THE SECRET FOE.

Otago Witness, Issue 3331, 16 January 1918, Page 48

THE SECRET FOE.

THE NOVHIrIST.

[Published by Special Arrangement.]

By EDGAR PICKERING,

Author of "The Falconhufst Mystery," "Love, the Conqueror," "Murder Will Out," etc., etc.

[Copyright.]

CHAPTER XXV.—(Continued)

The whispering voices had ceased, and the stealthy footsteps died away. Only "the moaning wind, presaging a storm, and the splash of rain on the window, broke the silence. All within the house was still as death, and presently a clock in the hall struck midnights She had decided upon a desperate plan, but must wait until Mortimer was asleep. His room was at the end of the long corridor. She had heard Madame give the servant, Judith, orders to prepare it. The I'oar of the tempest and deluging rain, for the storm was at its height now, were like the wind fiends holding high revel, but it would silence her movements, and the thought of that gave her courage.

Half-past twelve ! The clock had chimed again like a harbinger of danger as the sound came on her strained ear. When it struck once more she would go. Then, as if but a few moments had passed, the sonorous boom came through the deathly silence within, and she stepped out upon the black corridor. The darkness was so profound that she held out her hand instinctively to guide her, the touqh on the damp wall bringing a shudder through her body. It was as though the darkness were choking her as she crept forward, and one of the boards of the uneven bare flooring had sent out a sharp sound as she trod on it.

. Her heart was beating so quickly that the power to move deserted her for a moment, and, as she stood breathlessly listening, there came a feeling of being watched.

Then she was moving again, making for the faint streak of light which came from beneath a closed door in the distance. It was Mortimer's room, and she glided to it, feeling gently for the handle, listening again. The handle turned noiselessly, and she pressed open the door—she was in the room, seeing in the.faint gleam of a small lamp burning on the table, the huge oldfashioned bedstead, and hearing Mortimer's regular breathing. He lay shrouded by the heavy curtains and she went towards a chair on which was a heap of tumbled clothing. Moving this cautiously she searched the pockets until in one of the garments a bulky substance was felt, which she drew out.

The sleeper had stirred, rustling the curtains as his arm moved and, in an agony of fear, Amy shrank into the shadow of the bedstead. He was muttering, qsd presently his words came distinctly. "Orme! He knows me—give him the) money, Huncote! Better that he w?s dead," and the voice sank to muttering once more, breaking into a cry suddenly. "Dead! Orme ! Who says I killed him?" The wailing voice ceased, and all was still again, save for the wind moaning and shrieking through the trees, whilst, as if turned to stone, Amy listened to the dreamer until the impulse to escape overcome her sickening dread of him. The curtain of the bed had been drawn a little aside by Mortimer's arm, and in the dim light she saw his face, distorted by the fear haunting him, even in his sleep. Her glance was only for an instant, and then sh&. was in the corridor speeding to her room, reaching it with the feeling of having been seen by Madame Lenoir, or the forbidding-faced servant, and she pictured them forcing the door, whereupon, exerting all her strength, she dragged a heavy piece of furniture against it. She must get away whilst there was a chance. Mortimer would discover the loss of his pocket book, and kill her as he killed Orme. The broken words muttered in his sleep had betrayed him. Going to the casement she threw it open, despite the storm, and looked down into the garden. To leave the house by the hall door would be only courting defeat, for, she remembered its heavy bolts and bars - that guarded it. The descent from the window would be easy, for a tree grew within arm's reach, and leaning forward she grasped one of the swaying branches—she had secured a foothold _ and heedless of her bleeding hands was quickly standing on the rank grass. Without a backward look she sped down a patli leading through the garden to the gate, and regardless of the driving rain and raging wind she hastened away, not pausing until the "Priory" had been left far behind.

Fear urged her on, fear of pursuit; of being taken back to that deathly house,

and fear gave wings to her feet. But in all the confusion of her mind, Neville held foremost place, and though her strength was failing, the thought of him sustained her.

Then her power of endurance suddenly relaxed, and stumbling to the side of the rough road, site fell to the ground, unconscious of the pitiless rain beating on her upturned face.

CHAPTER XXVI.—ORDEAL BY FIRE. For a few moments Peter Armstrong stood gazing helplessly at Joe Palmer's house in amazement. That it was on fire he realised easily enough, but he was puzzling himself to imagine how it had caught a-light. "Palmer couldn't have done it," he exclaimed, as he hurried back to the farmstead.

"The papers!" Peter's only thought was of them now—that they would be destroyed before he could get to the house for the flames were mounting high above the roof by this time, and clouds of smoke pouring through the kitchen window. The place was doomed —he felt certain of that, but he might be able to save the papers. He had not left the farm many minutes when Palmer, rousing himself drowsily, upset his glass on the table, and the little accident was fated to have a tragical result. The bottle beside it was empty, and he staggered to a cupboard, for another one, taking the candle in his shaking hand. In doing this he had scumbled awkwardly, but recovering himself he flung open the cupboard and returned to his seat with a square bottle under his arm.

Knocking off the neck with a knife he poured out a tumbler full of spirits, taking a prolonged drink. Then settling down in the cushioned chair he fell into a deep sleep, whilst flickering and spreading shone a little train of fire along the floor beneath the window where lay a heap of waste paper and other rubbish over which he had nearly fallen. A spark from the guttering candle had ignited this, and as he lay back in his chair, the smouldering fire crept on to the dingy curtains of the window.

The kitchen grew hazy with smoke, but he slept on, unconscious of it; the woodwork of the casement sent out a warning crackle, as it caught fire, and some of the glass fell tinkling, but he did not stir—the flames were streaming upward, kissing the overhanging thatch, but the closed eyes remained blind to the danger. It was not until the dense smoke held his breath that he got up, struggling against the suffocating heat and fought through it to the door, bewildered and cursing, as he struck heavily upon someone who was in the wav.

It was Peter Armstrong, who recoiled under the impact, and then he and Palmer were standing in the scorching light gazing mutely at each other for a moment. "Where are the papers kept?" shouted Peter. "Tell me that, before it's too late."

Palmer was too stupified to answer at once, and, as he hesitated, a burst of flame drove them backward. "You're no use, Armstrong," he mumbled indistinctly, as if speaking to himself. "The old place is going—you can't save it."

"The papers!" shouted Peter, frantically attempting to shake him by the arm. "Where are they, Mr Palmer?" The roar of the conflagration seemed to be stifling Palmer's voice, and he shook off Peter's hand roughly. He was sobering now, and help was coming, although it would be of little use. A number of men were running across the foal yard; weird figures on whom ' the glare of the burning house fell redly, and Palmer gave a husky laugh. The laugh of a madman, and he hissed something that sent a thrill through Peter. "Those papers are in a box in the garret," Palmer was saying, and he went towards the house. Peter saw him standing for an instant at the door and then the burly form seemed Xo suddenly disappear. There was no time to think of him, however, and rushing to another entrance to the house where the fire had not yet reached, Peter found himself at the foot of a winding staircase. Mounting this he groped his way to the garret, guided to it by instinct. He had never done a bold act before, but as he stood feeling the hot breath of the raging furnace below gripping his throat and seeing along the edge of the sloping- ceiling a line of fire that in a few moments would burst into flame, he felt no fear.

The garret was lit by the lurid light of the blazing thatch, and he saw in one corner a heap of rubbish—a broken chair half concealed by some discarded drapery. Behind this was "a small box, and plunging forward, regardless of the pain of a torn hand, for in his eagerness he had struck it upon'a piece of jagged wood, he seized the box, and holding it under his arm, turned to the garret door, that framed a patch of fire now. Through this, conscious of a stinging heat that well-nigh blinded him, he was at the head of the winding stairs, feeling them sinking under his tread, yet giving foothold enough for him to descend, he reached the open air, hearing the roar of flames and shouts, fighting his way amid men and frightened animals, until at lasthe gained a safe distance from the scene of destruction.

Someone was speaking to him. "Had he seen Palmer?" "Not since he went back—into the house," he answered, summoning his voice, after an effort, and then he was alone again, gripping the box beneath his arm least Palmer-should claim the prize. But that'Joe Palmer would never do. They found all that remained of him when daylight came, and the devastating fire had died down sufficiently for the ruins of the house to be searched. He had gone into the blazing kitchen for some purpose which would never be known, nor did it matter to enquire, and fallen there.

Mr Hurcote, reading of his death, had given a satisfied chuckle as he set out for his visit to Xetherclifi'e, for one of his enemies had Ijeen removed.

CHAPTER. XXVII.—A SILENT ADIEU. Dawn was breaking when Amy, after falling on the road-side, regained her senses, and with a resolute effort, stood up- In the grey light she could see a house at a short distance off, and she walked slowly towards it.

Although the hour was so early a wreath of smoke from the chimney showed that the inmates were astir, and with an indescribable longing for rest she came to the door, her gentle knock being answered by a motherly woman Avho stared at her in amazement.

"Aye, you* can sit down, my dear," she said ,in reply to Amy's request. "Have you come far?" "From Davenham."

"That's nearly five miles. Come in, .and I'll dry your clothes," and she took Amy's cold hand, leading her into' a room where a fire was crackling merrily, and preparation for breakfast was in progress. "My husband has to get to work at six," the kindly woman explained. "He's a-bed yet, so sit down before the fire and take off that drenched skirt, my dear," and lifting a shawl down from a" peg she wrapped it around Amy's shoulders. The warmth and comfort of the bright room, after the cold and misery of the night through which Amy had passed, the odour of food and the pleasant smile with which her hostess glanced/at her now and then, went far to dispel the recollections of Madame Lenoir's ghastly house, and all that had happened in it. "You must wonder how I came to be here," she said, after a few words" of ordinary talk. ; "Well, I do. That's only natural, but I'm not going to ask questions. Jt isn't s my way," and the good-humoured woman smiled again. "I had to leave Davenham," continued Amy. "I'll tell you why, presently. You would like to know, perhaps?" "I'm not more curious than other people, but I suppose there was a good reason for your leaving." "You shall know what it was," and Amy would have told her story there and then, or part of it, but the entrance into the room of her hostess's husband, a big, simple-faced man, prevented her. A silent man, who ate his breakfast solemnly, and started for his work immediately it was ended.

, "Have you anywhere you're thinking of staying?" enquired , his wife, when she and Amy were alone again. "I doubt whether you'll find it easy to get a lodging in the town. I've got a room you can have."

Amy accepted the offer gladly. The thought of searching for a lodging had been troubling her, and in a few moments the bargain was completed. "I'm a pretty good judge of folks, my dear," said the woman, "and you'll suit me if so be I suit you." Amy took out the little bag Peter had forced into her hand the previous night. It contained nearly three pounds, and she paid the trifling rent of her room. When everythingPhad been settled, she wrote to Featherstone Buildings, describing to Peter what had occurred, and giving him the address to which he was to reply. Three days went by, during which Amy became accustomed to her new friend, and the good-hearted woman's care and kindness were those of a mother's. If she could have blotted out the recollections of the past few months Amy would have been happy, but her steadfast love, and the longing for her loyalty to Neville to be proved, were too great to be driven from memory. The little house stood a short way from the town, and one morning she undertook an errand for her landlady thither. The sunshine and scent of flowers, the song of the birds and the soft breeze, filled her with feelings of renewed hope; she could have sung as she passed down the lane leading to the quiet old .town, and' yet withal there was the never-ceasing looking forward to the time when Neville was to learn the truth. It would come—she was assured of that, and in some strange way the certainty was strpnger in her mind that morning than it had,ever been. Her errand was soon completed, but before returning home—the. cosy house would always be called by that sweet name—she wandered into a narrow street of high-gabled, centuries-old houses, their overhanging storeys presenting a pioturesque sight. She had never explored the town before, and the beauty of the day gave an additional charm to it as she strolled on.

She had reached the end of the street and was about to turn when a man came out of one of the houses, and for an instant her heart seemed to cease beating. Neville was standing a few paces off, and was looking straight into her face, his wearing a look such as she remembered was on it the evening -of his arrest. It was the last day of his stay in the place where his school-boy life had been spent—almost the last day he would be in England. In a few hours he was to go back to London, and - this sudden, unexpected meeting with Amy revived a host of bitter recollections.

She had raised her head with a pleading gesture, scarcely conscious of her words. "Neville!" and his name was uttered pitifully. "Won't you speak to me?" "I did not Jcnow you were here," he answered thickly. "This meeting was none of my seeking." . s "Nor mine You'll believe that? But we were to see each other again some day." He shrugged his shoulders,. assuming a tolerant indifference that was very far from his true feelings. All the love he had for her was surginig afresh in his heart. She had never looked so gloriously beautiful as now came the thought as he gazed into her yearning eyes, but she was false. The belief of that hardened him towards her.

-"I heard you were living with a Madame

Lenoir." he said, "by Mortimer's recommendation." "I have left her," replied Amy. "Will you listen while I toll you the reason?" "There is no need to tell me. I am only thinking how strangely things havo come about.'

"Neville," she cried, and his., coldness was like a cruel wrong done her, "I've been very unhappy. Do you care? You've misjudged me all along. Haven't yon any pity for me?" and the blinding tears spramg into her eyes. "Yes, % can pity you," he replied, "but not in the way you would wish. The time's gone past for my caring. It's too late for that. It's best to face the facts, and, forget them, if possible." They nad walked on, yet keeping apart from each other, and for a few moments 'Amy did not speak again, although there was so much to say, so many things he ought to hear, and it was hie who broke the silence.

"I have left Nethercliffe," he said, "you may have heard that. It was impossible for me to remain, there."

"Yes, I heard. Why did you leave without one word to me, Neville?" "Doesn't your conscience tell you," he answered. "You speak of beinnj unhappy—well, well, perhaps you may r>e. Let us talk of something else. It will be for the last time we shall see one another."

"If you had ever loved you wouldn't say that, Neville," and Amy met his look steadily, too proud to show how his hardness wrung her gentle heart. He gave a scornful laugh that brought her another pang. "I've too good a memory," he said. "You and I may never meet again, and we can at least say good-bye like sensible people." He did not offer his hand as he moved away, nor did Amy attempt to stay him. "I may tell you," he added, "that I start for Australia in a few days," and he walked away, leaving her gazing after him through a veil of tears. '

CHAPTER XXVIII.—AN UNSATISFACTORY VISIT.

Holding the box which had been rescued from the- flames tightly under his arm, Peter Armstrong had hurried across the fields until he gained the road, nor did he stop, except when hindered by the geople coming to the scene of the conagration. He encountered crowds of these, for all the town seemed to be flocking to Palmer's farm, and several times he had to shrink aside to avoid them.

The fire was blazing furiously now, and by the time he reached Monkstown the lurid glare lit up the sky. He was in a condition which made him quite incapable of going further, and instead of returning to London he decided on finding a lodging for the night. This he did in a retired coffee house, the proprietor of which was a stunted, old man, who sniffed him in a very peculiar manner.

"There's a sort of smell," he said, "that's like something burning. They tell me Palmer's farm is alight." ' It's burnt down," replied Peter, stepping back from the inquisitive fellow! He did not wish to be identified with Palmer or the destruction of the farmhouse, but the odour of the smoke he had passed through clung to his clothes and pervaded the coffee-house keeper's lowpitched room. "It's a wonder how the smell of fire carries," he answered. "I'd have gone and had a look at the place if so be it was a bit nearer. I knew him well by sight, and from what folk say he wasn't doing very well. Have thev saved the furniture?"

"I don't know," replied Peter, "and it doesn't concern me. What I want Is a bed for the night. Can you let me one?" "You can have a bed," answered the man slowly, "It'll be a shilling."

Peter paid it, and- the old fellow showed him to a room in which was a trundle bed. An uninviting resting place, in Peter's opinion and probably damp, but he did not say so, and after wishing his host good night he sat down trying to calm himself.

The events of the previous few hours had been too exciting to allow him to sleep quickly, and as he lay recalling them he could see Palmer sitting before the hearth again. He could hear his gruff voice, and then their conversation seemed to be repeating itself. He found himself rushing through the smoke and flames down the garret stairs, and when at length he fell into a dose it was to see Palmer standing in the kitchen doorway surrounded by a red and yellow glow until the burly form vanished in a shower of sparks.

But the most extraordinary part of his dreams was the presence of an angel who bore the likeness of Amy, and whose face wore a smile. Altogether Peter's visions were the most disturbing and strange that he had ever had, and he awoke to see the sun shining through the dusty window with a resolution to go through any more dangers that might assail him for her sake.

"I'll go over to Xethercliffe and see Sir Charles," he murmured, as he dressed. "He'll be up perhaps, and if ho isn't I'li wait. But first of all I'll look through the papers that Palmer kept. He will never have any use for them again, and Mr Huneote shall never see them. To think " ami hero Peter assumed a heroic attitude—"to think that anyone should have dared to do Miss Goodwin an injustice makes my blood boil."

He had never been so indignant before, and gloried in being the instrument of justice. "I'll unmask that villian, whose name isn't Mortimer," he went on as he fastened his collar, that had a most disreputable look, but this Peter ignored. The prospect of being about to do something which required valour and meant rum and disgrace to other people quite, confused him, and as he had no means of smoothing his towsled hair he presented a somewhat grotesque appearance when ho went downstairs.

The coffee-house keeper was talking to

someone in the outer room, and Peter heard what was said.

"They've found Palmer," the stranger explained. "Burnt up. Nobody knows bow it came about, but he was found in the kitchen. Burnt up—to a cinder." The coffee-house keeper opinioned that Joe had been overcome and b.ip friend agreed that this was likely, Then the talk languished and Peter sat down with his hands in his ruffled hair, thinking out a plan of action. For one thing he was \ determined not to let it be known that he had been in Palmer's company last night because the inquiry into his death would detain him in the town. "X shouldn't be any use," he reasoned, "and there is so much to be done, I'll open the box now." Prizing up the lid with a blunt table knife he took out some papers, unfolding each carefully, and as he examined them he grew caim. He was almost rigid with astonishment, for the papers proved that Miss Goodwin, instead of being poor and dependent, was entitled to a fortune.

(To be Continued.)