LOVE’S TWO-EDGED SWORD.

Otago Witness, Issue 3016, 3 January 1912, Page 70

LOVE’S TWO-EDGED SWORD.

THE NOVELIST,

[All Rights Reserved.]

By Christopher Wilson, Author of “ The Wings of Destiny,” “The Missing Millionaire,” “ For a Woman’s Honour.”

CHAPTER V (Continued).—THE DINNER PARTY AT THE HOTEL CASPAR.

OHN GRANT nodded vigorOusly, and added : “ Yes. There must have been some appalling blunder. You say the murder was committed on the morning of New Year’s Day. Well, rfs this is only the 9th of January, and—Miss Tremayne travelled home with us on the Cap Vilano. She joined the ship at Vigo.” “Really!” Sir Walter uttered the word in a tone of polite interest, and them went ’on: “How very interesting. The name of the steamer was not mentioned in the police court proceedings, and I had no idea that the prisoner had been your fellow-passenger. However, the fact is that Miss Tremayne sailed from Southampton by the Royal Mail steamer on the very day that the murder was discovered. She had booked her passage to Madeira. Inspector Oswald left London the same night, travelled via Dover and Calais, and intercepted the mail boat at Vigo. Then, in order to obviate the trouble and delay of extradition proceedings, he induced her to return voluntarily with him to England, and it appears that Hie formal arrest only took placemen her arrival at Southampton last night.” John Grant glanced at his daughter with a gleam of swift comprehension in hLs eyes. His memory had gone back to that strange scene outside Hie telegraph room on the Cap Vilano, and he began to understand the meaning of the curious conversation which be had overheard. For a moment ho lay back in his chair with wrinkled brows, deep in thought. Then he asked abruptly : “What evidence is there to connect Miss Tremayne with the murder of this man!” . Richard Keston’s features were pale and haggard, and the pulsations of his heart seemed to stop as he glanced at the old solicitor and waited, with feverish impatience, for his reply. But Sir Walter shook his head and “No evidence was tendered before the magistrate to-day, except formal proof of the murder and the arrest. Oswald swore that the facts within his knowledge rendered it necessary , in the interests of justice that the prisoner should be remanded, and she was remanded accordingly. That was all.” “But surely everyone must have been discussing the case since tire news appeared. What is the popular theory? _ It was Winifred who spoke, and again. Keston’s ear was strained _ to catch the replv But the solicitor said : “I know absolutely nothing of the case, except the few facts which appeared in the early editions. I confess that 1 myself am very curious to know what the Crown theory is. I rang up Stephen Wei by several times this afternoon on the telephone, but he was not at his office. To-morrow I shad probably hear all about it from him.” John Grant raised his heavy eyebrows interrogatively, and Sir Walter went on in reply to the unspoken query: “Yea, it is stated in the papers that mV cousin appeared for the prisoner before the magistrate. It will not.be the first duel of wits between him and Inspector Oswald. You see, Stephen is desperately keen on that kind of case. Many a time, lung ago, I used to point

out to him that there was more money to be made out of one family settlement than, out of a dozen jury trials. But the argument never appealed to him. He is the real bulldog type, loves a fight for its own sake, and has always had a liankering after the theatrical display of these sensational cases. I think, in some ways, it is a pity. Yes, it is a pity.” He droned on prosaically, and then relapsed into silence, as he suddenly realised that his analysis of Ills cousin’s character was nX>t in the least interesting to his hearers. ‘‘A pity !” repeated John Grant, absently echoing Sir Walter’s last words. “It is more than a pity, Sir Walter. It is a ghastly tragedy, no matter how you look at it.” “Eh?” stammered the solicitor, startled as much by the emphasis of Grant’s tone as by his words. Then, picking up the thread of his host’s reflections, be said : “Oh, you mean the Tremayne affair? Yes, yes, it is very horrible, of course, but in my profession one is accustomed to strange liappenings; yes, very strange happenings indeed.” John Grant was not impressed. On the contrary, there was a shade of imjiatient irritation in his tone, as he replied : “Matter of education and habit, I suppose. But I confess it would take a Jong time to accustom me to ‘happenings’ of this kind.” Then turning abruptly to Keston/ he added ; “What do you think of this affair?’ Ever since Richard Keeton had been able to collect his thoughts, he had known that the question was inevitable, and he had dreaded it. And yet, when it came, it found him unprepared. His first impulse was to follow the solicitor s lead, and to boldly state that he knew nothing of the matter beyond the few facts that had appeared in the newspapers. But, he was conscious of the clear eyes of Winifred Grant, which had turned' towards him, with mute inquiry, and the ready, lie seemed to choke in his throat- For a moment he hesitated, and then he said : ‘‘l really do not know what to wnnk of it. You see, there are so few facts to go upon.” .. , Grant paused meditatively, and tnen Bskcd i “Have you ever seen Miss Tremayne? “Yes; I saw her in ‘ The Golden Moon, her first big success. and_ I have seen her'in two or three other pieces.’ “What do you think of her? Hardly the type of woman wh’o is likely to commit murder? Eh?” _ Grant asked the question gravely and earnestly, after the fashion of a man who seeks for assistance to solve some problem with which he is battling in bis own mind. And when Keston replied, he, too, spoke seriously and with slow deliberation, as if weighing his words. “She is prettv ; more than pretty—she is beautiful. And she has genius. She struck me as being a woman of altogether charming personality, and not at all the type that one expects to find mixed up in a scandal of any kind.” Grant nodded silently, and Keston went on : , . “Rut, then, I have only seen her on the stage, and—she is a superb actress. Next week we shall know more of the matter.’ Winifred flashed a swift glance of dis- j appointment and disapproval at the ; speaker, and then turned to her father. “Mr Keston and Sir Walter are both lawyers, and, of course, they are prepared to assume anything against the poor prisoner.” , “I assure you, Miss Grant,” said oir Walter in. his most impressive tones. “I assure vou, you are mistaken. Such is not the theory of our English law. Our law always presumes that an accused person is innocent, until ” “Yes, yes, I know,” interrupted Winifred, with her hereditary impatience of quibbles. “Until he or she is proved to i be guilty. And how long is that? From the moment when the wretched prisoner steps into the dock every lawyer is quite sure that he has not been placed there by the police without good reason. It is not the fault of the lawyers. They cannot help it. Their experience teaches them that the probabilities are all against the prsoner’s innocence.” “But it is the jury, not the lawyers, who try the prisoner,” interposed Sir 1 Walter. Winifred went on:

“Yes. But the judge and the other lawyers whose business it is to influence the' minds of the jurors have presumed from the first that the prisoner is guilty. Is that fair? The theory of the law is excellent, but what is the use of a theory if in practice the very men who have devised it are obliged to approach every criminal case with a secret prejudice against the person who has been picked out of the millions of hie fellow-country-men to bear the brunt or the accusation?” Her face was tinged with a warm flush, and the two lawyers gazed at her with mingled surprise and admiration. But John Grant remained moody and apparently inattentive to his daughter’s vehement diatribe. He was accustomed to Winifred’s outbreaks, and he knew that, when roused, she could hold her own in argument with most opponents. Suddenly she turned to him again and asked : “What do you think of it yourself, father?” John Grant hesitated, flicked the ash of his cigarette into the ashtray, and stared vaguely with unseeing eyes at the embroidered design that bordered the heavy window curtains. Then, with a sigh he said slowly : “I am not a lawyer, Winnie, but I am afraid that T must a~ree with Sir Walter Purvis and Mr Keston. It is really premature to express any opinion about the case.” The shadow of disappointment deepened uiron the girl’s face, and she replied : “That means that you, ton, think the mere fact of her arrest is evidence against her?” Grant paused for a moment, and then said thoughtfully;

“Yes. That and other things.” HHs memory had gone back to the occurrences on the decks of the Cap Vilano. Keaton’s words, “She is a superb actress,’’ had already brought forth a harvest of doubt and suspicion, and as John Grant faced the accusation in his daughter’s eyes he was conscious of a vague prejudice against the fascinating woman to whose spells he had temporarily yielded. For a moment Winifred gazed at him reproachfully. Then she turned to the others with challenging defiance in her eyes, and said impulsively. “Well, I have only had the pleasure of speaking to Miss Tremayne for a few moments on board the Cap Vilano ; but I cannot even imagine that she could be guilty of such a crime. And when an ex planation of her arrest is required, it is to the police that I should look for it, not to their prisoner.” .She paused, and a twinkle of malicious merriment danced in her eyes as she bowed gracefully towards the old solicitor and added: “Am I right in point of law. Sir Walter?” _ - “I am afraid. Miss Grant, that it would bs rather rash on my part were I to venture an opinion in your presence without first consulting counsel.” said Sir Walter, smiling good-humouredly at Keston. But there was no answering smile upon the pale features of the voung barrister. For him the unpleasant dinner party had changed to a veritable nightmare of horror that benumbed his faculties. And when at last the time came to bid adieu to his host, it was with the utmost dfficulty that Richard Keston suppressed a sigh of heartfelt relief. To sit there, at Grant’s table, discussing the fate of 'Stella Tremayne, while all the time he was conscious that he was guilty of suppressing evidence known only to himself which might be of vital importance, was unendurable torment. And, moreover, he realised that already lie had strengthened the fetters which his first olind impulse of panic had forged. After the conversation in which he had taken part, how could he ever come forward with his testimony? How could he explain his previous silence or avoid the darkest suspicon? Who would believe the truth when told?

After Kestbn had taken his departure and Winifred Grant had retired, Sir Walter Purvis lingered with his host in the smokeroom. Grant had remembered some business details which had been omitted from their discussion before dinner. But, cux-iously enough, when Sir Walter finally rose to go, those same details had been postponed till some other occasion. For, as the two men sat together, sipning at their whisky and soda and inhaling the fragrance of choice tobacco, John Grant had subtly engineered the drift of the conversation, so that the solicitor once more began to discuss the character and career of his cousin. And this time his hearer was neither listless nor inattentive. As they massed down the staircase to the hall. Sir Walter Purvis said casually: “Bv the way, I rather like that young fellow, Keston. I might be able to send some work his way one of these days. Xot my own work, you know, but some business that would be *more suitable to him. I never have any court casrs myself, but I am often asked to recommend a counsel.” John Grant glanced s’gnificantlv at the speaker, and said : ‘He is the son of an old friend of mine, and I, myself, would be delighted to do something for him. Bait he is too infernally independent. Do vou see?” And Sir Walter saw !

CHAPTER VI.—TEMPTATION. Richard Kestnn leaned his folded arms nnnn the mantelpiece, and stared gloomily at the burning coals in the grate. Although the twilight had merged into the darkness of the winter evening he had not lit the gas, and the little sitting room was plunged in obscurity, save where the red glow of the leaping flames illuminated his rigid features, imparting a fantastic twist to the angular curves of brow and chin, .and gleaming with strange reflections in the depths of the brooding eyes. Five days had passed since Grant’s dinner party, and to Keston it seemed as though every day had only deepened the shadow which hung over his life. True, there had been rifts in the cloud, hut the sunshine had been of hut short deration, and had served only to intensify his hopeless longing and ’despairing 'bitterness, when the blue sky faded again from his view.

For instance, Grant hnd culled again at Keston’s lodgings in Wrexam street, accompanied bv his daughter, and .in spite of all onnosition had carried him off to lunch with them at the Carlton. Winifred had been vivacious and charming, and for an all too brief afternoon Keston had been hired from the world of troublesome realities into the pleasant by-paths of dreamland. But afterwards the awaken - ing bad been disagreeable. Then again, on the day of the opening of the Hilary sittings of the courts in the Strand, Winifred Grant had claimed the fulfilment of a promise which he had lightly given on the previous afternoon, and, while her father was engaged in the task of whipping an excited and angry mob of panic-stricken shareholders to heel, Richard Keston. arrayed in wig and gown, escort ?u the girl from court to court, pointing out the greater and lesser lights in the legal firmament, and explaining the quaint ritual with which the ancient caste of lawyers are wont to pay their devotions to the elusive goddess of Justice. Winifred had been at first interested and then fascinated. The unfamiliar jargon of the disputants piqued her curiosity, the clashing thrust and parry of the skilled masters of fence appealed to the activities of her swift intellect, and the great -human drama which lay beneath all the scenic accessories ■ and ceremonious trappings gripped her imagination. Tlmv had been listening to a due! to ' v ~ 'Rath between the leader of the Nisi

Prius Bar and the titled plaintiff in a society slander action, and as Winifred left the crowtfod court she turned with eager -eyes to her companion. “He is really fighting for his very life, isn’lf he?” Keston nodded, and replied : “Yes. If fie losss he is absolutely ruined and disgraced. I should think he would prefer death.” For a moment the girl was silent. Then she murmured : “ I think that yours is the meet glorious profession in the world.” “What about the doctors?” said Keston. “They do more good, I fancy.” “The doctors!” said Winifred, with her slight shrug of impatient disdain. “Why, they are no more tnan tailors. They tinker and patch up the outer husk, the garment, so to speak, with which men and brutes'alike are clothed. But you, hamsters and judges, you have to deal with the man himself; you are ever in touch with, the realities of life.” It was a novel view of his profession, and possibly open to criticism, but as Richard Keston glanced at the pretty face flushed with enthusiasm he was conscious of a thrill of elation and pleasure. The lawyer had given place to the man, and, for the moment, Winifred Grant’s lightest word was more authoritative than a considered judgment of the Court of Appeal or even the House of Lords. i But again the dream had come to an end, and now, as he stared savagely at the meagre fire, whose glow barely sufficed to warm the draughty sitting room, Richard Keston’s lips moved, and he railed aloud at the fate which hemmed him in.

‘‘Cursed fool that I am to think of ” He broke off abruptly in tho midst of the sentence,- not daring to utter, even to himself, the aspiration ■which had linked deep down in his thoughts. In the earlier years he had “devilled” for Bnckthorpe, the eminent leader, whose cross-examination had fascinated Winifred Grant, and in those days Buckthorns had not been slow to predict a brilliant future for his pupil. But, now! Yes, even now, after the shipwreck of his fortunes, he knew that he could fulfil that early promise of fame and success—,if only he had a chance. He thought of his miserable two guineas a week, and kicked angrily at the fire, crunching down the coals with the heel of his boot. Then again the laughing eyes of Winifred Grant arose before his mental’ vision, and once more he murmured bitterly : “What a fool, what an infernal fool, I am!” “Beg pawdon, sir!” “well? 'What is it?” said Keston irritably, as he turned towards Emily, who stood upon the threshold, blinking into the ■darkness of the room, and nursling in her arms a long, fat envelope, whose bulky contents threatened to burst through tho sealed flap. “This, sir. It has just come by the pa woe Is post.” She tripped on the doormat as she advanced, and the burden slipped from her bands, and fell with- a dull thud upon the table. “Better ’ave the gas lighted, sir,” she murmured, as she fumbled on the mantelpiece for the matches. But Kestou’s hands were already upon the packet, and even before the light flared up. he knew what the long envelope contained.

A brief! A brief that bad miraculously found its way to the, shabby lodginghouse in Wrexham street. The high gods had heard his prayers, the chance that he sought was there before his eyes on the table, in his trembling hands. Swiftly he ripped the envelope, scoring hi« reckless fingers with the point of a brass paper clip that happened to protrude. But he was heedless of the smart, and oblivious of the blood that diripped from the gash. His eyes were riveted upon the wonderful brief, backed with parchment and giidlcd with broad red tape. And attached to that girdle was a folded slip of pink paper, that held his gaze with a magic spell. A cheque! Probably a substantial one, for the brief was heavy. For a few moments Keston lay back in has chair, gazing at the by'ef with unseeing cyc« and revelling in a glorious dream. And in that dream he saw one© again the eyes of Winifred Grant, gleaming with enthusiasm and delight. Ihen. as with trembling fingers he unfolded the cheque, his face lit up with a sudden ecstacy. A fee of 50 guineas, and from Stephen Welby. Of all men in the world! It was too good to be time, and although his name was legibly writ ten upon the face of the cheque, he could scarcely accept the evidence of his eyefight. ' . “Fifty guineas!” he exclaimed excitedly. leaping to his Pet. “ A brief from Welby! What a chance! By heaven, what a chance!” For an instant he stood there, proudly erect, with souared shoulders and flashing eyes, challenging his fate no longer as a desperate man, but already as a conoueror. Then as has glance wandered to the large, hold lettering ireon*the back of the brief, he uttered a sharp erv, and dumped limplv into his chair, while the rank slip fluttered from his nerveless fingers to the floor. “Good heaven 1 ” he murmured, hreathlesslv. and the exclamation came from, hi s pale lips Like the groan of a man who

’agonises in the grip of physical pain. The flush of exaltation had ebbed trom his cheeks, leaving them while and haggard. He breathed heavily, in spasmodic gasps, and his forehead was clammy and damp. - His eyes were fixed and staring, and the object that met haa gaze seemed blurred and undastingukihable. But the words which he haa read ■were clear before his mental vision; an inevitable, indelible decree of doom that had shattered his air-bome palaces like a thunderbolt from heaven. For the brief which Stephen VVelby had sent to Richard Keston bore the following endorsement: The King v. Stella Tremayoie. Murder. Brief for Counsel on behalf of the Prisoner. For Richard Keaton, Esq. Suddenly his attention was attracted by a sheet of folded notepaper, which had slipped from the told of the brief as be withdrew it from tae envelope. He picked it tip, and glanced listlessly at the typewritten characters and the sprawling signature of Stephen Welby. It was merely a formal letter, expressing the polite hoje that Mr Keston wouid be able to give the case his best attention, and suggesting that an early conference between counsel, solicitor, and client would be desirable, i Keston knotted his brows in a frown of perplexity as he canaiecsly perused ths letter. The sudden tempest of conflicting emotions had Already begun to abate, and lie was to some extent master of his thoughts. And now a new and troublesome problem presented itself to his mind. What possible excuse could he

offer lor •declining Stephen Welby’s brief ? It \vaf> a dilhcult problem to tvdve. And, moreover, the time was pressing. The accused woman would be brougnt before the magistrate in two days, on remand, and it was imperatively necessary that he should return the brief at once, so that another counsel might be instructed. Well, the thing had to be done somehow, and without delay, so, with a heavy sigh, he took a sheet of paper from his writing-case, dipped his pen into the ink, and wrote the words, “Dear Sir.” Then he paused, and began fo read Welby’s letter again. And, as he scanned the lines, he noticed for the first time a poetscript written at the foot of the page, in Welby’s handwriting. Only a few words, but as -Keston read them he aside his pen, and began with twitching lingers to untie the tape with which the brief was fastened, tor the postscript contained the answer to the question which had tortured him incessantly ever since he learned that Stella Tremayne ha-d been arrested. You will see, from the statements which' have .been briefed, that the prisoner has a perfect defence to the charge, but having regard to the case made by the Crown, as far as I have been able to anticipate it, the magistrate is practically sure to return for trial before a jury. Under these edreurr.6fca.tices, will you kindly consider carefully the advisability of going into evidence on behalf of the prisoner at this stage of the proceedings. S. W.

Keston spread out the brief upon the table, and as he leaned ‘over the neatlytyped pages with eager, devouring eyes, he was conscious of a growing wave of excitement and elation that surged up within him, sweeping away a thousand cares and anxieties. If Stephen Welby’fe experienced opinion was justified by the facts, if Stella Tremayne was innocent and could prove her innocence, then it mattered not that Keston had suppressed tlie evidence which was within his own knowledge. Whether he spoke or kept silence would be immaterial—if Stephen Wei by was right. An" hour went by, and then another, but still the young barrister was immersed in the study of the brief. Again and again lie read the statements to which Welby had referred, noting, sifting, comparing, and testing the complicated facts as though his own life depended upon the result. Here and there were loopholes, through which certainty might escape, ambiguous gaps in the continuity of the narrative which might be easy to fill if the proposed conference could be arranged. But the main outlines of the defence were clear and convincing. Absorbed m bis labours. Keston was 1 iced less of the flight of time. He had forgotten his obligation to return the brief without delay. In his imagination he was already cross-examining Inspector Oswald and the other Crown witnesses, tearing the nveshes of their cunninglydevised net into shreds, and achieving a sensational triumph. The case had fascinated him, his lawyer instinct was aroused, and, for the 'moment, even his own personal connection with the mysterious tragedy had faded into the background of his thoughts. _ Suddenly the resounding “rat-tat” of a postman’s knock at one of the doors on the other side of Wrexam street brought Ins imnd back to the urgent dilemma which still awaited solution. It was obviously bis duty to po--t the brief back to Stephen Welby, and some excuse, Some explanation must be found. Then, stealthily, the insidious temptation that had lurked in ambush while he perused the brief crept into his mind and mingled with his confused thopghts. vVhat need was there to fling aside the golden opportunity which had been offered to him. In defending Stella Tremayne he would in no way be hindering the course of justice. True, his evidence, if tendered in the witness box, might tend to make the Crown case more difficult. But the prisoner was independent of such assistance.

He glanced longingly at the name, which was endorsed upon the parchment cover of the brief. It was a name to conjure with. “Mr Richard Keston, instructed by Mr Stephen Wei by.” How well it sounded, how well it would look in the newspapers. With Stephen Welby at his

back, a man -of Keston's ability might hope to go far. And while he wavered his glance fell upon an unopened letter, which Emily had noiselessly laid upon the table while he was reading the brief. He opened it, and after a swift perusal of its content? flung it into the fire with an exclamation of angry contempt. It came from the editor of the Weekly Clipper. A new competition had “caught on’'—to use \li Mansion's own elegant phrase—and Ke? ton’s column of “balderdash” had beer ruthlessly “cut” to make room for the novelty. In future the editor could only see h;s way to print, and pav for, half a column from Mr Keston’s pen. The editor was extremely sorry, but his public were omnipotent. And so on, and so forth. Keston watched the crumpled letter as it flamed up in the grate. Then, with tightly-compressed lips and a gleam of sudden determination in his eyes, he picked up his discarded pen ancl began to write. But the letter was not addressed to Mr Marston, of the Weekly Clipper. And when Stephen Welby read it on the following morning he stroked his chin reflectively, and murmured, in tones of approval : “Well, at all events, this fellow Keston seems to have a good grip of the case. But, I wonder why Walter was so keen on my giving him a trial?” (To be continued.)