IN FULL CRY.

Otago Witness, Issue 2376, 14 September 1899, Page 48

IN FULL CRY.

By RIGHARD MARSH,

Author of " The Beetle : A Mystery," " The Crime and the Criminal," "' The Datchet Diamonds," " Mrs Musgrave and Her Husband," " The Woman with One Hand/ etc., etc. [COPYRIGHT.] CHAPTER XXIX.— THE TRUE STORY OP WHAT TOOK PLACE IN EMBANKMENT CHAMBERS. HO was it that spoke?" The question was asked by the judge. He looked angrily through his spectacles towards the spectators who were crowded together against the wall. A figure was threading its way towards the body of the court, the figure of a, man. People made way for him to pass. " I &poke, my lord." It was Blaise Polhurston. He stood at counsel's table, looking across at the judge. "Who are you, sir?" " I am Blaise Polhurston. I am known to several persons who are present." "Well, sir, is that any reason why you should interrupt the proceedings of the court?" " You asked the prisoner if he had anything to say why sentence of death should not be pronounced upon him. I have something to say." The judge addressed John Armitage. "Do you know this person?" John Armitage stood up. "I do, my lord." " If he" has any evidence to give, why was he nofc called in the proper course?" "I was not aware that he had any evidence to give." John Armitage leant over towards Blaise

Polhurston. That gentleman waived him back.

" With your permission I would prefer to say what I have to say to you direct, my lord, and to the jury, without the intervention of any third person."

- The judge regarded him with severity. " Is what you have to say of capital importance? I would warn you that your conduct is most irregular and that it is a very serious matter to .interrupt the court at this stage of the proceedings.

" I am aware of it, my lord. What I have to say is of the first importance."

" Then go into the box, and I will hear you. Let this person be sworn."

The oath was duly administered. The judge, himself, conducted the examination, such as it was.

"Now, sir, what have you to say — briefly?"

Blaise Polhurston spoke clearly and quietly, without hesitation, straignt on. Although there was still that whimsical half-twinkle in his eyes he looked pale and worn ; older than he had done of late. He stooped, "as if he were tired. It was curious to notice how all those who were present seemed to be dominated by his quietly spoken words.

.. "On the twelfth of December last I was penniless. One whom I held dear was starving. On the afternoon of that day I had seen Howard Shapcott. OnceJ had known him well, though it^ was years since we had met."

" Had you parted on good terms?" "We had not. Nor did we meet upon good terms. He laughed at the plight which I was in; told me his address, and jeeringly asked me to come and call upon him. When I returned to my lodging I found that the person to whom J have referred was, so far as I could judge, dying for want of food. I had no money with which to buy. For some days I had tried in vain to get some. I resolved to ask a dole from Howard Shapcott. On my way to him, in the hope that I might still be, spared my last humiliation, I called in at a common lodging-house, trusting that I might find there some acquaintance from whom I could obtain a few coppers. There was not a creature about the place. The kitchen was deserted. As I was going out I saw that there was something on the mantelshelf. It was a revolver." There was an exclamation from the prisoner in the dock. " That's how it was ! I remember now that I left it on the shelf. That's what I done with it, and to think it should have come near to hanging me !" The movement as of relief which passed through the court showed what a degree of tension had been broken, by the prisoner's words. The judge was minatory. " Silence, sir ! How dare you interrupt like that?" Yet one felt that- his anger was an affair of the lips rather than of the heart. Blaise Polhurston went on. "I put the revolver into my pocket. I can give no reason why I did so, it was done on the impulse of the moment — and 1 proceeded on my way to Howard Shapcott." The judge interposed. " I feel it my duty, at this stage, to warn you to be careful as to what statements you may make, as you are in no way bound to say anything that -may tend to incriminate yourself." " I thank you my lord ; I am aware of what are my legal obligations. And I will admit that I would not say what I am about to say had it not become necessary to do so, if an innocent man is to be saved from the gallows. When I arrived at Embankment Chambers I found no one in the entrance half." "What time was that?" " I should imagine about 10 o'clock." " The hall porter has sworn that he never left his post." " I found no one there. Had I done so I take it that such a figure as I presented would have been questioned, if not refused admission. Shapcott had told me that his number was 212. I went straight up the stairs in search of it; to discover that I had set myself by no means an easy task. I wandered in all directions, up and down one corridor after another " Without meeting anyone?" " Without meeting anyone. At last I found 212. Howard Shapcott's name was painted on the panel. I did not knock ; I turned the handle, found the door was, open, and walked in." He paused for a moment. Some of those who were listening ajjparently took advantage of the opportunity to draw breath. " Shapcott was seated at a writing-table. As I entered he rose to greet me. When he saw that it was I, moving quickly pa&t me he locked the door." "It was he, then, who locked the door on the inside?" "It was. He said as he did so, ' Since you have favoured me with this visit, we will secure ourselves from interruption.' J think that if I had known what he intended to do, I should have prevented him, but his rapidity of movement took me aback." Blaise Polhurston paused again, as if to arrange his thoughts. " I find it difficult to narrate clearly what took place between us ; to place events in their exact sequence. I have endeavoured often to do so, to myself, but never to my satisfaction. I can only tell you the tale as I remember it. I saw at once that he was in a malicious mood — full of the old hatred for me, which feeling I returned in kind. " But I was in extremity — cold, wet, hungry, footsore, penniless, in rags ; and the memory of the plight of the one I had left at home was tearing at my heartstrings and made of me a coward. He was a prosperous gentleman, with the ball at his feet, at his ease, well fed — he told me he had been dining like a prince and drinking like a king. His tongue was like a rapier ; mine never had been a match for his, then it was less so than ever. He ran me through and through ; pricked me where he pleased ; sought out my raws and galled them ; while, so abject was my condition I was incapable of even attempting to return the blows he rained on me. The

apathy with which I took my punishment did not provide him with sufficient entertainment. He made an effort to rouse me to resentment ; so he began to make sporfc of a great wrong which he had done me in the days of my youth, and his, and for which, at the time, I could have killed him — and would have, if I had had the cnance. The villain ! " For the first time the speaker showed a trace of passion. The epithet, though he still spoke quietly, was uttered with a sincerity whicn seemed to make it strike his hearers in the face. "He threw his wickedness at me, by way of a gibe, like the scoundrel that he was ; for he was a scoundrel. I say ifc though he is dead ; if I meet him in the shades I will say it to his ghost. I felfc something in the pocket of my coat. - It was the revolver which I had taken front the mantelshelf. I took Tt out and showed it to him, and asked him how he dared to speak to me like that when, if I chose, at any moment I could shoot him like a. dog. He laughed, exclaiming that he was quite easy in his mind, since that sort of thing was not in my way, or I should have done it long ago ; which, in a sense, was true enough. "I found that; after all, I could not ask for the charity, the desperate hope of which had brought me to him. f felt that, if I did ask, it would be "refused. But I could not ask. And since the jeering hideout allusion to the evil which I and others had suffered at his hands had served to stir even my sodden pulse's, I turned to leave the -room. "But he would not have it. From thi3 point, perhaps, the sport had only just; commenced. He saw plenty more of it to follow. His appetite was whetted, he would not ITave it baulked. As I turned he sprang forward, caught me by the shoulder, swung me round. That picture is ever before me. I see him moving towards me, gripping my right shoulder, swinging me round. The rest is dark. That is all ihat I remember." " What do you mean by saying that that is all you remember V Though, mind, you are under no obligation to utter another word. What you do say will be said voluntarily, after being duly warned that, for you, the- consequences may be most serious. I want you to understand that quite distinct./." "I do understand. Ido not speak without consideration." " Very good ; so long as you properly appreciate^ your responsibility "for your own words. Now have you anything further which you wish to say? " "^ " I have. At this point in my mental consciousness there seems to have been i supervened an interregnum— a hiatus,- ! which I have endeavoured again and again Ito fill in. The next thing which I rememj her is that I awoke out of what appeared to be a state of torpor, to find myself lying on the floor of what seemed to be a strange j room. It was only after I had laboriously gained my feet that I realised that the room was Shapcott's. My brain was in confusion. I was giddy — objects were whirling round before my eyes ; my limbs were trembling— l had to lean against the table to keep myself upright; I clearly recall how the sharp- corner of the table penetrated the palm of my hand. Many moments must have elapsed before I was able to even remotely appreciate the true inwardness of my position. "As my vision, mental and physical, grew clearer, I perceived that, immediately in front of me, something was lying on the floor. I had been dimly wondering I what had become of Shapcott ; here he was upon the floor. I. wondered what he was doing there. ' Shapcott ! ' I said. 'Shapcott!' He did not answer. 'Shapcott ! ' I repeated. ' Why don't you speak to me? What is the matter?' "Again no reply. His continued silence began to impress even my blurred ! comprehension as ominous. Endeavouring to collect my thoughts, I regarded him with more attention, and was struck by the rigidity of his attitude, his complete quiescence, despite the uncomfortable posture in which he lay and the fashion in which his limbs were twisted. I bent over him. I touched him. He was dead.

"When I realised that this was so, I asked myself, in my surprise and my bewilderment, how the thing had come about. The only explanation which either then or since I have been able to supply, I offer you. All my life I have been subject to an affection of the heart, which has caused me on very many occasions, generally at moments of unusual excitement, suddenly without the slightest warning, to become completely unconscious. I have continued sometimes for hours together to be like one dead. I can only conjecture that when Shapcott gripped me by the shoulder I was seized by one of these attacks ; that I fell ; that, in falling, the revolver which I was holding in my hand was fired, and that its discharge killed him on the spot. Whether the responsibility for this was his or mine I have been unable to finally decide ; it" seems to mo that it must have been purely accidental. "I think it possible that your lordship may consider that, the facts being as I have narrated them, I ought to have gone straightway and proclaimed them to the first person I might meet. That, also, may be the opinion of the gentlemen of the jury. I did not do so. In the first place, although consciously I had had no hand in killing Howard Shapcott, I did not regret that he was dead. Nor have I regretted it since. In the second place, I had cut myself adrift from my family ; I had been parted from them for years ; I had sunk lower and lower in the social scale. I did not propose, if I could help it, to allow the fact of my continued existence to be brought to their notice. Inl the third place, the story which I had to tell was a strange one — as you will have perceived. It quite probably would not? have been credited. I did not choose to subject myself to the personal inconvenience to which, ia a»y case, its telling would have subjected me. And, in thei last place, there was someone lying at home, who, quite probably, .would die if I) did not hasten back with succour. " Some coins were lying on the floor. Thej

had probably fallen from Shapcott's pocket. I do not know what was the exact amount, but, whatever it was, I snatched them up. A ring and a bracelet also lay close by him. I took them too. Opening one of the French windows, I saw that there was a balcony without. Stepping on to it, I pulled the window to behind me. Moving along the balcony I found that at the window of the next room the blind was up. Just inside a man with a black beard was standing, his face against the pane. I felt that he must have seen me as I passed. I was seized with a panic of terror. I rushed frantically on. At the end of the balcony was a waste water-pipe, fastened to the wall.

" By its aid I-descended to -the ground. I am no athlete. I have surveyed the scene since, and it has been strongly borne in upon me that the most mysterious part of the night's proceedings is how, by the employment of such means, I could have safely reached the ground.

"Nothing which I have said has been offered in extenuation of my conduct. I have no wish to excuse myself. As clearly and briefly as I could I have laid before you the facts of the matter as they are known to me. Up to now they have been known' to me only. I should have continued to keep my own confidence had it not been for the verdict of the jury on Piobert Foster. It has not been part of my intention to allow him to suffer for a crime which, was no crime, and of which he, in any case, was wholly and completelyinnocent'. That, my lord and gentlemen of the jury, is all I have to lay before you." The silence which followed the speaker's ■words was broken by the sound of a feminine voice. _A door was thrown open; a woman came hastening into the court. " Gentleman ! Gentleman !" she cried. **I heard you speaking! I knew it was you!"

Before anyone could stop her, she had pushed her way through the people to where Blaise Polhurston stood. It . was Pollie Hills. He turned, as she came, and took her in his arms, before them all.

" Pollie ! 'We meet at Philippi !' " Although it was unlikely that she gathered hia exact import, it was plain that her guess came pretty near to it. Her tone •was tremulous. "What are*3'ou doing here? You haven't been telling them anything?" "Yes, Pollie, I have. I've told them everything — the whole strange story." " Gentleman ! Gentleman !" The usher's voice was heard. ■" Silence ! Order there !"

The judge leaned over the bench. " What is the meaning of these extraordinary proceedings? Take thai woman away !"

Pollie turned and screamed at him,

" You touch me ! You let anyone so much as lay a hand on me! You let 'em dare !"

"Look out!" exclaimed a voice. "He's going to fall."

The allusion was to Blaise Polhurston, -who did fall. Pollie caughfc him in her arms. She looked at him with a blend of amazement, horror, fear. "Gentleman!" she gasped. "What's •wrong?" There was nothing wrong. He was only dead. That affection of the heart of which hs had been telling them had visited him for the last time. CHAPTER XXX.— THE TESTAMENTARY DISPOSITIONS OF A GENTLEMAN OF FORTUNE. It was found that Blaise Polhur.ston had left a will, which had been made on the day he left Polhurston — the Saturday preceding that eventful Monday. The circumstances under which the document had come into bejng were clearly stated — in the expectation that Robert Foster would be found guilty, and that therefore he, the testator, would be constrained to take certain steps which might, quite possibly, result in his own demise. - The steps had been taken, death had followed ; expectation had been realised to the full. That he had foreseen that the end -would come in the actual form it did was not certain, but it was probable ; for it was shown that he had visited a physician who, perceiving that the shears were already nearly closed upon the thread of his life,' had told him frankly that its severance was close at hand. * Five hundred pounds were left to Robert Fester, " whom I have unintentionally injured." A thousand were bequeathed to Pollie Hills, "the truest friend that ever a man had." A set of diamond ornaments to "my niece, Dolly Hamilton." These were found to have been purchased on the day on which the will was dated, and were discovered in an enclosure which was endorsed, " For my niece, Dolly, in fulfilment of a promise." The residue of all that he had went to Helen Fowler, " the daughter of the woman for whom I have esteemed my life well lost." The provision was saf,e-guarded to the best of his ability, Henry Baynes being named as guardian, and as sole executor. The will contained no mention of either his mother or his sister.

On the morning after the receipt of the news of her son's decease, Mrs Polhurston -was found dead in bed. She, also, had died from heart failure. Mrs Hamilton is, at present, in sole possession of the family estates. Her daughter, Dolly, is the wife of that " rising " young barrister, John Aribitage, whose name, it is whispered, will be included in the next batch of " silks."

• Pollie Hills is, Mrs Robert Foster. In view of the way in which her false witness brought Boberfc Foster to the very foot of the gallows, the match seems a curious one ;f but human nature is curious, seldom logical. It is certan. that he forgave her even for her attejnpt against his life ; it is possible that she was moved by his capacity for forgiveness even more than by his love ; ifc is sure that they joined forces, his five hundred to her thousand, and that now, as man and wife, they are joint proprietors of three or four flourishing establishments for the sale of fruit and vegetables. With them romance has been merged in acfi^Utyj. Ik is probable that already they

are nearly oblivious of the fact that, for them, there ever was a period of '' .storm and stress."

The mists of romance still envelop Helen Fowler. After such a beginning, who can say what is likely to be her end? We may at least hope that she is destined for a happier fate than her mother. She is still young, her beauty grows greater, she has wealth ; for such an one what radiant good fortune may the future not have in store! And Blaise Polhurston is- at peace. "After life's fitful fever, he sleeps well." Rest assured. (The End.)