LOVE’S TWO-EDGED SWORD.

Otago Witness, Issue 3019, 24 January 1912, Page 70

LOVE’S TWO-EDGED SWORD.

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

THE NOVELIST.

[All Rights Reserved.]

I CHAPTER X (Continued).—CONFESSIONS. the two men walked slowly towards the house, Winifred Grant leaned forward in her chair, with her hands clasped against her knee, and her gaze fixed upon a heavy bank of clouds that had swept up over the rim of the distant horison. The air seemed to have grown suddenly chill, and she struggled vainly against a vague, formless presentiment of evil that had swiftly invaded her heart. As she recalled the expression of anxiety that had come into Richard Keston’s eyes at the mention of Oswald’s name, she was overcome by strange, unreasoning fears, and it needed but such a trifle to bring tears to her eyes, which had suddenly lost their brightness. “What does he want?” said Keston abruptly as they entered the spacious hall. John Grant shrugged his shoulders and replied : I “Some further information about the mysterious attack upon you.” ! “I have no further information to give. Surely he knows that. I thought that he had given up the whole affair long ago.” “No; from what I hear Oswald is a man who never gives up any affair onoe he has taken it up. He wanted to see you ' just before you left the hospital, but the doctors would not permit it. Then he was detailed for special duty in attendance on the King in Scotland, and on his return yesterday his first occupation seems to have been to find out where you had gone. As to whether you can give him any further assistance —well, I had . better let him speak for himself.” * Keston glanced uneasily at the speaker, but before he had time to question him as to the meaning of his last words, John Grant had opened the library door, and i they found themselves face to face with the inspector. I Oswald was calm, self-possessed, and urbane, and there was nothing in his manner to suggest that Ire attached any real importance to the interview. But even as he exchanged the ordinary words of formal greeting and politely congratulated the young barrister on his restoration to health, his keen glance flickered restlessly from the features of Keston to the grim, hard set face of John Grant, and back again. And as Richard Keston intercepted the steely gleam of these questioning grey eyes, he was conscious of a vague sense of uneasiness. He had already defeated the detective in the Police Court. But there the conditions of the game had been wholly different. Now that the choice of weapons lay with Oswald, now that Keston himself was to : undergo cross-examination, the issue of the duel seemed more dubious, i “Shall I retire?” asked Grant, his features relaxing into a faint smile as he added, “The secrets of the lawyers and of the police are not usually entrusted to ' outsiders, you know.” | Oswald tossed his head back and laughed genially as he replied ; “Pray, do not go on my account, Mr Grant. " I assure you that I have no police secrets to betray in this case,, worse : luck. As to the lawyers’ secrets, well, that is a matter for Mr Keston.” For an instant Keston hesitated. Then, conscious of the questioning scrutiny in the eyes of John Grant, he said abruptly: “No. Why should you go? I, too, i have nothing to conceal.” 1 But even as the words came from his lips he knew that they rang false, and he would fain have recalled them. “That is verv satisfactory, Mr Keston.” It was Oswald who spoke, and although the genial smile still hovered about his thin lips, there was, a sudden gleam in the depths of his watchful eyes, like the flash of a weapon that leaps from its sheath. For a moment there was silence, while Keston and Grant waited for the inspector :to speak. Then, as ho remained silent, Keston said slowly ; I “I -understand that you have come to me for information. In what way can I be of assistance to you?” Oswald paused for a moment, and then said in a apologetic tone: “Well, you sec, Mr Keston, T am afraid my colleagues at ‘The Yard’ have made but little headway in this case of yours. It is nearly a couple of months now since the affair happened, and yet they have discovered no clue.” “Whose fault is that?” said Grant impatiently. “That is a question as to which I should hardly care to express an opinion, Mr Grant. I blame no one. I merely deal with the facts as they are.” said Oswald calmly. Then, with a swift, significant glance at Richard Keston, he went on : “It is the absence of any probable motive for the attack which leaves us helpless. Neither your watch nor your money was taken. ' That fact eliminates one motive. And then, as you have stated, you are not aware of any person having had a grudge against you, such as might account for the outrage. “But.” interrupted John Grant, with a puzzled contraction of his eyebrows. “I understand that your people at Scotland Yard had come to the conclusion that the

assailant had mistaken Mr Keston for someone else.”

“Possibly,” said the detective laconically, and without relaxing his scrutiny of Keeton’s features he resumed the thread of his discourse.

“It is not a man’s open and avowed enemies who are the most dangerous. Take the case of the young Servian attache who was murdered in Kensington last April. When he was dying in the hospital he sent for his best friend to bid him good-bye, and the man came. Afterwards, when the bird had flown and it was too late, it was ascertained that it was his ‘best friend’ who had fired the fatal shot. In that case the motive was —jealousy. A jealous man Avill often conceal his ill-will in order to shield the reputation of the woman involved.” He paused abruptly. John Grant’s face had flushed, and his eyes turned towards Keston’s face with an expression of anxiety that he was powerless to conceal. But Keston seemed careless and indifferent, and there was even a suspicion of triumph in the smile which played about the corners of his mouth as he listened to Oswald’s romantic theory of a secret love affair. For now he realised that the detective was hunting on a hopelessly wrong trail, and there was a faint trace of irony in his voice as he said :

“Well, in my case, inspector, I can assure you that jealousy is out of the question, and if the skill of Scotland Yard is unable to suggest any ether mativa I really cannot see what I can do for you.” The opening for which Oswald had cleverly played had presented itself. Keston was now at ease and wholly off his guard, and like the flash of a rapier swift came the detective’s reply : “Possibly you may not be prepared to suggest a motive, Mr Keston, but at all events you can tell me what it was that was taken from your pocket-book by your unknown assailant.”

Richard Keston lay back in his chair, staring at the speaker in wild surmise, and clenching his hands til the nails bit into the yielding flesh. How did this man know? How much did he Enow? Helplessly he struggled to disentangle his thoughts and to find some loophole of escape, while Detective-inspec-tor Oswald stroked his clean-shaven chin with forefinger and thumb, waiting calmly for his answer.

For a few moments there was a strained silence in the room. Then, unexpectedly, John Grant spoke: “Keston, if you will take my advice, you will tell him all that you know about this affair.”

The words were friendly, but the tone was harsh and imperative, almost threatening. For a few moments longer Keston hesitated. Then, as the clear tones of Winifred’s voice came through the open window from the lawn, where she was speaking to one of the servants, his face hardened with sudden resolution, and he said quietly. “Yea. I think it is better that you should hear the whole story. When I was struck down in the street the asailant, whoever he was, robbed me of a broken hatpin—the hatpin with which Max Harden was murdeied.” It was Oswald’s turn to be startled, but there was not even a twitch of the impassive features to betray his surprise. With a murmured “I beg your pardon,” he crossed the room, closed the window, and then returning to his seat, said : “Well, Mr Keston? Sorry to interrupt you, but this seems to be in the nature of a ‘police secret,’ to use Mr Grant’s phrase. Might I ask how the missing portion of the hatpin came into your possession?” ! “I picked it up beside the body of Max Harden, on the Thames Embankment —at the place where he was murdered.” “Good heaven, Keston!” John Grant had leaped to his feet, and was staring at the white face of the barrister in wild bewilderment, but Oswald merely murmured : “Aixi I see. We were all on the wrong track, then?” And Keston nodded silently. Then he told the whole story, from the discovery of the body on the Embankment down to the consultation with Stella Tremavne at the Police Court, omitting no material detail, and making no effort to excuse the errors of judgment of which he himself had been guilty. But concerning his strange interview with Lord Dereha'm, and his subsequent encounter with him on the wav back from court, he was discreetly silent. When he had finished, Oswald drummed idly with his fingers upon the library table, and asked : “As to this mysterious individual who appeared at the window while you were talking to Miss Tremavne, and who seems to have been the only person, with the exception of the lady and yourself, who knew that this hatpin was in your possession have you anv idea who he was?” “How could I?” said Keston evasively. “I only caught a glimpse of his face as he disappeared.” The relations between Stella I remayne and Lord Dereham had been confided Iri keston in his professional capacity, and, whatever were his suspicions, his lips were sealed. But Oswald had been swift to note the sudden hesitancy in his tone, and. guessing shrewdly as to the nature of the barrier that interposed between him and Keston’s unreserved confidence, he said ; “What about young Lord Dereham, who was on the point of marrying her before her arrest? He was seen by some of my men hovering in the vicinity of the court that afternoon.”

Richard Keston glanced at the speaker in open amazement. Then he said slowly:

“When I was coming back from court Lord Dereham passed me in the fog, but he was going in a different direction.” Once more Oswald murmured softly : “Ah, I see!”

Then, rising briskly from his chair, he added ;

“Thank you, Mr Keeton. I think that I have now got all the assistance which you can give me, qnd, as the matter is rather urgent, I should like to get back to town at once. I understand that you are coming up next week, and by that time I hope to have some further news for you.’’

When the detective had gone, Richard Keston turned to his host, with the simple question ; “Well, what do you think of me now?” For a moment John Grant did not answer, but the grim severity of his features had relaxed, and there was a gleam of tenderness in his eyes as he gglanced at Keston’s haggard face. Then, with an abrupt gesture, he extended his hand, with the words:

“Twenty-five years ago I asked your father the very same question. And now I will give you the answer that he gave to me. You have played the fool, and made a bad mess of it all, but it is when a man has played the fool and made a bad mess of it all that he has meat need of a friend.”

Then, as Keston’s clasp tightened on his hand, Grant added in a low tone. “It is not for me to judge, when you have chosen another tribunal. You must tell Winifred the w'hole story, and whatever be her decision—l shall be satisfied.”

There was a choking sensation in Richard Keston’s threat, and when at last the stammering words came they •seemed ridiculously inadequate. “It’s —awfully decent of you, sir,” he said.

CHAPTER XI.—STELLA TREMAYNE RECEIVES VISITORS. “Five hundred pounds!” Jacob Grunfeld uttered the -words with a gasp of incredulity, and sat stiffly upright in his chair, staring at his hostess, looking for all the world like a walrus that has risen to the surface for breath. Stella Tremayne’s eyebrows were uplifted in demure surprise as she leaned forward to flick the ash from her cigarette, and replied, with playful irony: “Yes. Five hundred pounds a week. You surely do not imagine that I meant five hundred shillings, do you?”' Grunfeld frowned ominously. He had suddenly awakened to the fact that Stella Tremayne was in earnest, and as the business instincts of the man rose in revolt against her amazing demand, his manner became brusque, almost to the verge of rudeness.

“Let us talk sense,” he said abruptly. “Two months ago, when you went to the Alcazar you were satisfied with ” “Yes, I know,” she interrupted. “Two months ago the Alcazar people paid me fifty pounds a week for —my notoriety! And now they pay me three hundre dfor my Dance of Death. And if the Alcazar could hold as many people as La Scala they wouild be willing to double my salary.”

She spoke calmly and without the least trace of emotion, as if the stress and strain of the terrible ordeal through which she had passed had left no abiding trace upon her temperament. Grunfield lay back in his chair, with wrinkled brows, watching this strange woman who could speak so lightly of her own “notoriety,” this wcnderous Circe of the boards, who night after night had drawn all London to her feet. But Stella Tremayne was not minded to wait patiently till he should formulate his next proposal. “I am sorry that my terms seem too exorbitant for La Scala,” she said quietly. “I should so much prefer to remain in England. I hate the idea of leaving London, ‘mias enfin, que voulez vous,’ as my good friends across the Channel say. And leaning over to a little table, which stood near, she took up a letter and tossed it carelessly across to Gmnfeld. He adjusted his "goldrimmed pince-nez with scrupulous exactitude, and read the tempting offer of the Paris Syndicate three times in silence. Then his thick, bejewelled hands went out with a curiously Oriental gesture of submission, and he said: ~ “Yes. I will give you what you ask. When he had gone, Stella Tremayne turned again to the table, which was littered with newspapers, reviews, and illustrated periodicals. The photographers had been busy, yet none too busy for the requirements of the editors, who sought strenuously to furnish the material which their public craved. For the manyheaded multitude had gone mad over Stella Tremayne, and many monthly magazines and weekly periodicals view furoualv with each "other in the endeavour to reproduce in letterpress or illustration those little intimate details which are so dear to their readers. , And so, as the popular favourite glanced through the journals, which were scattered "on the table, she was confronted again and again with her own likeness. Stella Tremayne, in her dressing room at the Alcazar. Stella Tremayne. seated in her luxurious, eight-cvlfndered motor car. Stella Tremayne, in the garden at Laurelbank, her charming villa at Hampstead. Nor was her fame restricted to her own country, and as she picked up a copy of Die Wcche. which had been posted to her by some unknown admirer, the first illustration which met her eye was a fullpage reproduction of the world-famed “Dance of Death.”

She glanced carelessly at the inscription below, which ran; “Die beruhmte, enzlieche Tanzerin, Stella Tremayne, in ihrem ‘Todestanz’ im Alcazartheatcr in London.” Then, as her glance lingered with critical scrutiny on the magnificent photograph, she turned towards a panelled mirror on the wall. And even as she turned there was a marvellous transformation. The coldly impassive woman, who had beaten the grasping manager at his own game, had vanished, and in her stead there swayed to and fro before the mirror a weird, phantasmal creature, terrible, maiestic, vibrant with strange passions, and surrounded by that elusive atmosphere

of mystery which defied the art of the camera. “Ah! Mon Dieu!” The exclamation came in a breathless, horrified whisper from the lips of the housekeeper, who stood upon the threshold of the room, staring with spellbound eyes at the strange reflection in the mirror on the opposite wall. The expression of Stella Tremayne’s face changed with magic swiftness, and there was a twinkle of good-humoured raillery in her eyes as she pointed to the German magazine, and said: , “Well, Lucile. What do you think of your hated Prussians as artists? A good photograph, isn’t it? Eh?” “The picture is beautiful,” said the Frenchwoman slowly. Then, as her eyes involuntarily sought the mirror, she added: “But madame is more than beautiful. Madame is—terrible!” Her mistress smiled gaily as she asked : “Is that meant for a compliment?”

But there was no answering smile in the grave eyes of Lucile Bardin, as she caid quietly : “Sometimes I figure to myself that, if I were madame, I should be afraid of myself!”

For a moment Stella Tremayne gazed dreamily at the speaker, as if the curious fancy of the Frenchwoman had stirred some strange emotion within her breast. Then, from without, came the crunching of wheels upon the gravel path and the purr of a motor car, and she walked slowly towards the curtained window with the murmured words.

“Yes. Perhaps at times I, too, am afraid of mveelf.”

She glanced out of the window, and for an instant her brows were contracted in an angry frown. Then, with impassive features, she turned to the housekeeper, who stood at her side.

“Milord Dereham again! C’est trop! (Test embetant! But madame will not receive him? No?” For a moment Stella. Tremayne hesitated in thought. Then there was a gleam of white teeth as her lips parted in a curious smile, and she said slowly;

“An contraire, Lucile. I shall be delighted to see him.” The Frenchwoman glanced at her mistress in surprise. But, as she caught a glimpse of the mockery that lurked in the depths of those smiling eyes, she understood. The haunting vision which she had seen in the mirror arose again before her mind’s eye, and. as she passed into the hall to usher in the visitor, she crossed herself shudderingly. and murmured ; “La Mort! La Mort, ellc-meme!”

For she knew Stella Tremayne. She knew that in her evil mood the fascinating sorceress conld be cruel as the grave.

But when Lord Dereham entered the luxurious apartment where Stella Tremayne waited to receive him he had no premonition of ill. His eves were bright, and the premature lines of care and worry had vanished from his face. For Lord Dereham was no longer the wavering, purposeless weakling who had inspired nothing more than loathing and contempt in the mind of Richard Keston. The wayward fancies which had attracted him to Stella Tremayne, and which had weakened in the hour of adversity, had given place to a fierce, overmastering passion for the woman whom he had slighted. Tortured by remorse and maddened with the intoxication of her beauty, he had striven desnarately to prove himself worthy of her love. His former haunts of dissipation knew him no more, and already the tongue of gossip whispered to incredulous ears that Lord Dereham was a reformed man. And all the while he had l>een ceaselessly pursuing Stella Tremayne with his importunities, begging humbly for an opportunity to make his peace with the offended goddess, and hoping against hope that he might yet win her forgiveness. But she had remained obdurate and inapproachable. His peace-offerings had been contemptuously returned, and his pleading letters treated with silent indifference.

But now. the miracle for which he had prayed had come to pass. She had consented to receive him, and, as he bent low over her dainty hand, the erstwhile man-about-town blushed like a schoolboy, and could only stammer in a broken whisper : “Stella ! Stella ! I knew you would forgive.” But the unresisting fingers which . he pressed to his lips were as cold as the jewelled rings that encircled them, r ij ! the murmured words of passionate selfabacement awoke no responsive thrill of pity in the heart of the woman who listened to them. For a moment she remained silent, while her eyes rested with the cold, passionless scrutiny of the vivisectionist upon the man who bowed down before her. Timidly be ventured to raise his eyes to her face, and as their glances met her expression suddenly changed. It seemed as though a wave of emotion had swept over her impassive features, obliterating every lurking line of hardness and severity. The curved sweetly and the long lashes drooped shyly, hiding from his adoring gaze eyes which had become soft and tender. Then she murmured gently : “Surely it is I who must beg your forgiveness.” “You? You beg for forgiveness, Stella?” His voice was breathlessly tremulous as he uttered the words : his face was radiant with the light of a great happiness as ho stretched out his arms in passionate appeal. But she recoiled from his embrace, and, as he seated himself in obedience to her gesture, she went on softly : “Yes. I can never forgive myself for what I have done, for my treatment of you. Nor can I hope for forgiveness.” There weiv tears in her voice, and she paused abruptly as if overcome by her emotion. For a moment Lord Derehnm did not speak. The strangeness of her words did not appeal to his intelligence.

He could not think or analyse. He was conscious of one fact only—that she loved him, after all and in spite of all, that she was pleading for his forgiveness —for his love. Suddenly he broke out hoarsely : “Stella, I love you ! I al ways loved you 1 Before heaven I swear it 1”

She hesitated for a moment, as though borne away by the strength of his passion. Then, with downcast eyes and ever in the same tone of vibrant tenderness, she went on :

“Yes, I know now how you loved me. At first I was not sure. But, when the trouble’ came, then I knew all. Yes, I knew that you were willing to sacrifice even me, so that your noble name might be preserved unspotted and worthy of the woman to whom you had offered your noble hand. I know how unselfish you were. My honour was being dragged in the dirt; there was only one thing to bo done, and you did it. For my sake you abandoned me, so that when the storm should have passed I might still have the shelter of your untarnished reputation as a refuge.” The melody of her pleading voice had woven a spell around his senses, and even still he was unconscious of the barbed irony of her words.

“My poor, poor boy! It must have been terrible for vou to realise that your Stella was actually' in prison. It must have been a ’ ’

She paused abruptly, and he clenched his hands in an agony of self-reproach. Then suddenly she snapped her fingers lightly in the air and broke into a peal of laughter as she completed the broken sentence ;

“It must have been —weally a howwid bore !”

For an instant he gazed wide-eyed at the real Stella Tremayne, the Stella Tremayne he had never seen before, who stood before him vengeful and relentless, her eyes blazing with contemptuous mockery. Then he fell back in his chair, white to the lips with the despairing cry : “Stella! Stella! For God’s sake, what do von mean?’’

With a flirt of her skirts she perched like a butterfly on the arm of an easy chair and merrily clapped her hands. “Bravo! Braviesimo! I declare, for an amateur, you are simply wonderful, Milord Dereham. That tragic 'What do you mean?’ is superb. It would bring down the house every time.” “Stella! If you only knew ho-w I love you, if you only knew what I have done for your sake, you would have pity, you would at least listen to me.” The laugh, faded from her eyes, and in its stead there was a cruel gleam of saticfaction as she noted the beaded agony on liis brow. “Well, I am listening,” she replied. “But you must not talk of your silly love, yon know. What would our most nob'e papa and our most noble mamma say if they heard you?” As she uttered the taunting words the pale face of the man who listened flamed crimson, as if she had struck him, and rising abruptly from his chair, he walked across to the window. For a few moments he stood there fidgeting tremulously with his eyeglass and staring vacantly into space.' Then, suddenly, he turned, and the pent-up passion that consumed him found utterance in words that came tumbling from his lips, like a swollen torrent that has swept away its last harrier. “Stella, you do not yet know all that I have done for your sake. You think that lam a rich man. But every' penny that I have in the world has been invested in the Alcazar Company. Be merciful, Stella I liven if you cannot forgive me. be merciful. It was for your sake that The words died on his lips, and his pulses throbbed wildly as he glanced at Stella Tremayne. She had risen to her . feet, and in her eyes there was a strange gleam of happiness *hat thrilled him as he gazed at her. For a moment Stella Tremayne hesi- j tated. as if unable to realise the full mea- ! sure of her triumph. Then she said slowly : “So it was you! You are the mys- , terious capitalist who came so opportunely | to the help of the Alcazar people at the time when they were hesitating as to whe- i tlier they could increase my salary?” i There was a note of exultation in her . voice that ought to have warned him. | But the mingled voices of hope and de- | sire were ringing in his cars, and he was ■ deaf to all lesser undertones. He stepped . towards her, holding out his hands eagerly ; with the words : j “Yes, Stella, it was I. And I did not j tell you because I hoped that ” “I* assure you there is no need to ex- j plain,” she interrupted coldly. “A man j of Lord Dereham’s delicate feelings would j naturally shrink from informing Stella . Tremayne that he had considered her a ' better investment than ‘Kaffirs’’ Tes, I , quite understand.” i “By heaven, I swear I never thought of such a thing. I only thought of you. i and of what I could do to—to—-to help , von. If I were to offer my interest in : the Alcazar for*sale to-day I would not get hack the half of what I gave for it.” | For a moment she was silent, while his j eyes were strained in an agony of suspense ; as he strove to interpret the enigma of j her smiling lips. Then she said abruptly: |

“You have made a very sily investment, i I have agreed to go to La Scala next I week. Oruufeld will have the news in i all the papers this evening, and to-morrow j your shares in the Alcazar Company will ; he worth les.s than nothing.” i For a moment he stared in a dazed fashion at the eyes of Stella Tremavne, j which were ah laze with the triumphant l mockery that she no longer cared to con- j ceal. He knew that Jacob Grnnfeld, bent ! upon crushing his rivals out of existence,! had long since declared war against the Alcazar, and, moreover, he knew that Stella Tremayne’s proud boast was no more that the literal truth. For it was she. and she only, who had saved the tottering fortunes of the old music hall

from ruin, and now the deferred crash was inevitable. ; “Ruined! God in heaven ! I am ruined !’’ I The words came from his dry, twitching lips in . a hoarse whisper. But the heart of Htella Tremayne was steeled against ' any fleeting impulse of pity or compunction, and her silvery laugh echoed through the room as she replied : j “Ruined! What nonsense, Lord Dereham. Go back to the dear old Earl and tell him that you have at last decided to finally throw over Stella Tremayne. He will be proud of his noble son, his heart will be gladdened, and Berkeley square will resound with the dying cries of the fatted calf. Your venerable mamma will shed tears of joy over the returning prodigal, and if you are a very good boy she may bring you to La Scala to see me dance.” Then, as his hand went out with a blind, groping movement to his hat and gloves, she curtsied mockingly before him, and seated herself again in her easy-chair. And thus, without a word of farewell, the man whom she had broken passed out from her presence. Then, as the sound of the closing of the outer door came to her ear, she rose swiftly and went across to the window which commanded a view of the lawn and the gravelled carriage path that led to the road. But even as she glanced out at the bowed figure of Lord Dereham, who was entering his motor car. the mocking light faded suddenly from her eyes, and she drew back from the window with a quick, involuntary movement, as if shrinking from some threatening peril. For she had noticed another motor car, which had been standing on the road just outside the gates, and which was now slowly moving away. And even in the distance she had recognised the keen, clean-cut features of its occupant as he leaned forward to whisper to the chauffeur. Then, as Lord Dereham’s car swept through the gatewav and swung sharply to the right, down-hill, the strange car followed noiselessly, like, a haunting shadow. But while hunter and quarry sped southward through the whirling traffic in strange 1 company, Lord Dereharn lay back aerainst the soft cushions, oblivious of it all, and pre occupied by his own gloomy reflections. But even had his senses been keenly on the alert, there was nothing to arouse his suspicions. For in. the art of stalking Inspector John F. Oswald was without a rival, and his chauffeur was no novice at the game. (To be continued.)