The Splendid Sacrifice

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 235, 23 December 1927, Page 5

The Splendid Sacrifice

By

J.B. Harris-Burland.

Author of: The Half-Closed Door," “The Black Moon," “The Felgate Taint ’ “ The Poison League.” Ac.. Ac

CHAPTER XXI

“But for the pace,” thought Sir Kichard, “it is like a funeral procession.” How like it was he aid not know, but he would have known if he had been able to read Joan’s thoughts “Ho is guilty,’’ she had said to herself again and again, “and the law will hang him. It is better that he should die by an accident —that we both should die.” From time to time she glanced at the pedals, the clutch, the brake, the accelerator. She had driven the car herself, and knew enough to wreck it. That seemed to her such an easy way out of all her troubles. And it was for that that she had allowed herself to be driven up to London. A swift, hard stamp of her foot on the accelerator at a dangerous corner, and there would be an accident from which flo one could escape alive. Every flow and then she glanced at the pedals, measuring distances. She was a small and she would have some difficulty in reaching the accelerator, and still more difficulty in putting her full weight on her husband's foot and driving it down on to the little plate of steel. And she would have to present him from declutching; she would have to jam her other foot under the clutch. The brakes would not matter. The violent application of these against the full power of the engine would Berve her purpose just as well. More than once it had seemed to her that the pull of both her hands cn the steering wheel would make disaster more certain. But she knew the strength of her husband s arms. •And ;t g<*o<i driver is never taken unawares, where the steering wheel is concerned. His grip would tighten automatically. it would, of course, be useless to ask him to let her drive for a little while. Still there was a remote chance, and she did ask him, and to her surprise ho said, “Yes, if you like —for a few miles.'’

He slowed down to come to a standstill, and thev changed places. Sir Richard put an air cushion behind her hack, so that she could sit forward more easily and reach the pedals. She thrust the lever Into the lowest gear, Put in the clutch rather too quickly, and started with a jerk. Sir Richard ■miled. and lit his pipe, bending down Under the cover of the wind-screen. How easy it had all been —no argument, no fuss, no attempting of ridiculous athletic feats. She was at the *heel and she could do what she liked

with the car. She would drive very cautiously so as to lull his suspicions. She knew this part of the country quite well—knew exactly where the accident would take place. There was an old narrow grey stone bridge at the foot of a long steep hill. The road turned sharp to the left as it reached the bridge, and the bottom of the slope. It was a danger spot and had been the scene of many accidents. It was a bare three miles away—at the entrance to a little town. A few minutes of life were left to her. She broke the sullen silence of that long journey.

“You were in Mirchester the night that Robert Smith was killed?” she queried, as they began to climb the long hill on whose further side lay death.

“Yes,” he answered simply. “How did you find that out?” She did not answer, and he laughed. “I know all about it,” he said pleasantly. “I was listening to your conversation in the library. There is another entrance —behind the bookshelves. I pushed that book out on the floor, when I’d heard enough.” The car swerved, but Joan set it on a straight course again. “You went to Mirchester to kill Robert Smith?” she continued. “Yes, I admit that,” he answered grimly. “You knew I had stolen the jewels, and that Robert Smith —we will call him Robert Smith —was going to —to that he was in love with me.” “My dear child —of course I’m not a fool.” There was silence for a minute and then Joan said, "How did you know I’d taken the jewels?” “Oh, well, I thought it over, and it seemed to me that you were rather stupidly eager to have your fingerprints taken when Belman had put away all his bag of tricks. And afterwards you refused to let me take them But I did take them. Y'ou had a glass of milk and soda one morning—the day you left Carne Court. Your fingers were smeared with the milk and I found a single print on the glass I compared it with Mr. Belman’s photograph. All very simple, “And vou jumped to the conclusion that I was going off with Mr. Smith?” “Yes. I knew that you were not in want of money—for everyday use, or for your clothes. Y'ou wanted a good deal of money—so that Mr. Robert Smith should not have to work to support you.” . . , , Again there was an interval ot silence, and then Joan said, “I don’t know why you should have assumed that I was in love with this—this "’ “I drew a bow at a venture. 1 could not think of anyone else. I went to Mirchester to get the truth out of him, and I meant to kill him when I was certain that he was your lover. Joan was silent. Her face was white and her hands trembled. She realised that she was not really in a fit state to

drive the car at all. At the top of the long hill, she slowed down, and said, “There is a glorious view from here, We’ll stop for a minute or two.” The car came to a standstill and the engine purred softly. Joan stood up and her eyes ranged over a hundred square miles of country. She regarded herself as a dying woman looking on the beautiful world for the last time, and she could have chosen no finer view than this.

“There is going to be rain,” she said. “It is so clear. What a lovely world it is, but for the men and women in it.” Sir Richard smoked his pipe in silence. His face was grim and hard, but there was tenderness in his eyes. Perhaps that was why he did not look at Joan when she said: “There is no place for a murderer in a world like this. Nor for a thief—nor for a faithless wife.” She sat down abruptly, and the car began to glide down the hill. But when they had travelled half a mile, Joan stopped again. The hills shut out the view. Only the winding road and the hills were visible. “Something dropped off the car,” she said. “Didn’t you hear it?” “Yes, Joan, I heard it—a clink of metal.” “You might get out and look. I can’t imagine what it was.” Sir Richard alighted from the car and walked back along the road for twenty yards. He saw a small spanner glittering in the sunshine. He stooped to pick it up, found the tool box closed and not open, and then he began to run down the hill. The car, gliding swiftly before him, vanished out of sight round a bend in the road.

The change had come over Joan, as she had stood up in the car and looked over the vast space of plain and hill. The lust of revenge and murder had died away in her heart. Whatever her husband hacl done, it had been for love of her. But she herself had no desire to live. She was not worthy to live. Life had become insupportable. She saw herself as a mean, evil, little creature, with no soul worth the saving. Hatred still burned within her, but it was hatred of herself. The car swung down a long gentle incline at a terrific speed. The valley beneath seemed to rise rapidly, as though it were being lifted up before her eyes. Yet her hand was firm on the wheel. She had the car well under control. She slowed down as she turned a corner, and saw the steep

descent before her —the descent to the old grey bridge, and the right-angled turn. Then she laughed, and came slowly down the hill, with her brake hard on, and her electric horn rattling out its blast of warning. There was a crowd of people at the foot of the hill, and two cars: and a third —overturned and smashed to pieces against the thick grey wall of the bridge. She shuddered at this grim, material picture of the death she had planned for herself. The road was blocked, and she drew up half a dozen yards from the shattered car. They were lifting a man out of it—some poor wretch, who had been pinned under the wreckage. There

was no blood on his white face. Joan saw it clearly in the sunlight—closed her eyes, and looked again. And for one brief moment she thought that she herself was dead —in some o their world. For she was looking on the face of her lover —the man who had called himself Robert Smith. CHAPTER XXII. •It was not a case of a ’double' at | all.” said Sir Richard to Mary Britton, j “The two men were about the same | size, but they were not in the least j alike. You see, none of us knew this j man by sight, nor did we even know I his real name. Joan, on the other

hand, was taken ill the morning after Robert Smith’s death. All she knew was that a Robert Smith had been murdered at 29 River Row. And even when she was well again, she never saw the papers or read a description of the dead man, and we did not talk about the matter. She supposed that it was her ‘Robert Smith’ who had been killed, and we jumped to the same conclusion. I should have learnt the truth if I had found the man alive when I reached his cottage. But he was dead. If I could have helped him to life again, I would have gone to the police. As it was, I crept out of the house and said nothing. Perhaps I was a coward, but you can understand

that I had put myself in a very dangerous position.” Mary did not speak. She was sitting before the fire in the library at Carne Court. Joan was ill again—not dangerously ill, but forced to remain in bed. “Robert Larpent—that was the man’s name,” Sir Richard continued, after a i pause, “confessed before he died that he had killed this man, whose real i name was not disclosed. To Larpent i he was known as Robert Smith, and Robert Smith was blackmailing him. The two men were both at 29 River Row, that night, and Larpent had given that as his address to —to my wife. Robert Smith, who appears to have had

a singular aptitude for crime, had found out that Larpent was going off with —with my wife. It was in Smith’s power to put a stop to the whole business. Larpent killed him. Both were rotten scoundrels, but I think Robert Smith was the worst of them; and, I daresay, I don't come in a bad third.” Mary clasped her hands round her knees and stared at the blazing fire. "Is this —this confession,” she faltered, ‘‘to b© given to all the world ?” “Xo. Larpent confessed to me before it was known that he was a criminal, before the police were brought into the matter. When he confessed to the police he said nothing except that he had killed Smith. They could not get anything else out of him. Poor devil: —he did that one good thing in his life.” For a little while there was silence. Then Mary said: "I don’t understand why you were not in the car with Joa n.” It ran away with her while I was

I | picking up a spanner. Mary, how can i Joan and I ever pick up the broken j pieces - of our lives again?” “You must be patient with her, Dick,” j Mary answered gently. “Patience and j time and love—Dick, if your love has [ survived this ordeal, it should be • strong enough to make her love you. j | She will never be the same frivolous, ; selfish little Joan again. She has ‘ been through the fire, Dick. She is burnt and broken. None of us can , tell what she will be —later on.” “But there is still this lie, Mary, j And you are bearing the burden of j Joan’s sin. All Mirchester knows, and j life will be made very hard for you and Arthur. How can Joan —how could any woman—recover her selfj respect while she lets you suffer for ; her own folly? And that is so im- j portant—that Joan should recover her i self-respect—the only sure foundation | i for happiness.” (To be Concluded)