LOVE'S TWO-EDGED SWORD.

Otago Witness, Issue 3015, 27 December 1911, Page 70

LOVE'S TWO-EDGED SWORD.

THE 3STOVEX.IST. [All Rights Reserved.]

By Christopher Wilson, Author of " The Wings of Destiny," "The Missing Millionaire," " For a Woman's Honour."

CHAPTER IV.—THE TURNING OF THE TIDE. \r ICHARD KESTON laid aside yb< his P en with a sigh of relief, clipped together the closely\i written pages, slipi>ed them 'L into an envelope, and then lay back in his chair, staring dreamily through the dingy » window at the dreary perspective of Wrexam street. During the first, week of January things had gone well with him. The tide had undoubtedly turned, though

as often hapens, its flow was tardy indeed when compared with the swiftness of its ebh.

Early in the week he had ventured to call upon the friendly editor of the Up-to-Date Magazine, and the result had not been wholly unsatisfactory. Wentworth Brooks was a keen judge of character, and while his calm, grey eyes rested upon the face of his visitor, he realised that Keston was one of those who had recently stood in life’s fighting line. Partly out of the goodness of big heart, and partly in order to keep in touch with this young man, in whom he had realised the possibility of good “copy” in the future, he scribbled a letter of introduction to another editor. “It will probably be a poor kind of job,” be murmured, as he folded the letter. “A column of balderdash regularly for the Weekly Clipper, I should think. But if you suit Marston, and he takes you 'on, the cash will be certain.” And in this manner Keston found himself the happy possessor of a weekly income of two guineas, in addition to hiscapital of some twenty odd p’ounds. Whereupon he deemed himself passing rich, and forthwith launched out in the luxury of a sitting room in the house in Wrexam street. And as he lay back in has chair, bavin completed bis first column of “balderdash,” he indulged in visions qf decent chambers and a Hemlock typewriter: nay, even a skilled amanuensis and a private secretary. There was a tap at the sitting room door. Then it opened, and “Gentleman to see you, sir. Nyme of Grant,” Emily announced, with .a note of strained exciteiment in her voice. Keston swung round in his chair and stared at her with vague surmise in his eyes. Emily misunderstood his hesitation, and added, with hoarse emphasis; “ ’E’s a real gentleman, and no mistyke. Drove up hin a taxi-keb, and wears spats on ’is boots.” Keston nodded silently, and Emily went off to usher in the visitor. As ho entered the sitting room, John Grant paused abruptly, and gazed at the young man in open- amazement. “Mr Richard Keston?” he queried dubiously. Keston bowed, and his visitor went on with obvious embarrassment; “It is strange, but I have made a mistake. They told me at the post office that there was Only one person with that name in London, and that my telegram had been delivered to you.” Keston walked across to a desk on a table at the window, took out a slip of paper, and handed it to Grant, with the words: “Yes. This i 6 the telegram. I couldnot understand it. I thought that possibly there might be some mistake.” Grant nodded gloomily as he took the telegram and said ; “the Richard Keston for whom my message was intended ig old enough to be your father. When I left England twenty-five years ago he was practising as a physician iir Wimpole street. _ Perhaps he is a relation? The name is unusual.” The light of sudden comprehension flashed into Keston’s eyes, and he said gravely: “He was my father, sir.” Grant’s lips tightened suddenly, and as his hand gripped Keston’s with a silentclasp his fingers, twitched tremulously. Then in a low voice he said: “Poor Dick! Poor Dick! Is it long since he died?” “Ten years,” replied Keston, adding courteously, “Won’t y'ou sit down, Mr Grant.” The elder man seated himself in the horsehair-covered arm chair at the fireside, and for a few moments he gazed silently at the features of his host. Then ho said softly: “So, you were the baby?” “I was his only child,” said Keston, adding, after a pause, “I presume you knew my father well, Mr Grant?” Grant sighed, and then he said slowly : “Your father was the best friend I ever had. We were at school together, we were at Oxford together, and for years we were inseparable. Then we drifted apart. Your father stuck to his professional work and did well at it. I was always a bit wild in those days, and I went more or less to the had —rather more than less, in fact. 1. was supposed to 1 be reading for the Bar, but in reality I was wasting my monej’-, wasting my time, and learning the devil’s alphabet -with industry and zeal.

"Well, to make a long story short, when I got to the end of my tether, with nothing but ruin and disgrace in front of me, your father chipped in, and pulled me through. Then I cleared out to South America, settled down to work in earnest, and have been breasting the up bill grade ever since."

Keston glanced curiously at the speaker and said : "But you did not write to each other, did vou? I do not remember having ever heard my father speak of you." John (grant's face darkened, and for a few moments he remained silent, staring gloomily at the flickering flames in the grate. Then he &aid : "I wrote to him once, sending back the money which he had lent me. After that I did not write again." "Why?" Grant shuddered, as though the question had been the stab of a surgeon's knife. Then he replied slowly: "Before I left England—after all that he had done for me—we quarrelled, your father and I. It was the old story —a woman. He was jealous, madly jealous, though God knows he had no real cause. I was bad enough, but not as bad as. that. He accused me to my face. I did not love the woman, but I reverenced her, and I resented the accusation on her behalf more than on my own. It maddened me, I forgot every tnin S> and — l struck him in the face. Yes, the man who had given the last pansy of his savings to purchase

my soul from the devil! And he did not return that blow. He only looked at me, silently, and then turned away. And your father was no coward. By heaven, no I So we parted." He paused for a moment, as if overcome by the painful memories, and then he added in a low tone :

"Aiterwards I heard that she was dead, and although I could not bring myself to write to him, I made a solemn vow that whenever I came back to the old country, I would go to him, and ask for his forgiveness. That was nearly twenty-five years ago. Now I have come back and — I am too late."

For a few moments there was silence, broken only by the discordant yell of a newspaper boy, as he hurried along YVrexam street, with a bundle of "stoppress" specials. Then, Keston said, in a low voice, almost a whisper : "Twenty-five years ago! Who w«6 the woman?"

John Grant hesitated. Then, leaning forward in his chair, he replied: "She was your mother."

Again there was silence. The eyes of Grant roved from the tawdry pictures on the walls to the shabby furniture, and then to the threadbare clothing of his host. The envelope upon the table had not escaped his notice, and after a long interval, he broke the silence with the abrupt question: "What are you? A journalist? Eh?" Keston glanced at the envelope and smiled, but there was more bitterness than •mirth in his smile as he replied: "!No. I am not a journalist. I wish to heaven I were. I wish to heaven I were anything except the thing I am—a failure!"

There was a note of passion in his voice that stirred a sympathetic chord within the breast of the older man. He looked thoughtfully at Keston and then said :

"Yes, I think I can understand. I was a failure myself—a bad failure, at the start. Most strong-winged fledglings are failures at first. They fly too high as a rule."

"And break their wings," said Keston, gloomily. Grant shrugged his broad shoulders and said:

"Sometimes. Not always," adding, with a whimsical tilt of the eyebrows, "but, in these days, even a failure must specialise, you know. What is your particular line!"

If, six months previously, Keston's best friend had ventured to thus question him, Keston would have resented it as an impertinence which no intimacy could justify. But many things had happened •during these dreary months, and the spirit of the man was strangely tamed and subdued. Grant was a stranger, but he had been his father's friend in the old days, and, moreover, as their eyes met, Keston was swift to realise that beneath the flippant cynicism of the elder man's words there was an undercurrent of real interest and genuine sympathy. And so, without hesitation or demur, he told Grant the story of his shipwrecked fortunes, seeking neither to conceal nor to extenuate the measure of his own folly. Grant listened in silence, but in that very silence there was understanding and sympathy that moved the young man to unbosom his soul freely and without reserve. He even told of the temptation which had drawn him nigh to the brink of self-destruction, but concerning the tragic event which had turned him from his "fatal purpose, he said nothing. When he had finished., Grant rose from his chair and laid his hand upon Keston's shoulder. His eyes were soft, almost tender, but as he spoke there was still in his words and tone that note of badinage with which Grant was ever wont to cloak the expression of- his deeper feelings. "My dear boy, you have had a hard time of it, but you can hardly expect much sympathy from me. You see, your misfortunes have really been a piece of good luck for me. They have given me what otherwise I might never have found, the chance of paying off—in part, at all events —an old debt." Keston frowned, and his features were tinged with a sudden flush as he shook his head decisively. But Grant went on: "I quite understand your feelings, but I think you are probably mistaken as to the meaning of my suggestion. If I were to ofer you a favour your pride and selfrespect would prompt you to reject the offer; but the position is reversed. I am seeking a favour at your hands. I have come to England, hoping to win the forgiveness of your father, and, if he were alive, I would not ask for it in vain. Well, the favour that I ask from you is that you will look on me as your father's friend. You can, of course, refuse; it is your right, but if you do, I shall be greatly disappointed." Again Keston shook his head, as he slowly replied : "You are a rich man, Mr Grant, and I am a " "Never mind what vou are,' interrupted Grant. "The question is what you may become. Let me finance you for a couple of vears at the Bar, and then you can pay back the invested capital afterwards—with interest, at a liberal rate, if you wish." Keston had risen to his feet, and as he faced the speaker there was a glmt of obstinate determination in his eyes, although his lips had curved into a goodnatured smile. "Mr Grant," he said, "it would be useless for me to pretend to be deceived by your reference to investment. No. I understand your offer, and I assure you 1 appreciate your great kindness, and am not ungrateful. But, it would be absolutely impossible for'me to accept money from anyone. As I have told you, I still hope to make my way at the Bar, but if I am not fit to "do so without leaning on others, then I do not deserve to succeed at all." John Grant glanced with admiring eye*

at'the resolute lines that had leaped into prominence, upon the features of the young man. It was not his habit to offer financial assistance, and on the rare occasions when he had done so, he had never been confronted with a refusal. When he spoke again there was a ring of earnest persuasion in his voice.

"I thoroughly approve of your idea of independence as a theory, but don't you think, from the practical standpoint, you are carrying it too far? You will pardon my speaking so plainly—it is one of my incurable vices—but, do you really believe that solicitors are likely to come, with their briefs, to look for a counsel in— Wrexam street, eh?" For a few moments Keston was silent. The temptation was severe. Memories of his old chambers, with their well-lined book-shelves, awoke within him, and he realised that what Grant had said was no less than the truth. He was indeed but poorly equipped for the struggle which he contemplated. Grant was swift to interpret his momentary hesitation, and he followed up his last thrust with the words:

' 'Decent chambers are an absolute necessity, and if you will allow me to advance the amount of the rent for a few months it will not be such a terrible sacrifice of your independence." Still Keston hesitated. Then be replied :

"It is really very good of you, Mr Grant, but I should prefer to hew out my own path, however rough it may be. I must take any chance." "You are very like your father," said Grant. Then, after a pause, he added : ''Well, well, be it so, then. I shall not insist, but perhaps you would be willing to relax your sturdy principles to the extent of dining with us this evening if you have no other engagement. My daughter and I are staying at the Caspar, and we shall be delighted to have the pleasure of your company." Keston'e face flushed with pleasure as he replied : "Thanks very much. I shall be very glad indeed." Grant extended his hand, and as the young man took it he said: "Well, good-bye. We shall expect you at half-past 8 this evening. And now 1 must go, as I have some urgent business affairs on hand that will keep me busy during the rest of the day." Richard Keston accompanied his visitor to the door, and then, even after the taxicab had disappeared round the corner of Wrexam street, he lingered for a few moments "upon the door-step, lost in thought and oblivious of his surroundings. Then, as his glance fell upon a large newspaper placard that rested against the door of a small shop on the other side of the street, he suddenly awoke from his reverie. THE HILL STREET MYSTERY. SENSATIONAL ARREST. SCENE IN THE POLICE COURT. With nervous haste he crossed the street, purchased a paper, and then returned to his room. Tee report of the proceedings before the magistrate was brief, and as the crisp sentences leaped up to meet his eager eyes Richard Keston realised at a glance that he had come to the parting of the ways.' He glanced feverishly at the end of the paragraph, and as he read the words, "The prisoner was remanded for a week" he uttered *i sigh of relief. Perhaps the prisoner was guilty, in which event it mattered little in what manner the police chose to secure a conviction. On the other hand, possibly, the prisoner, if innocent, had ample means of defence without the necessity of Keston'e intervention. In any case, there was a week within which to make further inquiries and arrive at a final decision, and so, once again, he procrastinated. ' Meantime John Grant was being whirled rapidly eastward through the rear of the London' streets, and as the taxi-cab threaded its way amid the tangled traffic he lay back against the cushions, with a satisfied smile playing around the corners of his mouth. For already his fertile wit had devised a. plan whereby the obstinate pride of the young barrister might be circumvented. At last the cab came to a standstill at the entrance to a large building in Chancery lane. Grant ascended in the lift to the first floor, and then, following the directions of the attendant, made his way along a corridor till he came to a doer which bore the inscription in black letters on the muffed glass, "Purvis, Cbrrle, and Stanhope, Solicitors." As he entered the .spacious public office a long-haired, thick-set clerk, whose temperament, allied to the habit of wearing a quill in each ear, had earned for him the office title cf "the fretful porcupine," came ambling acrcss the floor to meet him- „. ,„ ~ -n ■,, "I want to see Sir Walter Purvis, said Grant, handing his card to the clerk. "Afraid you can't," said the fretful one brusquely, 'adding, with a sidelong toss of his shaggy locks: "If you will step into the waiting room Mr Stanhope will b= able to see vou in about five or ten minutes. Sir Walter is. engaged. Can't see anyone this afternoon. "I don't want to trouble Mr Stanhope. T have told you that it is Sir Walter whom I want to see, and if you won't take mv card in to him I will take it mvself." . 1 Grant's tone was impatient and peremptory" the other clerks tittered audibly, and for an instant the "porcupine's" quills seemed literally to stand erect as he sought for an appropriate crushing retort. But Grant's challenging stare was disconcerting, and as the clerk dropped his eyes to the card in his hand he suddenly changed colour and muttered hastily: "I beg your pardon, Mr Grant; I am very sorry. I shall let Sir Walter know at once that you are here."

For Grant had frequently been in communication with the firm with reference to investment operations on a large scale, and his name was familiar to every clerk in the office, though, with geographical inaccuracy they usually referred to him at "the millionaire from Brazil, where the nuts con;© from."

And although the senior partner was one of the mo.-t distinguished membeis of his profession in London, he, too, felt in no small degree honoured by the visit of the South American Croesus. The pile of musty title deeds which had monopolised his attention was swiftly pushed to one side, and he greeted his visitor with a deference which would assuredly have surprised some of his more aristocratic clients, with whom, at times, he was brusque, if not actually rude. For more than half an hour the conversation was solely concerned with business details. Then, while Sir Walter wa3 discussing the reconstruction of a company in which Grant was largely interested, the latter glanced at his watch and said:

"I am afraid I must ask you to excuse me now, as I-have an important appointment in the city at half-past 5." "Perhaps, Mr Grant, ycu could call here to-morrow morning?" "No, I shall be busy all day tomorrow,"

Sir Walter elevated his eyebrows slightly and said : "But, you know, this matter is urgent. The chairman of the committee of dissentient shareholders had threatened to summon a meeting, and if he does —well, there will be trouble."

For ."an instant Grant paused reflectively, hat in hand. Then he said:

".book here, Sir Walter, I know it is somewhat irregular, but I should take it as a great favour if you would come and dine with me to-night. We could fix up this business in 10 minutes, and then, you know, there is no necessity for us to talk "shop" the whole evening." Sir Walter Purvis accepted the invitation with a courteous bow. Indeed, such is -the power of wealth that there were few men in London who would have hesitated, if asked, to confer a favour upon John Grant. As solicitor and client shook hands Grant said:

"We have only one other guest this evening, a barrister called Keston. Richard Keston. Do you happen to know him?"

Sir Walter crinkled up his brows meditatively, and then replied : "The name seems familiar. Yes, yes, I remember hearing about him some time ago. Made rather a hit in some cases at the Central Criminal Court, didn't he? I haven't heard anything of him lately, however. Of course, our business is exclusively conveyancing and Chancery work. My cousin, Stephen Welby, is the only member of cur family who has ever drifted into Common Law and jury cases." "Your cousin has a large practice, I suppose?" asked Grant carelessly. Sir Walter nodded, with a patronising air, and said: "Yes, Welby has done remarkably well. He is in almost every cause celebre these days." John Grant made a mental note, and as he hastily returned to the waiting cab he murmured approvingly: "Yes. Welby is the man for my money. I can easily work it through Purvis, so that Master Richard Keston will not know where his luck is coming from, and then we will manage to 'boom' the independent philosopher of Wrexam street, in spite of himself." CHAPTER V.—THE DINNER PARTY AT THE HOTEL CASPAR. When Richard Keston arrived at Grant's hotel he was in a somewhat dismal mood. He had spent the afternoon in brooding over the unpleasant complications which had been produced by the sensational arrest in connection with the Hill street mystery, and again and again he had bitterly reviled the evil fate which had lured him into the toils. But, as he entered the hotel and was ushered by an obsequious waiter into the magnificent suite of rooms which Grant had engaged, the morbid depression seemed to pass, like a mountain mist that drifts before the first breath of the awakening breeze, and the doubts and fears that had harassed his soul gave place to a multitude of new and altogether delightful sensations.

The apartments were furnished in a style that was worthy of a royal occupant. Everything that cultured and artistic taste could select and that money could buy was at hand, and as Keston crossed the threshold of the room in which his host was waiting to receive him, it seemed as though he passed at one stride from the outer world of sordid commonplace into the gorgeous palace of an Eastern tale. It was indeed a startling contrast to his humble apartments in the house of Mrs Sibbet. And yet this first impression of wealth and luxury was but fleeting and evanescent. For as Keston glanced at Winifred Grant the splendours of the palace faded from his eyes, and he saw only the queen who reigned therein.

Laughing eyes that could have compelled an answering smile from the austerest of anchorites, wavy tresses that seemed to defy restraint, an uptilted chin daintily poised above the exquisite curves of a perfectly-chiselled throat, and lips that ■were ripe with the divine promise of life's spring; such were the charms with which Nature had endowed the girl, and such the spells which enmeshed the eyes of Richard Keeton as she turned away from Sir Walter Purvis and advanced smilingly to meet her father's guest.

bir Walter's reception of the young barrister was courteous, and even friendly, albeit a trifle patronising; but neither the courtesy nor the patronage left any impression upon Keston's mind. His thoughts were occupied with Winifred Grant, and her gracious words of greeting were still ringing in his ears.

After the little ceremony of introduction had been completed, Grant turned towards Keston with an apologetic smile, and said :

"Will you excuoe me for a few minutes J Sir Walter has brought some papers for me to sign, and I should like to get it over now, so that I may dine with an easy mind and a clear conscience." The irresistible twinkle of merriment danced in the eyes of Winifred Grant as she turned towards her lather with the words :

"May I not go with you? I should dearly like to see those wonderful papers, the signing of which will ensure 'an easy mind and a clear conscience,' and all in the space of a few minutes. Sir Walter must be a magician. What do you think, Mr Keston?"

But Keston made no reply. It was not the ma.gic of the eminent solicitor with which his thoughts were at that moment concerned. And even when Sir Walter and Grant had gone into the adjacent smoke-room, leaving him alone with his young hostess, his iirst words were commonplace, stupidly so. "How do you like London, Miss Grant ?"

She smiled merrily as she replied : "Well, I really have not had much time to form an opinion as yet. We only landed at Southampton yesterday evening. Father has been rushing about all day, trying to cram the work of weeks into a few hours, as usual; and all that I have seen of London is within the four walls of this hotel."

Her eves lingered approvingly on the grand piano that stood between the curtained windows, and she added with a laugh: ''l need hardly say that I like it very much."

Then, in a more serious tone, she went 'on impulsively : "But, of course, there is another London, outside—a Loudon that is quite different. And you must tell me airabout it."

Her gaiety was- infectious, and Keston shook his head, smilingly, ag he said : "I am. afraid I should need to be an even greater magician than -Sir Walter Purvis in order t'o tell you in a few minutes all about the London that is out-c-ide; that is, even if I knew all about it myself." "But. you must know ever so much about it, you know; yOu have written stories about it."

She paused abruptly, and her cheeks were tinged- with a slight flush of embarrassment as she remembered what her father had told her of the circumstances under which Ke&ton had been forced to try his hand at story writing. Keston was swift to interpret the meaning Of her sudden hesitation, and he replied easily, as though the topic were in no least degree distasteful: "Yes, I have written a few. atones which had a London background, but I am afraid they were not altogether true to life. You see, when one indulges in fiction one must exaggerate in order to secure the necessary dramatic effect. The glare of the footlights necessitates _ a libera! use of rouge and grease paint, and the most interesting character in real life would seem horibly dull if transferred with cinematographic realism into the pages of a magazine story." "I am afraid you are- betraying some of the secret* of your profession," said Winifred Grant. " There was a smile upon lier lips as she spoke, but the .eyes with which she regarded her companion had suddenly become grave and thoughtful. At home in the Argentine the girl had been accustomed to the fulsome compliments and polite banalities which constituted the conversational capital of the men whom she met in society. But, even in the few words which Keston had spoken, her quick feminine instinct had detected a new and unfamiliar note that attracted hear interest. Those others, while professing to adore hen' as a goddess, had invariably talked to her as if she were a child. Indeed, with the exception of her father, Keston was the only man who had ever conversed with her as an intellectual equal, and she was by no means insensible to the subtle flattery. Thus, while the minutes sped by, and Grant discussed colossal schemes of finance with the solicitor, the conversation in the da-awing room ripened with amazing celerity. And so, when at last the members of the little dinner party passed through the folding doors that led to the private dining room, Winifred Grant realised that, although she had learned nothing about London in the interval, she had. acquired an astounding wealth of information concerning the character and ambitions bf Richard Keston.

John Grant was in excellent humour and as the conversation drifted towards his early struggles in South America, he fascinated his hearers with a continuous flow of anecdote, now moving them to temuestuous lauohtor by the narration of a humorous episode, and now thrilling their nerves by a passing glimpse at the grimmer realities of life in the wilderness. Sir Walter Purvis soon yielded to the charm of his host's personality,, his habitual reserve was thawed, and he, too, became talkative.

"That is an extraordinary development of the Hill street affair, isn't it?" he said, wth a glance at the young barrister, whose eyes dwelt lingeriugly upon the graceful euirves of the girl's arm. Keston drew himself upright in his chair, with an involuntary jerk, and star&d blankly at the speaker. His cheeks were tingling with a sudde-n flush, and his fingers twitched so that the cigar almost slipped from his nerveless grasp. Then, mastering his voice with a strong effort of will, he said : "Yes. a queer case. 1 wonder will they convict?"

Sir Walter shook his head -with judicial gravity. "I don't know. But that fellow Oswald usually manages to get the right

end of tin stick. He is amazingly clever." .John Grant glanced sharply at the speaker, as he uttered the name, and asked: "Who hz Oswald, and who ia to convict whom of what?" Sir Walter elevated his eyebrows, and said : "Do you mean to say. Mr Grant, that you have not seen the news in the evening papers?" '"i\o. What is if? I haven't had time even to glance at a paper to-day." "Well, Oswald, who is one of the smarteet detectives at Scotland Yard, has made an arcest in connection with the Bid street murder." Sir Walter paused impressively, and Grant blew a careless whiff of smoke, as he murmured : 'Never heard of it," "Oh, I forgot, you were at sea at the time it happened. Max Harden, the celebrated theatrical manager, was murdered in his house early on the morning of New JTeur's Dtiy, and Oswald has arrested the most popular' actress on the London stage —Stella Tremayne." "What!" Grant's exclamation rang out like a pistol shot, and Sir Waited' stared at him in open bewilderment. KesLon's hand went out with a hurried movement to his glass of cognac, but the slender stem of the liqueur glass snapped in his nervous clutch.'For a moment there Avas silence in the room. I'nen Wiirarixs eaiid, in a low tone : "This is horrible. The police rmui have made a terrible mistake." (To be continued.)