hadn’t I— —” ■ ’ ” ‘'lt y a~privilege of your sex, and ’you may change it again, you know,” 1 said rteasingly. .. . “You horrid creature to talk to.me like that. Why, it was when I rnet yon I changed mv mind. There 1” The next instant she blushed furiously, and I laughed. Then ehe buret out angrily: I ,' , , “.If you are so £,esty„ I will try to thilfk inyself ever so, much better than you.” ' . “That will be very sensible of you.” “No it won’t.” Bhe flashed out. Then she checked herself, and laughed, softly. talking We arel./godd aren't ;: she said', and returning' ’ to' 1 -the ' former thenfe- • ? r " • ...l..'*-,' •• - , ■ “And swill always, remains so?’ “1 sincerely trust we may.” “Then don’t let your pride (for 1 know it iS Jthqtl make you think of gomg: :Hght':away from me when we leave this place.- I-ehall want a friend, you. knoyr.”., , .. “You will soon, find'plenty.'” , ‘■‘How unkind you are 1 You don’t suppose ‘I mean that any friend will do? I shall want to talk Over things with you, eyery day or : so, at least, just like wo <k» now.” - • Then she. looked up at me with her bewildering frankness. : , ■-“I i wander why ,1 feel .1 must do that when really.. I have-known you, such -a very, abort time. hav.en(t I?”; ■ 1 shook, my bead.helplessly.,l dared nob trust myself to think why it might -he, and she .went on, speaking as, much to herself as to me: “Perhaps it is because, after euoh an adventure as this. I shall never feel quite safe, and shall need to have someone I can-depend upon near by. Yet I ’don't** think it is altogether that, either.” . ; Dangerous ■ground, 'indeed. CHAPTER! XT.—THE PERFUMED . VAPOUR. ■ “Jack,' I— l , am afraid—horribly afraid!” .... . At ’ths somKLnf a faint no!se s real ■l*s* 'fancied, from- outside our - prison ‘dddr',' Helen .had-'drawn close to me. For the first time her-lovely face showed- a bifeoiis quivering of fear. ■ ■ ‘He brave. Helen.” I said, taking the hand She* had lajd on my arm and •holding it as we. listened intently for. a few moments. 'Then, after this brief pause: “There ib no one coming—yet.” ahe eaid with her daintily sedate air. “Why! don’t they come?”, she whispered, add‘T-comW only shake my head in reply: • No Wonder that even her courage -should fie -near' breaking point. Another brief' November day had dawned, and had reached 'its close. It was the day oh‘ which,-' according to Michael’s note, our “judges” were to sit ;-yet we had refnaihed entirely undisturbed. ’ And though each of -us r . had tried to keep the other’s thoughts occupied with pleasant matters: and at times had suciceeHed. there lva« necessarily a severe nervous strain; a continuous apprehension. • ' , 1 ■ ■ ... •. , “Remember that even - if they do leave us here a little longer we-are in no worse plight than before, and, when they take-us out. what can they do to n|i pff - , “f don’t know.” Helen murmured. “What «an they?” ‘ „ , “Why, nothing but let ua go. I tried to'Prove, as I had 'over and ovei agairt during our captivity, that they Would hot dare -do anything'else; but, somehow, on this occasion; my arguments did not sound so convincing, and other possibilities would obtrude themselves., . “I want you to Vuake me n promise, said Helen. “It ia in case .eomethmg should happen.” . , ■'.... “What do you, think may happen P I asked quickly. * , , “It is only an idea which has rome into my mind. What yon have been saying is most likely right, -so_far as you are concerned. You are an Englishman, a British subject, and have had no connection With RusMan politi•cal affairs.” • ■ * . ... . < *You have had notnins to do witii their political affairs, either.” “No: but I am a Pole; they consider me to be a Russian subject. Supposing they should take,; me hack . “Take you away from England? It is ridiculous! How could they? What reason would they have for doing so?” “I have remembered something ,1 once heard. It was about a distant, relative, of mine. She also was rich, and an orphan, TKev made her a ward of ,tho, Russian, prefect, and she waa forced into marrying a Rbssiah official.’-’ I scouted the notion. I stormed at it

as a foolish fancy; yet, -even as I spoke, •the'knowledge that some such thipg was. not at. all impossible grew upon me,:, and. with it a sense, of my own impotence to'■prevent her being taken, from me, ..until' my nerves could- stand it .no.’’ longer:, [-.ceased to talk, rose, ; to'pace, the'limited! range of- the apartment, - Only ah effort of will, prevented me. from dashing myself against the iron* door as a captive bjrd sometimea will - against N 4hd bare of a cage. Let anyone who -condemns this as weakness try to imagine himself in. my, place. The sight of the.alarm in Helen’s, eyes, as they followed my movements, brought me to- myself. ' “Do come and sit down,” she beg-* ged. “My idea’may be all nonsense. 1 would not-'have mentioned it'to you it. I had known you would takh it' so.” “You were right to tell me/’ l eaid, wiping -the perspiration from my forehead, “Ofrt. If, I were not such a witless, helpless ■ ' • “Don’t’; /please, don’t I” she 'pleaded. Then with a-smile to win-me from, my mood:. “And, come, you are slow to .give me the- promise I asked for.” “What is, the promise you -wish? You know 1 atfi- ready to give it.” “If • anything should happep— anything at all like'that-1 hafe said: .'f yoit should'gain your liberty, and I he held, or taken away, will you promise to do- vou best to find me??* “Dd- you iVant a promise 'for that? Do ,you -not know I would t never rest until I found, you ; that 1 would ffladly jive my life.'it need be?” rf “Truly ?’.’.. she .asked. ■ -“As, God- is my witness.” A great and tender radiance was in her eyes; » great wonder, too. “I know it; I know it I” she • ex. claimed, and her voice was. s sweet murmur, of triumph. “And—yet—why should you?”

1 longed to answer her, but could not, for honour forbade me to tell whole truth. And then she read it. I knew she had done so. for the innocent eyes suddenly drooped. Sh«\ blushed; and visibly trembled in delicious confusion. For a long:tiihe'*we-,were Silent.. .. •• - (To be continued.)