“THE WAY OUT”

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 508, 10 November 1928, Page 19

“THE WAY OUT”

Or “HEMINGS PROBLEM.”

By

H. Maxwell.

CHAPTER XVI (Continued). “It’s all fine,” he said, “and I believe every word of it, but you must understand what it means. There’s going to be a devil of a rumpus, you know, and it's going to play the very deuce with your father and his political career. It’s also going to be damned inconvenient for the Government, and I think it’s going to be infernally awkward for Dr. Reginald Carstairs. All that don’t really matter a curse, for I’m with you in thinking Mr. Temple has been reimprisoned to keep him out of the way, but if I serve it up as a public dish it’s going to be served up hot as hell, and that s where you come in. Suppose you were to think it over for a day before we go ahead? There’s plenty of time: we don't go to press till Friday afternoon.” “But can’t you get justice for Mr. Temple without involving father?” Cicely asked with down-drooping mouth. “Hot as hell, Miss Heming, it will have to be served up hot as hell or not at all,” was Stone’s reply. “But I love him, and there’s nobody else to help him!” “Ay-yay, if that’s the way of it . . .” “It’s infamous that he should go on being punished for what he has not done.” "I agree, I agree, but still you know there’s going to be a devil of a rumpus. Suppose you sleep on it and come and see me again to-morrow. Will Mr. Temple thank you for it? It’s j r ou and him I’m thinking of.” He blew his nose violently, and began tugging at his beard. It was a devil of a business. The worst of having an imagination is that it is so easy to put yourself in another person’s place. And it was at this moment that the shock-headed youth entered the room and said: “Sir Edward Conway-Heming and Dr. Carstairs to see you, Sir, and I was to say it was most important and they’ve brought the car to take Miss Heming home.” The youth was obviously impressed and a little scared. “Br-r-r-rum„” said Alexander Stone, his eyes instantly alight with the joy of battle: then with fatherly tender-

ness to Cicely; “I’ll be just as you like, my dear; shall we have them up or shall we send ’em packing?” “It doesn’t matter either way; I suppose they'd better come,” she answered dejectedly, and Stone said fiercely to the youth, “Show ’em up Br-r-um—Br-r-r-um —show ’em up." They came in a moment later. Sir Edward looking ghastly, Carstairs beaming and jaunty. “Cicely dear, we couldn’t find you, and were anxious about you," said Heming. “Met your father, Miss Cicely; heard you were playing truant, made inquiries, traced you here, come to take you hom’e,” chirruped the little doctor. “I’ve been telling Mr. Stone about Roger, and he’s going to help me to get him out of prison.” said Cicely in a toneless voice. ‘Tut-tut-tut! Miss Cicely, leave all that to Sir Edward. He’ll have him out of prison in a jiffy. What can Stone do? Stone has no influence.” Carstairs bowed and beamed at the editor, then went close up to him and whispered, “Poor girl, daft for the moment, engaged to Roger Temple, broken his ticket-of-leave and sent back to Dartmoor; dreadful shock to her; no reliance to be placed on what she says; sad trouble for her parents; help us to get her away quickly.” “Speak out, sir; speak out!” said Stone, fiercely. “You and I share no secrets.” “Pooh-pooh,” replied the doctor goodhumouredly. “Secrets — I should think not —don’t be a fool. Well —well, we’ll go home, Miss Cicely, eh? Lady Elizabeth utterly upset about you. Better be getting back. Sir Edward. don’t you think? Good-bye, Mr. Stone, goodbye.” “I think now you’re here.” said Stone, who was bristling for combat, “it would be well if I repeated in your hearing what Miss Heming has told me. She tells me that you told her that Raymond Compton killed Mary Barstow. She tells me that Sir Edward corroborated the statement as to his own knowledge. She tells me that you admit having supplied Compton with the drug with which he after-

wards poisoned the girl. If these statements are fact I should like to ask the Solicitor-General why he does not use them to clear the character of an innocent man, and that man his prospective son-in-law?” Heming was as white as a sheet, but Carstairs didn’t turn a hair. “Ah, that’s where the mischief is'” he twittered, and wheeling round with one of his little bird-like hops shook his fist in Stone’s face. “If you must have it, they are not facts: if you want to break Miss Heming’s heart, you’ve done it,” he cried. “They are not facts, they are not facts, they are not facts. I hope you are pleased with yourself,” he shouted. “Pah!” he twirled about and snapped his fingers. “She’s got to know the truth, now, and you ought to be skinned.” “Man,” said Alexander Stone. “I’ll pitch ye out of the window unless ye behave with becoming respect.” “Pah!” retorted Carstairs, and strutting up to Heming, tapped him peremptorily on the shoulder. “The truth, Sir Edward, your daughter must know the truth.” “The truth, father; isn’t it the truth?”

“No, dear,” came the faint reply, and Heming turned away to avoid seeing the anguish in the girl’s eyes. “I will tell you the truth,” said Carstairs. “You ought uever to have been deceived; you ought to have been told at the very first; it would have caused you less pain. I wish it were anybody’s task but mine to enlighten you; you must brace yourself for a most painful revelation.” “Didn’t Raymond Compton kill Mary Barstow?" murmured Cicely. “No, he didn’t. It was false kindness to mislead you. You had allowed yourself to fall in love with a scamp. You were infatuated. Your father feared to disillusion you. We agreed that I should pretend to be conversant with all the details. I invented them. I knew nothing of Bjjj'stow or Compton. You asked me who murdered Barstow? I mentioned the first name that came into my head, Compton’s. Compton was dead. It could do him no harm. And there you have the truth at last.” “Roger killed her?” “Yes,” said Carstairs. Cicely uttered a low moan, aud slid to the floor in a swoon.

Long after his vistors had gone Alexander Stone still sat at the desk heaped with the seemingly hopeless litter of papers. But he was not thinking of his work or his visitors. He was thinking what he could pawn to raise the money to buy a now pair of shoes for his youngest daughter. •To be continued.)