THE PRICE OF LIBERTY.

Otago Witness, Issue 3312, 5 September 1917, Page 53

THE PRICE OF LIBERTY.

By T. C. BRIDGES, Author of "Whoso Sheddeth," "A Fight for a Fortune," etc., etc.

THE NOVELIST.

[All Rights Reserved.] CHAPTER XVII—THE VERDICT. Barrington-Howe was content with the sensation produced by Denby's evidence. He let him step down. Then Royce put Rendle into the box to testify in his own defence.

And Rendle.. pulling himself together, told the storv of the whole affair fully and fairly. Had he been able to do this at the beginning, there is no doubt but that his evidence would have told strongly in his own favour. Now, however, all signs showed that it was too late. The mischief had been done. It is hard at any time for a man to contradict a woman, and it was clear that the jury, the usual puddingheaded lot, had already swallowed Alma Holmes's story in its entirety. Even the fact, strongly insisted on by Rendle, that the woman had never asked to be allowed to bring Wilsher to the house, failed to create any noticeable effect.

When Rendle at length sat down, it was with a sick sensation of failure. He felt as if he had been beating the air. An inexorable web was beinsr woven around him, and so far everything had gone wrong. Royce rose once more, and now he spoke with an eloquence and fire fully equal to his reputation. Facing the jury, he insisted powerfully that Alma Holmes's story was too evidently coloured by personal motives—that it was clear on the face of it that she was filled with passionate revenge against her employer. He dwelt on her threats.

"Both Dr Murdoch and the constable can testify to these," he said. " 'You shall pay. I swear you shall pay,' were her last words before she left the room. I ask you, gentlemen of the jury, if in the face of such a threat as that, it is possible for any right-minded man to consider the witness's evidence "as reliable. "Consider, too, the absurdity of attributing to a man like Dr Rendle the threats which Alma Holmes has put into his mouth. You have heard evidence to his character. Men of distinction, _ men known to all of you as well as friends and patients of his have spoken in the highest terms of Dr Rendle's good temper, of his patience*, and of his selfcontrol. "I ask you, does a man such as the evidence of Alma Holmes would make the accused' out to be, gather such a practice as his, and that within a very few years? It takes personal qualities, besides mere medical skill, to attain such success as he has already acquired." His voice filled the court, his eyes glowed, and even the dull jury listened to him with attention. He went into every circumstance of the events of the fateful evening, he showed nVnrlv how nlnin it was that Alma Holmes's evidence was prejudiced, and dwelt stronglv on the case of this prejudice. He " proved how much more reasonable was Rendle's own version of what had happened. He did not even balk at Wilsher's last words, but explained them as a last spiteful effort after revenge. For the first time during that dreadful ordeal Rendle's spirits rose a little, and he began to feel a vague glimmering of hope. When at last Royce sat down there was a faint murmur of applause in the crowded court, instantly suppressed by the usher. Then began the" last act in the drama. The judge, Lord Justice Sharland, began his summing up. His quiet, measured speech was in strong contrast to the impassioned eloquence of Rendle's counsel.^ He gave the usual summary of the evidence, and proceeded to comment on that of Alma Holmes. "It is quite possible," he said, "that, as counsel tor the defence has pointed out, the witness's evidence was coloured by her love for the deceased, and by a desire that the person who, intentionally or otherwise, had) been the means of his death, should not escape punishment. "Still you must bear in mind that she was the only actual witness, except the accused, of the first part of the quarrel. You must remember that, although by her account she was behind the door during the actual struggle, and therefore did not see it, the words she heard correspond very nearly with those to which the accused has confessed. "The latter does not deny _ having accused the deceased of attempting burglary, nor having threatened with arrest if he did not confess. All evidence gees, therefore, to show that Dr Rendle was, at the moment of his finding Francis Wilsher in the servants' hall, in a state of considerable excitement. Natural excitement, no doubt, for there •is no reason whatever to discredit his story that he believed a burglary had been, or was being, attempted. "There seems, however, to be no case against the deceased—no evidence that he had made any attempt on the safe upstairs. No burglar's tools were found there, or in the dead man's possession, and a safe cannot be forced without tools. As for his quickened breathing of which Dr Rendle speaks, that might very well be caused merely by nervousness at being found in the house where he had' no permission to be.

"We come to the facts of the struggle. The sniilt or innocence of the accused depend entirely, so it seems to me, on the point whether* he or the accused was the first to snatch up the knife from the table. "The wound was between Wilsher's shoulder-blades, and the blade of the knife penetrated the man's lungs. Dr Ren die alleges that Wilsher picked' up the knife, that he seized the man's. wrist to get the weapon away, and that Wilsher's arm was twisted round behind him in such fashion that he felT upon the knife. "We have had expert evidence to the effect that this is possible. At the same time it is nofra verv probable explanation, and Alma Holmes has testified that, when she entered the room, Wilsher was on his face, with Dr Rendle bending over him. "I will not attempt to prejudice your minds on this subject, for Dr Rendle may, as he has said, have already turned the man over in ■ order to examine his injury. The fact that he is a doctor renders this supposition all the more probable." The indp;e then went on to speak of the evidence of Murdoch and of the constable, and he mentioned .specially Avhat Dr Murdoch had said of Alma Holmes's threat?.

"With this evidence before you, gentlemen." he continued, "you will do well to consider seriously whether > this witness's evidence is not tinged with malice. I should dwell on this point more strongly, but for the corroborative evidence of the deceased himself.

"To my mind, it is beyond belief that a man in extremis, and knowing himself on the -point of death, should give voice to so terrible an accusation, unless he was himself convinced that there was truth in it. T mav be wronsr. I merely tell you how it appears to me." Eendle could harrlly believe his ears. All the relief which the earlier part of the judge's summing up had given him was swent awav. It was evident—too terriblv evident—that the judge himself believed' in his guilt. He hardly heard the concluding portion of the judge's speech nor his directions to the jurv. What did thev matter? The scale turned. Unless a miracle happened, nothing could save him.

The jurv retired. The judge left his seat for the anteroom, no drmbt to pet a cup of tea. Eendle. taken below, waited in a state of suspense that was infinit-elv more trying than anything he had known yet. The minutes dragged by. The autumn twilight was falling. Eendle sat with his

chin resting on his hands. His head ached dully. . A clock in the distance struck six. The time seemed endless, and it suddenly came to hinu that perhaps the jury could not agree, and that their verdict would be deferred until the morning. The thought made him shudder. To endure this suspense all through the long hours of the night was unthinkable. Anything—even a verdict of guilty —would seem preferable. At last his warders took him upstairs again into the dock. The door of the jury room opened, and the twelve good men and true filed in, looking as self-conscious as men in their position generally do look. "Gentlemen, have you considered your verdict?" asked tihe judge. "We have, your lordship," replied the foreman.

"Do you find the prisoner guilty or not guilty ?" The hush was intense. To Rendle the pause between questions and reply, though lasting barely a couple of. seconds, seemed an eternity. "Guilty, your lordship—guilty of manslaughter." Someone gasped. It was not Rendle. He was standing up straight, with his shoulders well thrown back, facing disaster with the pluck that was his birthright. The pause this time-was longer. Then Mr Justice Sharland turned to the man in the dock. "Alan Rendle, you have been found guilty of taking the life of a fellow creature." The fact that it was in a moment of passion and struggle saves vou from the worst penalty of the law. Even so, the crime is a grave one, and the more so because you are not only a man of education', but also a doctor —one _ sworn to save life rather than destroy it. Under the circumstances tihe penalty can be no light one. I sentence you to ten years' penal servitude." Again that hush). Then a sobbing s.'gh, and a quick movement of feet, as two men caucrht a fainting woman.

Pendle started. He thought it was Meg. It was not. Meg was standing up watching him with such a mixture of sorrow and devotion in her lovelv face as made the breath catch in_ his throat. Then he paw a woman being carried out. It was Alma. Holmes. Next moment a warder laid his hand upon his shoulder. "You must come with me," he said, and Ms: voice, though grave, was not unkindly. CHAPTER XVIII.—WAYS AND MEANS. It was about five in the afternoon on the dav following tho trial that Denison drove Tip to the house in Sheffield Gardens. As he got out and paid the driver, his goodlooking face* was very grave. To say truth, he dreaded the ordeal before him. Mrs Rendle was expecting him, the maid told him, and ushered' him straight into the drawing-room. A tea-table was ready set with pretty china and silver; the room, as. usual, was bright with flowers, and Meg rose to greet him with a smile of welcome. Denison pulled up short. His face must have betraved his thoughts. "Are you shocked, Mr Denison?" Meg asked quietly. "Do you think I ought to be lying in my bedroom, with the blmds down?" . "N-no, of course not," stammered Denison. still more taken aback. "But you do. I think you do," she answered. "And if it would do any good for Alan there I should be. But it will not. On the contrary, it would do him harm." "You know, Mr Denison," she continued in a graver tone, "that I would willingly die for Alan. But as it is, .my task is to live for him, and if I am to do that I must keep my health and —so far as possible—mv spirits. I mean to do all that is in my power to prove his innocence. If that is'impossible, I still can remember that, in seven years and six months, he will be ag-im at liberty. Even then, we shall both still be young enough to begin our life together again, and I do not want him to find me ill or ugly or broken.' She spoke with a simple directness that appealed to Denison intensely. Well as he thought he had come to know her, he realised suddenlv that he had, not in the least appreciated her real character, her strong sense, or power of will. "You are quite right," he said earnestly, "quite right. It is I who am a fool. I to be kicked." She smiled again. "That would be a poor return for all your kindness in the past weeks. I am verv grateful to you, Mr Denison, and so is Alan. Y T ou have seen him, have you n0t? " , . TT • "I have just come from him He is, as you know, at Wormwood Scrubs, and he is wonderfullv well and even cheerful. > "Upon my wood," ho added, with sudden warmth, "people like you and he deserve everything good. You are both as plucky as' they are made. Were I in his place or yours, I should never have the pluck to carry on." "Oh, .but you would," Meg answered quietly, as she poured him out a cup of tea. "Now tell me what Alan said."

"Ho was anxious that I should see you as soon as possible so as to arrange for your immediate future." He paused. "You will not, I suppose, think of staying on here?" he asked. "No." said Meg with decision. "This house is much too expensive and 1 also too large for me alone. For the present I shall find rooms in the country. Afterwards, my movements will depend on those of Alan. Where will he be taken?" "Either to Portland or Moorlands. It is impossible to say which." "Then I shall wait, and when I know, I shall take a cottage fairly near. They will let me see him sometimes, won't thev?"

Denison felt a lump rise in his throat. Her question was infinitelv pathetic. "Indeed they will, Mrs Rendle," he answered, after a moment's pause. "As soon as he has gained what is called 'stage' —that is the privileges accruing from good conduct—you will, I think, be able to see

him onoe every three months. And later—once in two months."

Her faca brightened a little. "It will be something to look forward to," she said. "And perhaps you will come sometimes. I know he will like to see you." "Indeed I will," replied Denisoh emphatically. She held out her hand for his cup, whioh. was empty, and begged him to help himself to a cress sandwich. He was vaguely, surprised to find that he could eat ana drink as usual.

"And now about money?" he said. "Will you have sufficient? Alan was anxious about that."

"You can tell him there is no need whatever for anxiety. There -will ba plenty." V'He said that, if you wanted more, ha withdrew any objection he had ever had to your selling the necklace." She shook her head.

"I will not do that," she answered quietly. "He wished me to keep it, and his wish is sacred. I shall never part with it unless something quite unforeseen occurs."

"Remember," said Denison, warningly, "that your stepfather is still after it. He will never be content until he lays handa upon it. It is quite possible—l speak as a lawyer—that he may now gain courage to sue for it openly." Meg's face grew grave again. "I am glad you have told me that. I will take precautions accordingly." "How do you mean?" C 'l shall change my name," Meg answered at onco. "I shall disappear. No one but you will know where I am."

Denison gave a low whistle. "It is really not a bad idea, Mrs Rendla. All the more so because it will save any unpleasantness which might accrue from your neighbours discovering your identity. You know how stupid people are about such things." "I can guess," she said quietly. "I think then that I shall carry out this plan at once. If you can find' me a tenant for this house I might leave at the end of the present month." "There will be no difficulty whatever about that," Denison told her. "These houses are in great demand, and if yoq let it furnished, it should at least, bring you in a rental of two hundred a year." "Two hundred! That is what J shall dot then," declared Meg. "Why, I shall be, able to save more than I dreamed of. Yon see," she added, "I must have a good sum in hand when Alan comes out. He will need it to buy or start a fresh practice." Once more Denison felt a pang of something like envy. It came to him that, In spite of his cruel and undeserved ordeal, Alan Eendle was a man actually to ba envied. "And now," said Meg, "there is something else I want to talk to you about." She paused' and collected herself. Dentson waited, wondering.

CHAPTER XIX.—MEG'S RESOLVE. "It is about Alma Holmes," Meg said, with something of an effort. ( "I mean, if possible, to see her, and 1 " "Don't —do not dream of it," broke ire Denison hastily. "I assure you that it. would be absolutely useless. The woman is crazed with spite against both and yourself. She would only insult you. may. You may be right. Still I feel that I must do it. I would have done it before if I could have found her, but we did not know where she was." c Tf you ask me, it was the Denbys who hid her." growled Denison. "Yes, and coached her in her evidence, too, Til swear." „ Meg nodded. "I have thought so, too, she said gravely. "But now that the trial is over and Alan has been convicted, they will trouble about her no more. And! since she is no longer under Mr Denby 3 influence, I feel that there is a cliance that she might listen to me. "No do not try to dissuade me, sne continued. "I feel that "it is my duty. The woman used to be fond of me. There is always the possibility that an appeal to ner better feelings mighty be successful. At any rate I must try it." "Do not buoy yourself up with falsa hopes," he begged. "Quite apart from any influence that Denby has exerted over Alma Holmes, she" knows that Wilsher came to his death at Alan's hands. She was madly in love with Wilsher, and since his death has lived for revenge. No appeal on your part is going to alter not. Yet for Alan's sake I am bound to try," Meg answered and Denison realised that further argumenton his part was waste of breath. This slender, beautiful girl possessed a strength of will, against which it was useless to contend. „ T , ~ "Very well,, then," he said. "I believe the woman has gone back to her homa in Herefordshire.' She lives somewhere out in the Knightly direction, I believe. "I have her address," Meg told him. "I shall go to-morrow. Meantime I shall be grateful if von will put the house in an agent's hands.' I have already given the mnids notice." , He promised to do so, and took his leave. He went back to his chambers with a far lighter heart than he had left them. He had no longer any fear for Men- and as for Alan, he knew him well enouffh to fell certain that his strength of mind" and pluck would cam' him safely through the dreary years to come. Next morning he went to Paddinston to see Me<r off on her forlorn hone, and it pleaded him to find how grateful she was for this little attention on his nart. "I shall be back to-morrow." she said. "You will come and hear how I have prospered ?" "Indeed I will," he assured her. then as the train besran to move, he raised his hat. "Good-bye," he said, " and good It was a lontr drive from Hereford Station. Meg took a taxi, and was whirled along some of the best roads in England, between hoo yards now stripped of the yellow bine, and orchards loaded with. ripe fruit.

Foxleigh Farm was Alma- Holmes's address. It proved to be a small house of red brick, with a plain slate roof, standing a little back from a high hedged lane. Bidding the driver wait, she wont through the gate, and up a flagged path through an ill-kept, overgrown garden. Tho door was opened by a tall, elderly woman, dressed in ugly drab. Her dark face and narrow eyes told Meg at once that she was Alma's mother. "You are Mrs Holmes?" said Meg. Tho other eyed her suspiciously. "Who are you, if you please?" she countered. "I am Mrs Eendle," replied Meg, quietly. Mrs Holmes started. A look between fear and dislike showed in her hard eyes, and she made as though to close the door in her visitor's face. But Meg stood her ground. "I have come to see Alma," she continued firmly, yet gently. "Sec Alma! I like your impudence," retorted the woman shrilly. "You, as Is wife to the man who killed her chap. Why, I never heard tell of such a thing!" Meg slipped past into the room, and faced her. Argument she realised was useless. "I am here to see your daughter, Mrs Holmes," she said firmly. "And Ido not mean to leave until I have done so." For a moment the woman stood glaring at her. Meg fancied that she would have used violence to turn her out, and had sho done so Meg was helpless. But pluck and breeding go far with a person of Mrs Holmes s type. She hesitated, then her eyes fell and suddenly she strode to a door and opened it, showing a flight of stairs. "She's up there," she said briefly. "In bed she is, poor lamb! You can go and see her if you've a mind to. Much change you'll get out of her, I'll be bound." Meg went straight upstairs. There were only two doors at the top, and one was open, showing an empty room. She tapped at the other, and went in. The room was small but neat, and on the bed, which was placed in the darkest corner, lay her ex-maid. Meg stopped short. Alma's appearance shocked her. Her face was waxen in its pallor and lined like that of an old woman. Her eyes, deeply sunk, were open, and had in them something of the hard fascination of those of a snake. She betrayed no surprise at the sight of Meg. "I knew you would come," she said, in a low, hissing voice. "Yoir knew I would oome!" repeated Meg, startled. ' Yes. To beg for him," said Alma, in the same low, intense tone. "To beg for your man, as I would have begged for mine if I had had the chance." Meg pulled herself together. "Alma," she said gently, "you are talking nonsense. There was no question of begging. The whole dreadful business was an accident, and that you know as well as I do." Alma drew herself up suddenly into a sitting position. Her nightdress falling lower around her throat showed the collarbones protruding, with the skin drawn terribly tight over them. A hectic flush rose in her terribly pale cheeks. "Accident, you call it!" she retorted breathlessly. "You tell me your husband did not kill him?" "I do not deny that he was the indirect rieans of Frank Wilsher's death," Meg answered firmly. "And yet it was as much and as truly an accident as though Wilsher had been run over in the street." "That's a-lie!" retorted Alma fiercely. Dr Eendle threatened Frank, I heard. He drove him desperate. Then, when Frank tried to get away, he killed him." Meg kept her temper. "You do not really believe that, Alma," she answered patiently. "In your heart you know that it was Wilsher and not Dr Eendle who picked up the knife." "How should I know it? When I came in there was Dr Eendle bending over him, and the knife between Frank's shoulders. A fit of coughing seized and shook her. Meg waited until it was over. "You know that it was an accident," she repeated. "'You know Dr Eendle well enough to be certain that he would not kill a man."

Alma glared at her. "He did kill him," she answered r.tubbornly. "Say what you like you can't get out of that. Accident or not, he killed him, and he shall suffer for it." A feeling of disgust that yet had something of pity in it swept over Meg. It seemed to her sordid and terrible beyond belief that any woman could harbour such a brutal longing 'for revenge. Yet again she controlled herself. "And I am suffering too, Alma," she said gently. For an instant Alma's eyes seemed to soften. But only for an instant. Then the hard, defiant glare came back. "I can't help that," she retorted harshly. "That is no business of mine. You should not have married him. "Nothing that you can say will mako any difference," she added viciously, "and I only wish the judge had given him twenty years instead of ten." Meg's forbearance was at an end. "You are a cruel and wicked woman, Alma Holmes," "he said, and her voice rang clearly through the small room. " 'Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us,' are words that you must have learned, and have now deliberately put behind you. I tell you that some day you will remember them, and I only hope, for your own sake, that that day will not be too late." A moment she stood, watching the woman. But Alma did not stir or speak. Meg turned and quickly left the room. (To be Continued.)