THE MAD TREMAYNES.

Otago Witness, Issue 3596, 13 February 1923, Page 52

THE MAD TREMAYNES.

THE NOVELIST.

[PCBLISHZD BT SPKCIAL AXHANGKMKBT.]

A SERIAL STORY OF LOVE AND SPORT.

By

E. C. BULEY.

CHAPTER XIX. Lower still Sanders crouched, feeling his colt answ-er every effort he made. He would have dropped his useless whip if it had not been needed for making his weight. This colt needed no whip ; he stretched out more and more gallantly as he stole remorselessly upon the leader, gaining imperceptibly at every stride. Straight as an arrow’s flight they both sped toward the goal. And now the head of the big chestnut was at the quarters of the bright bay; and Dalling, who had been keeping a Kittle in reserve, asked Scapegrace to give of his very best. The second ceased to gain, and the name of Scapegrace was called by ten thousand voices in a chorus. Another hundred yards and the chestnut began to creep along again. In the dip his big, handsome head was bobbing at the leader’s girths; and the last climb to the post began when it was at the neck of Scapegrace. Both jockeys were riding like beings possessed, and with each stride in that final struggle the mighty crowd rocked and swayed. _ The billowing roar from a hundred thousand throats could be heard many miles away, they said afterwards, rising and ebbing like the beat of breakers oh a rockbound coast. Served by unflinching courage and perfect condition, both colts fought it out to the very last stride. There was no fault of jockeyship, no electric dash which put the issue beyond doubt in a few strides. It was just a bitter struggle through every yard of the way, a spectacle watched with fascinated eyes by all privileged to behold it. The deciding factor was an old, old axiom of racing .- That in a tight finish a good big one will invariably beat a good little one. In the last hundred yards the power of Bonanza and his devouring stride carried him level with Scapegrace. For three strides they raced nose and nose; after that the chestnut head bobbed in front, inch by inch, until the quartered jacket held a neck advantage as the post was passed. “Bonanza! Bonanza!”

They cried it again and again, amid volley'after volley of cheers. Never had such a finish to the Derby been seen since the mighty Persimmon assorted himself over St. Frusquin in just the same fashion. Sir Raloh Tremayne had stationed himself with two old friends to watch the race. As the number of the winner went up on the board one of these turned to condole with him and to praise the gallant loser. No trace of Scapegrace’s owner was to be seen. “Tremayne’s gone to lick his wounds in solitude,” said his friend, not unsympathetically. “I’m afraid he will take this very hardly.” Almost in the same moment Mr Sloggett awoke out of a trance which had held him fettered for the space of two full minutes. For that space the engrossing interest of the great race had made him forget his duty and lose sight of the man he was there to watch. He looked round anxiously for Durant, but the man was. no longer where he had been standing when the race began. “Bolted,” groaned Sloggett; and forthwith elbowed his wav through the cheering crowd to the entrance) by which lie might escape from the stand, and> seek for his charge. Joyce Winter had followed the race with an interest as keen and close as she bad ever devoted to any incident of her life. She knew that her own future was involved somehow in the fortunes of the two gallant colts who had fought out the issue with such unflagging courage. Her instinct revolted at the prospect of a loveless marriage with the man to whom she had pledged her word, and if freedom came to her through the defeat of the favourite she heartily desired that simple way out of her difficulty. When it was over, she drew a long breath of relief, and looked up to see Lionel Tremayne standing by her side. He was pale, but wore the desperate calm of a man who knows the worst. “I took your advice,” he said quietly, “and left Francis Tremayne alone. There is plenty of time for my reckoning with Joyce inclined her head, her eyes fixed upon the changing scene before her. The cheering for the winner had ceased now, and the crowd was still and expectant of the final act in the great racing drama. Jevons, the trainer, stood at the head of the victor where he had been pulled up, and turned round for the ride to the scales. A pause in the proceedings had occurred, and the seconds passed in expectation. They were waiting for the owner of the winner to lead him to the weighing enclosure, as custom and tradition prescribed. All eyes were turned to the box where Francis Tremayne had sat, a solitary and mocking figure. He was not there; doubtless he was oil his wav to the spot where his grand colt stood, impatiently dancing on restless feet, and turning his head in this direction and that: Then a little figure started up dramatically in the empty box, a sober figure in decent black, which gestured tragically and cried something aloud in an awful shrill voice. “My master is dead,” he screamed. “Mr Tremayne has been murdered.’’ A hush fell upon those "i the neighbourhood, and spread far ax, 1 -vide in ail

directions, from that centre point of tragedy. “t tell you he has been murdered, the voice cried again. “My master is lying dead here.” it was Trevor, Francis Tremayne’s man, who had made the discovery, and who opened the door of the box to the racecourse attendants and police who hastened to his assistance. They found Tremayne lying on his face on the floor of the box, with a bullet wound in the back of his head. A doctor was obtained at once, and after a swift examination said that the unfortunate gentleman had just died. Near the door of the box there lay on the floor an automatic pistol, on the barrel of which was fixed an ingenious silencer, the purpose of which had been to deaden the sound of the report. * 5’ .Already the news had spread far and wide. It reached Jevons, the trainer, in the moment of his triumph, and after a moment's hesitation he uncovered, and started to leau the colt to the gate of the enclosure. Sanders followed Ids example, and the wide-eyed crowd through which the little procession moved uncovered also. . ney say Mr Tremayne’s dead, .'Sanders,” Jevons said. “You must weigh in now, and we shall find out whether it is true. There was consternation written on every face, as the jockey dismounted. In tile .Tockev club stand the patricians of the turf disci!seed .the situation in grave whispers, while hurrying messengers rushed to and from the scene of the tragedy. “Francis Tremayne has been murdered ! The owner of the winner has just been shot dead !” Sloggett, prowling at the bars for some sight of Durant, heard the news whispered in awestruck accents, and dashed off to hire a motor-car, that he might reach the railway station at once. “Tremayne murdered!" Joyce Winter caught the winged rumour, and turned eyes dilatexl with horror upon Lionel Tremayne, where he stood moodily beside her. “Murdered." she gasped. “Did they say murdered.?" ■ "So they say,” he said, like a man in a dream. “v,.. ." She sprang to her feet, with hands upraised to ward him away from her. “ [ ou • '. . where were vou ? -h, auntie, take me away; do please take ma away!" And with Lady Carfax's arm, about her Joyce fled from her lover’s presence. lhe news reached Westwood, while he was seeking Frank Croll, from whom be had been separated in the struggle to obtain a position from which to watch tJrci race. “Tremayne murdered !” the trainer of boxers repeated. “Has anybody seen Frank Croll? I must find him at once.” lie found Frank ggzing moodily at the empty box Joyce Whiter had just vacated, apparently lost to all knowledge of the surroundings. Westwood caught 1 im roughly by the arm. , "Here,” he whispered, “came away ' quickly. They sav Francis Tremayne lias been murdered. Do you know anything about it':” "Murdered ! I!” “You threatened him, you fool. You acted like a madman before an hour or two ago. Come away now; there is bound to be a lot of talk about this. . hurried Frank away, ruestioning him as lie went; and while Croll was struggling to realise the awful truth a car carried them from the course. Meantime Sanders weighed in correctly for the winner: and Dalling, the jockey of the second, mounted the scale. .. t this juncture Sir Ralph Tremayne appeared, in great disorder of mind, as all could see.' His face was working horribly, and his eyes blazed with a light that was like the fire of madness. “As the owner of the second horse, I desire to lay objection to the .winner,' he said, in a loud voice. “Owing to the death of his nominator, Mr Francis xremayne, onanza was not qualified to run in the race.” CHAPTER XX. “Don’t pay !” The warning cry, shouted in a stentorian voice, startled the crowd, engaged by now in discussing the tragedy with grave faces and voices low pitched. “Don't pay!” The red flag fluttered up to the pot, where usually the blue flag with white lettering announced that a winner had weighed in correctly. An objection! For what? Experienced racegoers could easily guess. In a score of places the rules of racing were produced, and Rule 86 was quoted far and wide : “Entries become void on the death of the person in whose name they are made.” A babel of discussion arose on the spot. Could Bonanza be disqualified? It was conceded that he would not have been entitled to. run had his nominator’s death taken place on the morning of the race; and it was argued that, even if it had happened during the progress of the race, the stakes must necessarily be awarded to the second horse. But had he died before or after the decision of the struggle, the sensation of which was already forgotten in the presence of this more poignant and unusual sensation? The stewards of the meeting were brought face to face with the question as soon as the objection had been lodged. They sent for the doctor who and examined the dead man where he lay, and could obtain no definite opinion. Francis Tremayne had very recently died ; medical evidence could establish nothing more with certainty. He may have died after the finish, or during the progress of the race. Only one man could sav definitely, and that man was the undiscovered murderer. What could the troubled stewards do but adjourn the decision until further evidence should be forthcoming, and until

legal opinion had been obtained upon the coraect interpretation of the rule under which objection had been laid? They would have liked, at the same time, to abandon the meeting, but no precedent was available for that course, and it had its disadvantages. Already the majority of the spectators were hurrying away irom the course, a dense crowd of white-faced women and worried men contending for priority of car and cab before the stands. “Run the next race to time, and give them something to interest them, or ! there’ll be a riot," was the advice of the police in official charge of the traffic ; and his advice was followed. Few owners cared to start their horses, and those who did so acted at the earnest request of the stewards themselves. Sir Ralph Tremayne, during all this commotion, stood alone in the enclosure, a man shunned, and the object of many strange looks and covert whispers. It was already said that lie had disappeared at the start of the race, and was not to be found when it had finished. The wild threat he had used at Liverpool against | Francis Tremayne was recalled. Even his old friends looked askance at him. He stood and faced the disapproval of his fellows ,with a proud indifference which belied his real emotions. Already he bitterly regretted his precipitate action in laving an objection against the winner, in the moment when his own cousin lay stark and dead, and a host of strangers could only think of the horror of it. It was the final act in his feud with his dead cousin, ah act attributable *to his j frenzy of anger and disappointment. He had been a man beside himself, a mail oblivious of everything except the mocking triumph of the man who raced only to” thwart and humiliate him. Now he saw the whole thing with different eyes and in true perspective. He remembered that this man of his own race was dead; that they had played together as boys, and called one another bv endearing names.

He composed his face to a mask, while, men whispered about him. •’Mr Ralph was. hiding something; not his fears, as those who observed him suggested, but his tears. And while he waited his son came and stoed by his side. Like his father, he showed the world a face of proud composure, and his air was* cool and matter-of-fact as he spoke to Sir Ralph. “This is a bad business, sir.” “It is. Lionel; I’m afraid I have made a fool of rnvself. I would withdraw* this objection if I could, but, of course, it is too late now.” “I suppose so. Could we do any good bv staying here, sir?” '“The idiots are suggesting that I did it,” Sir Ralph said with an air of exasperation. “I shall be asked to account for myself presently.” “Well, 1 can be of some assistance, there. I happened to be hanging about this box when the race started.” ’‘You were?” Sir Ralph was startled now, and his face showed it. “Yes, sir,” Lionel confessed. “I had something to sav to I* rancis ; he had been making charges against me to Joyce. I had the intention of picking a quarrel with him, but I thought better of it. I can swear nobody entered that box before the race started, and he was sitting there when I left in order Jo watch the race.” ~ “But this is really serious, Lionel. “I know, sir. Joyce thinks I did it; she fled from me like the plague. I m afraid I followed vour lead and indulged in threats. There have been times lately when I really felt fit to kill him.” “We must go to the police at once, and make our statements,” said his father promptly. “This puts a very serious complexion upon it. We benefit in every way, I Jon el; I expect one of us inherits as well.” , Yes, it’s a bad business, Lionel agreed drearily, as he followed Sir Ralph to the room where the police investigation was in progress. Sir Ralph made his statement hist, explaining that after the race started lie found his nerves unequal to the strain of watching the running. He had walked out of the stand and paced up and down the pavement outside the entrances, until the shouting informed him the race was over. “Did you see anyone yon knew, nr who might be able to' confirm your story?" asked the superintendent in charge. “As far as I remember the place was practically deserted,” the baronet replied. “I remember noting that even the ticket takers had left the entrance to. see the race. It was one little thing 1 did notice.” “Thank vou. Sir Ralph; I expect we shall be able to confirm your account of your* doings,” said the official politely. Lionel Tremayne had a longer ordeal to endure. Great importance was naturally attached to the fact that he stood at the door of the box where the tragedy was enacted during the minutes before the start, and he was closely questioned upon this point. “I hesitated for quite a little tame, he said, “but the start diverted me from mv plan’. I slipped back to my own box and watched the wee from there, standing behind the two ladies. “Can they testify to that?" “I could not say. They seemed as intent noon Yhe race as everybody else. Miss Winter did not appear to know I wax there until it was all over.” There was an ominous pause while the statements were being transcribed and signed. “My son and I. of course, will hold ourselves at your disposal,” said Sir Ralph. “I presume there is no reason for our remaining any longer.” “None at all. thank you, Sir Ralph, said the superintendent, remembering that he was dealing with a former Cabinet Minister and Ambassador. The difference between a man of birth and distinction and a professional boxer was evidenced bv the police method with Frank Croll. Westwood’s action in hurrying from the course, excellent in inten-

tion, did not •commend itself in any way to the officials engaged m. the inquiry. Ready tongies had been wagging about the baxer’s threat to Frantn Tremayne, and his strange behaviour on the course had naturally been noticed. An hour after lie arrived at We. twood g home he received a visit from two men i’i plain clothes, who londucted him with out any parley to a metropolitan police station, when Jit was invited to make a statement. Frank was in no mood for explaining himself or his strange behaviour. He met- all the questions put to him with sullen silence, merely saying that he knew nothing whatever about the murder. The result was seen in the late editions of the evening papers, where a flaw ig headline. “Famous Boxer Detained.” completed the sensational news of the day. Lady Carfax, greedy for news, like all the rest of the world on the evening of that tragical Derby Dav, read the line aloud to Joyce Winter before she realised its import. "No, no. auntie," cried the girl, with horror-stricken eyes. “He did not do it. I know it; I can prove it.” CHAPTER XXL (bice again Lady Carfax regarded her niece with speechless surprise. “It must have been Lionel,” Joyce declared wildly. “Oh, what shall I do.' They must not blame him; it is cruel and unjust.” “My dear child, you are overwrought. I should not have (old vou. I suppose this refers to Groll, or whatever his name may be. But how can you know “I do,” Joyce persisted. “How can I tell you ? I—l saw him all the time there! I saw him before Lionel went away, and he never moved while the race was being run. He was there afterwards; I tell you I saw him myself.” “He was there, you say? But where was he?"

“Watching me,” Joyce confessed. “He thought I couldn't see him ; Out I could all the time. lie was standing by a thick pillar in front of the stand. He looked so wretched ; so hurt and unhappy. Oh. I'm a wicked girl, Auntie; it was my fault. . I know' he was grieved and hurt because I pretended not to tee him when he had been so kind and thoughtful for me. You must come with me. please; they will let him go when they hear what I have to say.” “I can telephone,” suggested Lady Carfax. “Really, Joyce, you must not mix yourself up any further “And let him suffer ; an innocent man!" cried Joyce indignantly. “I shall go myself if . . . How could I be mixed up with it- worse than I am already? Engaged to a murderer !” “You are not vourself, Joyce,” Lady Carfax said soothingly. “If it relieves your feelings to go at once and tell your story of course I will accompany vou. But vou must not be hasty in vour judgment’ of Mr Tremayne. I hold ray own "opinfon about him; but you will soon feel, as I do, 'that what you suppose is impossible.” , As she spoke, Lady Carfax rang and ordered the car. The two ladies were received at the police station with polite deference, and Joyce told her story to attentive and ready listeners. “I must ask you one or two rather personal questions, Miss, Winter,’ said the great detective now in 'charge of the inquiry. “Surely it was very strange behaviour on the part of this boxer to watch vou so intently? Did you resent it at the time? Can you suggest any explanation of it-?’’ .. “He*is pot a boxer; he is a gentleman,” Joyce replied, with true feminine inconsistency. ‘Oh, cannot you see. He and I had'b%en—well, , friends. 1 was angry when—l was angry with him, and ended our acquaintance.” “Thank you for your candor. You are sure he never moved while the race was being run? How could you be sure of that, if vou were watching the race.' 5 “I saw him all the time,” Joyce confessed, colouring vividly. “If ( he had moved, 1 should have known it. The men who heard her frank statement tried to repress a smile. “At least,” said the chief, thoughtfully, “vou surest an explanation of his reti cence. He refuses to sa'y where he was while the race was being run.” “Of course he would,” Joyce replied eagerly. “He would not drag my name into it. It is just like him.” “Perhaps you could induce him to he a little more' communicative? If he tells a story which corroborates yours, there is no reason why he should stay here <i minute longer.” « .. . “Oh, I couldn't see him; really l couldn’t.” . , “I will see the voupg man. Lady Carfax volunteered. ‘He seems to have behaved very foolishly, but very decently as well If one of vour officers will take me to him I think I can make him speak. Frank looked up sullenly as Lady Carfax entered the room where he was confined. He prepared himself to endure another inquisition; to hold bacx the names of his dead mother and the girl he loved so hopelessly from these prying busvbodies. ~ * “I am Ladv Carfax, Mr Croll, said the dignified old who appeared before him. “Miss Winter is my niece; and she is anxious to clear you of this ridiculous suspicion brought upon you by vour own folly.” “ “Miss Winter,” Frank repeated, in a dazed fashion. “She has told the police where you were all the time while this terrible tragedy was happening. She is very much concerned about you, because of a service you rendered her once, for which I am glad to thank vou. Y r ou can repay her now bv speaking frankly; if your story bears ‘out hers there will be an end of your connection with this mystery. “That’s right, Croll,” said the detective, encouragingly, as Frank looked doubtfully from Lady Carfax to him. “You’d better spill it, you know.” “Miss Winter did that? For me?” Frank liid his face in his hands, and struggled with his emotion. It was the

first ray of humanity which had shone upon his clouded existence since the day •when he had opened his mother’s desk and found that all his existence was

tainted arid blackened by shame. “Yes,” said Lady Carfax gently. “Qt course, you will not misunderstand ” “Have' no fear,” Frank interrupted. “Please tell her that I am deeply con scious of ... . You need not fear that I shall ever again lift my eyes to her again, Lady Carfax. Of course I shall do what you and she ask, and I thank you both from the bottom of my heart.'’ The old lady looked at him very kindly as he stood before her; he looked so handsome and so clean a specimen of British manhood, and, as Joyce had said, so noticeably said. Lady Carfax was in a difficult position. To her Croll’s fame was merely an unpleasant notoriety; his good looks and winning modesty were simply a dangerous memory for a respon si bit; aunt; his misfortunes, known and unknown; the fatal seed of romance which had sprouted in the imagination of a girl who was usually sane and sensible. “I shall not see you again, Mr Croll,'’ she said, extending her hand. “Miss Winter and I both wish you well.” I rank bowed over her hand, unable to utter a. word, and the old lady rejoined her expectant niece. “Well?” asked Joyce. “He 6eems a very well-behaved person for one in his class, ' said the old lady. “You have repaid the services lie rendered you, and now let us go home.” - . But Joyce Winter refused to leave until she had received the official assurance thait Croll was a free man. Before she retired for the night Lady Carfax noticed that the big diamond which had blazed upon her finger was no longer there, and did not know whether to be more pleased than alarmed. She was delighted to think that Lionel Tremavne was to receive his marching orders, but heartily wished Frank Croll were deposited in the most remote and'inaccessible of the British Dominions.

Having told his story, Frank Croll was set at liberty, with a word of caution about the inadvisability of threatening words or demeanor to members of the ruling and leisured classes. "It's bad enough from any ordinary chap,” said the grey-moustached Chief, “but coming from a tip-toe bruiser like yourself it’s ten times worse. Inside the Topes is the only place where you can afford .to strike a man, Croll; and, after seeing the wallop you gave Colby, I should be careful even there if I were you. And as for running after wealthy young ladies, wKy, Jet. ’em run after you, my boy. You are the sort they do run after, you know. Sow shake hands, and go for a nice holiday at the seaside, down in Cornwall, say. You’ll find it healthy there. ’ “Thanks very much,” Frank Answered. The anxious Westwood, who had been moving - heaven and earth to assist him, arrived opportunely at the moment of Frank's release, and carried him off m triumph. “Quick work, Frank,” he said ; “I was afraid you were going to spend the night there. ‘ It was my fault, too, making you rush away from Epsom like that, when they wanted to see you. Npyer mind, it- R all over now. And* by gum, yon look different, somehow; more like what you were When I first knew yorn j.. That sour look has gone, it seems to roe.” “Yes ’ George,” Frank answered ; ‘lm not sour any longer. I've given up the bating "business for good. One of the people I hated is dead ; and another, whom I was trying to hate, has . . . well, it's all over, anyhow. . (To be Continued.)