A TIGHT CORNER

Sun (Christchurch), Volume II, Issue 617, 1 February 1916, Page 2

A TIGHT CORNER

ißy ARTHUR W. MARCHMONT S$ Anihor of "By Right of Sicori?," " The Man Who Was Dead." etc Kg]

CHAPTER XVll.—(Continued.) ENID REBELS. Enid felt her uncle wince at this, and licr anger and indignation passed all control. She sprang to her feet. "I think you are the most contemptible coward that ever lived! " she cried, magnificent in her rage. "Enid, dear. Kn'nl! " protested her uncle, timidly. "You've no call to say that," said Blount, white with rage, and looking Inexpressibly mean ami venomous. "[ do say it,'and 1 mean it. What are you but a, coward to lie as you have in order to make my uncle be a party to your infamous conduct to me? To drag out a promise to be y.our wife by threats, which all the time you knew were as empty of meaning as you yourself are of even the dregs of manliness and honour." "Those are hard words, Enid." "And what arc the actions which they only feebly describe!" "I don't want to talk about things you wouldn't understand," he replied Hullenly. •'I understand one thing—that any of the consequences so often threatened to my uncle will have to be shared by you; and I know you well enough to be certain that you think too much of your own safety to risk that," she cried, fjple.udid in her scorn i f him. "Oh, that's what they're telling you, is it? Well, you'll sec. Mr (,'racroft, yon heard that? You can tell her whether there's any truth in that. You'd Letter get this thing put right, or " and he shook his head meaningly. "If there were nothing else than that in you which is detestable, if you weren't, the mean, contemptible, sordidminded, vulgar, bullying sneak that T know' you to be, T should despise and loathe you for the meanness with whic you have cheated a feeble old man, driving him to the verg.' of distraction with your ceaseless three's of ruin and .disgrace, preying on his fears, twisting and exaggerating dangers, and doing— Ugh, what such a creature as you would do. Look at him now! If you had a npark of honour and manhood in you you'd go on your knees and own the truth ami cease such shameless persecution. But you? 7s"o. You are less man than viper; and your instinct is to turn and sting the man who raised you from the gutter.'' •"Raised me from' the gutter! I raised myself." Enid laughed contemptuously. "At any rate the gutter must have been as glad to be free of you as I am," and she raised her head with a great sigh of relief. • He shook with anger as he stood an instant in frowning thought. "I'll see you about this at the office in the morning, Mr Cracroft," he said as he turned to the door. "Mind you, this ain't, my doing. And don't von blame me for

what happens"; and with this parting j shot at I'lnid he went away. The old man had been a silent and' half-dazed witness of the scene, and sat! for a long time with fear and distress] in his vacant gaze. "I'm afraid you —you've ruined me, Mnid," he muttered presently. "Why, uncle'? What is really the meaning of it all? I have never been told the actual facts; only vague things! anil hints. It is true, it must be true, that if there is any danger for you he] must be in it as well.'' "You- —vou wouldn't understand it,! child." "That's just what he has always said. At all events I can try, if you'll only tell me." "But, there are things I can't tell you and others 1 myself don't understand," he, continued, in his hopeless hesitation. " What he said was that, you could be prosecuted by someone, I don't know whom, if the truth came out, and that the only way of preventing it, was by my becoming his wife. Of course, he frightened me, but —it was Mrs Gendall who wrote to me—you are partners, and therefore he must be just as much concerned as you yourself are. He isn't the man to get himself into any trouble. Who is there that would prosecute vou both ? " He shook his head and sighed. "Don't ask me, child. If it's got to |come, it must. 1 won't, sacrifice you. I 've been against it all through; but he's so —so strenuous, so masterful at, times, that I—oh dear!" he broke off with another heavy sigh. j "Of course, I don't know about these I things, but 1 suppose it's only a question of money at the bottom of it. There's mine, of course, if it's only the [money the creature wants, let him have |it anil welcome. Uncle, dear, tell me," 'she said, sitting down by him and taking |his trembling hand and pressing it lovii'lgly. "Tell me, dear. Do tell me." But he only shook his head and drew his hand from hers and motioned to her petulantly to leave him alone. I "Are you really afraid of him?" she asked after a pause. "Don't worry me, child," he said with increasing impatience. /'You've got your way, you've got your way. Let that be enough for you." | "You don't understand me, uncle. Hateful as this thing would be, if you tell me it is necessary, prove it to me, I mean, I'll try to do it. But I'm not a child any longer, and I must know everything —everything.'' He sighed heavily. "I don't think I know everything myself, and you were I too angry to let him explain." "I shouldn't believe anything he said.'' "There you go, again. I can't stand any more to-night. Oh, I wish I was dead," he exclaimed despairingly as he rose. "Don't come with me. Let me be by myself for a while. Oh, Lord!" and with another groaning sigh he went out of the room. The tears sprang to her eyes at the sight of his trouble. She recalled his

thousand acts of kindness, and wondered uneasily it' she had really done the right tiling in refusing to pay the price of his safety. The impulse gripped her , to go to him and take the refusal back; but at the thought of Blount she shuddered with a swift intake of the breath. She could not pay the price demanded. She would have had no such impulse had she known the thoughts in Blount's mind as he left the Hat, and the wholeheaftednness with which he swore at j Ihe man who had shown her how to checkmate him. He put it all down to I Bob; and much as he loved money, he 1 would have given all he possessed in the ! world to have been able to square the !account between them. ■ |. I He had hated him from the moment] 'he had seen him with Enid; and all] j night he twisted and turned, racking his wits to think of some means of re- 1 venge, gnashing his teeth in impotent] anger at his failure. I The following day he found n vent I for his rage in torturing Mr OTncroft. ] I That the latter was ill in both body and mind did not interfere with Blount's: I enjoyment, and he railed at him for his [weakness in regard to Enid, and frightlened him almost out of his senses by ! picturing the horrors of the impending iarrest, conviction, and imprisonment. | j His victim had been too long under j his swav, and was too distracted to ; I answer 'him. He writhed under the ] ] gibes and threats in unendurable an-] jguish until a chance came, when Blount I was closeted with a client, to escape. j He went home broken and so ill that I Enid was desperately alarmed by this ; result of her rebellion and all but ready {to vielil. Left to himself, Blount had to consent' 'himself by bullying the clerks. He was j an adept at this, keeping them late to Ido unnecessary work and inventing all, ] sorts of excuses for cursing them for a pack of fools. When he left the office; to go home—he lived at Olapham—he 'had a couple of drinks, and as he was [usually an abstemious man the whisky [got. into his head, and he turned into jthe Balgrave, a music hall on the other jside of the river, which he often visited. But the performance had little interlest for him in his present mood, and ihe sat through part of it in sullen indifference. I Then the turn of "La Lunette" was ! announced, and Blount was staring with jail his eves. For "La Lunette" was no I other than the girl Kstelle la Roche! ) He, watched her performance, but all the time his mind was working vigorously. Here, he was saying to himself, was the witness who could give him the 'evidence he was seeking. The curtain I had no sooner rung down than he was round at the stage door enquiring for the girl. In response to his urgent request, which seemed to cover some secret design,'she consented to go with him to supper at a restaurant near by, j wondering what business this eager little man could have with her. Blount was so elated by this rare stroke of good fortune that he had the greatest difficulty in preventing his voice from betraying it, and to gain time he spoke about Estellc's performance, complimenting her fulsomelyiilpon her dancing. . She was quick enough, however;, to see his motive. Police agents did not waste time in compliments, and thus by the time they reached the restaurant the panic which had overcome her at the moment of the meeting passed, giving place to curiosity. "Very strong and eager curiosity why this "queer little man," as she termed him, had forced himself upon her.

As they failed one another nt the little table, chosen because ot' its aloofness tYom the rest, she had a good look at him while he was ordering the supper. iShe lind not been long enough in London to know .many Englishmen, but his type was dot' altogether unfamiliar. The men who scrape acquaintance with | music-hall performers on the other side' of the Thames are not very distin-l guished; and she decided that Simeon! | Blount—lie had told her his name in the j '| cab —was on a par with the rest of thej 'class, and not an ill-looking specimen, i The circumstances of the meeting inj 'Paris came back very clearly to her.] '! The fierce quarrel with .lean Colonne;] llier rage and violent abuse of him—re-j : igretted ceaselessly and bitterly during; ievery moment of the intervening time;! > ; her fear that ho meant to kill her;, the! ! infinite relief when Blount had arrived! Maud her panic-stricken (light. But she i could not remember why he had come to 'the Rue Claude or whether he had .'jgiven her the reason. \\ it struck her now, and not for the 3 j first time, that he was in some way conI nected with Jean's disappearance—a "mystery which cost her hours and hours Hof fruitless and heart-breaking specula''tion. Not a moment had passed during ! which she hail not bitterly repented the r j quarrel.' and the furious reproaches 5 1 which.had driven him away from her; ? ;she loved as passionately as ever, and "lhad searched Paris in the vain hope : of fc j finding him that she might, throw herself • ! on her knees to beg his forgiveness. , fc Yet her love for him had instilled s caution in all her long search; and no •', single word, that could in any way implicate him or endanger his safety had j ever passed her lips. Her one consums|ing purpose was to seek him oiit, make ° him fulfil his promise to marry her, and, ' j if he refused, kill him or herself. 1 "You haven't forgotten me, then 1 ?" e |he asked as he poured her out a glass of e . ehinnti. s "Oh, no," she replied, smiling. " You >" came, to the Rue Claude when my friend 0 and I were alone there." r "And you bolted—went away, 1 : * mean," he explained, judging by her "broken English that she might not un- ' derstand the word —"saying you would " : fetch your father, lie never came, you : know." s "He had gone out, and 1 didn't know '' it." She could always lie glibly. °j "But you didn't come back to tell me," he reminded her with a nod. M "I went to lind him; and when I got |"!back you and Jean had gone." ' (To be continued.)