The Mine Master's Heir OR THE REAL JOHN SMITH.

Ohinemuri Gazette, Volume XXIII, Issue 2938, 8 May 1912, Page 4

The Mine Master's Heir OR THE REAL JOHN SMITH.

By HEDLEY RICHARDS, Author of "Out of Darkness," " A Day of Reckoning," Etc. .

(All Rights Reserved.y

PART 26. Smith turned away with a covert Bmile, and went back to the sittingroom, thinking he woald lock t&e box up before he went to see his wife. Advancing to the table, he paused in amazement. The paper and string lay there ; the box had vanished. Everything «lfie was exactly as he " had left it; th« breakfast things had not been removed, but the box was not to be seen. Muttering oaths, Smith searched the room thoroughly, but there was no trace of it, and finally he rang the bell, asking the waitress if she had removed a box. The girl looked at him in astonishment, saying she had not been in the room since she brought the parcel from the postman ; neither had any one else. And feeling that it was not safe to make too much fuss about his loss, he took up his hat and went out, determined that he would not acknowledge the box, as he had intended. If it was discovered that it had been delivered to him, he would state that he had intended sending it to Witton House, but it had been stolen while he was out of the room. % As Smith shut the sitting-room door after him a door at the other side of the room was cautiously opened, and Jake Brady stood in the, doorway, with a cunning smile on his face. . "So you want the box do you ? I thought it was- of value by the look of your face. Well, I'm going to see what's in it. Holy Moses ! I was in a funk when I saw the door between the two rooms was open, seeing it won't be well for us to meet just yet. But, after all, it was lucky—and luckier still that I'd locked it before he began his search. Well, window-cleaning isn't a bad job if one must work, as it gives a chap a chance of picking up information as may be valuable," thought Jake ; then seeing the handle of the outer door turn, he beat a retreat into the little *stnokeroom, and passing through it, made his way downstairs, the box bulging out of his coat. So he quickly put the window-leather and duaterß away, and telling the boots he'd be coming back to finish the other windows, as he didn't feel very well, he made his way home, feeling well pleased when he found his aunt out, as it gave him a chance of examining the contents of the box; but first he had to find a key that would fit it, and he had almost made up his mind to break the lock, when he discovered that the tea-caddy key— the tea-caddy was a cumbrous, oldfasbioned thing—fitted, and very soor he was examining the papers.

"It's a and, and no mistake. Now, the question is, shall I take them up to Witton House or wait ? It might even pay to sell them to this Smith, but I don't relish the idea of having any dealings with him. I'll wait and think the matter over. With this reflection Jake locked the box a^ul thrust it into a cupboard ■which was crowded with miscellaneovs articles, and replaced the key in the caddy. But by the time he had done this he had come to the decision that it would be better to get rid of the box. If he took it to Witton House it would mean explaining how it came into his possession, and hefwonildn't have anything to do with John Smith. He would throw it down in the pine wood near Witton House, and chanct it comiiv, into the right hands. When Smith left the Hare and Hornds he turned along the lane that led on to the moor, determined to see Jessie and tell her that he had done with her for ever. The passing admiration he had felt for her was deadf* Perhaps if all had gone well, and he had been acknowledged as Thompson's heir, he would have made her fairly happy, as Jessie expected so little and gave a great love ; but now he felt bitterly vindictive. He had told himself so often that the marriage had ruined his life, that now he believed it, and ho was going to tell her so. His «,long stri-dee brought him in an incredibly short time to the cottage, and as he entered the garden Jessie came running to the door, her eyes sparkling with joy. "Oh, John, I am so glad you have come !" she said ; and as he entered the porch she tried to put her arms roun.l his neck. But he pushed them away, saying, roughly : "I want none of that. You've ruinc.l rr.y life." Her arms fell to her sides, and her lips trembled as she said, in a falter* in j tone : "V. hat have I done ?" "What have you done ? You've l.rokcn you're solemn promise to keep our mr.rriage secret, and I'm turned out of Witton House, a beggar, throjgh it." " Ch, John!" and the young wife looked heart-broken. "If she hadn't told her father, where would you be now, John Smith ? Don't deceive yourself. But for Nathan Thwaites's words you would" have been in the condemned cell nt this moment," said grannie, quietly. He turned.on her, his eyes blazing with anger. "Yes, you want to make the beet of it. You schemed to make her my wife, but she'll be a grass widow for ths rest of her life. I'm going to Australia at once."

The poor girl stretched out her aan?s imploringly. 'Oh, John, take me with you, I'll work for my living, if you'll only let mo go with you, so that I can ccc you sometimes," she pleaded. "I won't. You've ruined my life, .nd I came to tell you I'll never come back to England. I'm sick ol it. So you can live your life without any reference to me," he said as he turned and. went quickly through the garden and across the feW, disregarding her cries to him io come back. As he vaulted over the stile on tc the moor he came face to face with a grave, elderly man, who inquired if that was Mrs. Batey's cottage ; and he pointed to the one in th« field. "Yes," replied Smith, in a surlj tone ; and as he was passing on, the stranger said, "Is your namt Smith ?" ■

"What does my name matter to you ?" was the curt reply ; then as the other man mounted the stile, he regretted that he had not asked his business at the cottage—it might conoern him-ror wfcy he had wanted to know if he was Smith. At any rate, he would wait, and question the man on His return ; and Smith threw himself down on the moor, thinking bitterly of the changed prospects, while the grave-look-ing stranger went forward. As he passed up the garden to the cottage the sound of sobs fell on his ears— the abandonment of a girt in sorrow, careless of who heard her—and the comforting tones of an older woman. His knock on the door made th« latter come forward. "Can I see Mrs. John Smith, the young lady who had been known as Miss Thwaites, but whose real name was Miss Jessie Caryl ?" asked the stranger. , "I wonder what you want to set her for ? Anyway, it may do her good ;" and grannie called., "Jessie dear, here's a gentleman wants to see you." There was no anawcr but the gasping sobs. v Just come and speak to her ;" and grannie led the way into the kitchen, where Jessie was kneeling beside the couch, her head buried in her hands, weeping bitterly. The stranger laid his hand lightly on her shoulder as he said : "My dear young lady, I have brought you good news. I come to tell you that your grandfather, Colonel Pitzroy, has left you a fortune." The words roused her, and she raised her pretty, tear-stained face. She sprang to her feet and rushed past him ouj of the house, and they saw Her flying across the field, her feet soarcely seeming to touch the ground. "Where has she gone ?" asked the stranger., looking at grannie. "I expect she's gone after her husband. You'd better sit down ;•" and she left the kitchen, going into the garden, to avoid answering his questions. ' Meanwhile, Jessie had mounted the stile ; then she gave a little gasp of surprise when she saw her husband lying among the heather a few yards from her, and bounding to his side, she cried out: "Oh, John, I've had fifty thousand pounds left me by my grandfather ! Won't you stay with me ? I'll give 70a every penny !"

CHAPTER XXXII. JESSIE'S INHERITANCE. John Smith got on to his feet and. looked into the pleading face of hie foung wife. "Your grandfather? Who was he ?" he asked, in an unbelieving tone. "'I don't know, only there's a gentleman at the cottage who says h« mmc to tell me that my grandfather has left me a fortune. Fifty thousand pounds !" she said, looking up at him. "I'll come and hear what he^has + ~ °ay," said Smith, in an ungracious tone. "You won't leave me now?" she f leaded as they crossed the field. "Not if this money is a fact, because then we could live decently," lie ans.vcred, shortly ; and even these ungracious words made her face I rightcn. "So you've brought him back," said grannie, drily, as she opened the | gate for them ; and in another moment they joined the stranger, who j was waiting in the kitchen. "This is my husband. Will you tsll him what you came to tell me?" said Jessie, whose face had brightened considerably, * "So you are Mr. John £mith," remarked the stranger, "and I am Bernard Barnes, of the firm of Larqcs and Sargeant, solicitors, Lincoln's Inn. Our firm >is an old one, and for many generations we have acted for the Fitzroy s, of Medlington Hall, Sussex. About a month ago your wife's grandfather —Colonel Jasper Pitzroy—died. His only ,son had predeceased him, unmarried,, and the estate, which is entailed on male heirs, went to a nephew ; but his private fortune, a portion of which came from his mother, he has left to his grandchild, Jessie Caryl, the child of his laughter, Jessie Fitzroy, who married a man named Caryl. There is ilso a house not far from Medlington Hall ; it is a pretty place, standing in a small park, and is called the Rookery. Altogether- you have a nice little inheritance, and I hope you may live long to enjoy it," said the lawyer. "Why has this Colonel Fitzroy taken no notice of her while he .vas living ?" asked grannie. " Colonel Fitzroy resented . hia daughter marrying beneath her, and, he toll her when she wrote to him \fter her marriage that he had lone with her for ever ; and when he card cf the birth of a child he iglored the informa' ion, and at the time of his death he did not know

that his daughter was not living. The money was left absolutely to her or ths children, and if they were dead it passed to various charities. I do not think until the last year of his life he had any intention of leaving either his daughter or her child or s children anything. When he gave me instructions about his will I wished to make inquiries about your mother, but he told me I was not to stir in' the matter during his life—that he would never speak to his daughter again— so it was better not to let her know oi his intentions. The colonel died a month ago, and as soon as matters were a little settled I began to make inquiries for Mrs, Caryl, and 3 had just-traced her to Witton. On my way here I stopped a day or two with an old friend who lives in Middleham. He persuaded me to go into Court yesterday when Mr. Smith was being tried. I heard the evidence given by Mr. Thwaites, and I was struck by the fact that his adopted" daughter's name was Jessie; so I contrived to see him when he left the court, and after a little search I knew that my search was ended. Mrs. Smith, I congratulate you on having had the good fortune to be adopted by a man of such sterling character as Mr. Nathan Thwaites." Jessie's face brightened. '■•$■ "He is a very good man, and they nave both been like a real father and pother to me, and I have treated them shamefully,—but I couldn't help it. You see, our marriage had to be kept secret," she sai# as her eyes fell. "Oh, well, you can give them a couple of hundred pounds, to soothe their ruffled feelings," said Smith, with a sneer. She looked at him in surprise.. "Oh, I couldn't do that. My father would feel that I had offered him an insult," she said, quickly. Smith frowned. "You had better give up calling him your father,"'he said, curtly; then turning to the lawyer, he inquired soon the Rookery would be ready for them. "It could be ready in a week or soFor many years it has been in a caretaker's charge, but I gave orders last week that the place was to be overhauled. I could send two or three servants down, untii you decided what number you required. By the way, your income will be between two and three thousand a year. The money is well and safely invested. Now I think I have-told you all. I will write to you, saying when the house will be ready, and I will be there to introduce you to the caretaker, who was a servant at Medlington Hall when your mother waß a girl," he said to Jessie. "By the way, if you could give me a cheque. I'm rather short just now—heavy expenses, etc.," said Smith. The lawyer took out a chequebook and filled in a cheque for a hundred pounds, which he handed to Jessie, saying : "'The cheque is made out to you, and you will have to sign all receipts, etc. The money is absolutely yours." "Oh, well, I shall give it to my husband," she said, with a smile. There is a clause in the will that will prevent you doing such a thing ;" and winning them good day. the lawyer departed. "That Smith's a bad lot, and he'll only treat her well as long as it's to his interest," he thought as he walked back to Witton. "Now, Jessie, get your things on. I shall take you back with me to the Hare and Hounds. We can stay there a day or two, then go to London, and remain there until the .house is ready for us. You'll need some decent clothes, and you can get them while we are in London," he said, glancing in a disparaging manner at Jessie's frock ; but she beamed upon him as she said : "You will help me to choose the things, then I shall know they will please you." Ten minutes later grannie stood at the garden gate watching until they were out of sight. "So she's gone, poor dear, and I'm not at all sure that she'll be happy. I wonder what sort of a life lies before her ?" she muttered, with a sigh, as she went slowly back to the cottage. On the afternoon of the same day Jack —who was now almost well— and Betty were seated in the garden. "I'm glad I shall see your father to-morrow. I want to ask him how Boon I may marry you," said the former, as he looked lovingly at his companion. (To bo Continued.)