THE BONDAGE OF HATE.

Sun (Christchurch), Volume VI, Issue 1789, 7 November 1919, Page 3

THE BONDAGE OF HATE.

[All Rights Reserved.] By CAPTAIN FRANK~H.''srfAW. Author of "The Lore-Tides," "A Life's Devotion," etc. CHAPTER THE WOMAN OP MYSTEBY. As she slipped into the inner room, Leatham made an appealing gesture. "Invite me to come with you, for Heaven's sake!" he said in a tense whisper, and the appeal was such that Farquharson was lifted from his own depression a little. "Why, certainly. Jove! I'd forgotten. I say, I'll put in a good word for you, old chap ■" "No, you won't; I'll fight this out' myself. Ask me to come." And when Bosie reappeared, her brother informed her that Mr Leatham would accompany

them to Hallington. Bosie bore up under the news; but she turned a frozen face to the sailor during the journey down, and there were moments when Leatham bitterly regretted the impulse that had led him to hug the sharp steel of misfortune to his breast. "You'd better not see her, Maurice, to-day. I'll go in alone." Bosie entered the prison, and the men betook themselves to the inn. "I shall try to find that friend of yours, Bobby," pronounced the soldier as they waited. "And, unless Bosie gets something definite, I start for Paris to-night*." "Hope you'll find something to work on; and, look here, we agreed to help one another. I'll go with you, if I shan 't be in the way.'' "There's no man in England I'd rather have with me, Bobby." So it was settled, and nothing now remained save to wait. The hours dragged by gloomily, conversation was scant between the two, and it seemed eternities before Farquharson, from the window, beheld his sister leave the gateway of the gaol. He met her in the hall of the inn, and asked a silent question. "Nothing, absolutely nothing, Maurice. And, oh, I'm so sorry. She's so lovely and so " Careless Bosie was labouring under strong emotion. "She loves you so much, Maurice, and yet—it isn't any use. Whether shejs hiding anything or not I don't know. 'She strikes me as a woman who has « been frozen into silence by some horrible thing that she daren't mention to a living soul. I asked her if she would see you, but she said nothing was to be gained by that. In fact, she said that you would do better to leave her to whatever Fate had in store for her. "I like that; but she doesn't know me very well if she thinks I'm going to abandon her now. Well, I'll try to see her again—afterwards. Now we'll get back to town, and then —it's Paris for me." They talked much on the journey back to>London, but Bobby Leatham's. speech seemed frozen, and .the conversation resolved itself into a dialogue in the main. At Farquharson's hotel Leatham's brother was waiting.* He drew the soldier aside, and for a couple of minutes Bosie and Bobby were left alone.

"Mr Leatham," began the girl in a somewhat subdued tone of voice. "Yes!" His reply was eager—there was something pathetic in this dog-like springing to attention at a word from her. "I don't like this trip to Paris; I feel afraid. It seems to me as though something dreadful was waiting there for Maurice. Call me a silly little fool if you' will, but the feeling is there. Promise me that you'll never leave him out of your sight. Maurice is—well, he's Maurice, and that means a lot to me." Bobby's heart leaped; she was placing a trust in him. Perhaps, who knew, when this mad tangle was unravelled, she would consent to place a still greater trust in him.

"I'll bring him back safely to you," he said feverishly. "Oh, you needn't be afraid. There's no danger, anyway; but if there is I'll see him through it, Miss Rosie.'' "I suppose I'll have to trust you," she said cruelly. "And here comes Maurice himself." The two men made their preparations swiftly, and met as appointed on the platform at.Charing Cross. Nothing of any moment occurred during the passage across the Channel, and the French express bore them smoothly to the capital. But on the station as they alighted Farquharson clutched at Leatham's arm.

"What does that mean?" he demanded in a hoarse whisper. '' I'm full of suspicions, I Jcnow, but why is Mrs Grenf ell's butler here in Paris?" "Why shouldn't he be?" demanded Leatham, no longer confused, but clearheaded and capable of swift thought and action.

"I don't know —but—he looks younger and stronger than he did before, and—let's follow him, Bobby; let's see where he goes." * , CHAPTER XII. NO. 85 BUE BERCHON. Perhaps it was a concatenation of ideas that prompted Farquharson to associate the butler's presence in Pans

with the quest upon which he was engaged. He was going to meet an Italian, and before becoming a naturalised Englishman Huron had been an Italian — the two facts seemed to merge into one another and weld themselves together. What if the butler knew something that was hidden from the world in general; something that might bear vitally on the mystery? "Which is the man?" asked Bobby. They had screened themselves behind the usual crowd, for Farquharson had no desire to court observation. "There, the old man, see he's trying to get that porter to attend to his luggage." "Pretty spry for an old man. I'd make, two heaves at that trunk myself,'' said the sailor. "Jove! he's shouldered it at one swing." It was a fact; the old servitor had stooped, and, without apparent effort, had lifted a weighty trunk to his shoulder.

"That's not in keeping with white hair and shaky knees," said Farquharson. "The man is something of a fratfd. We musn't miss anything that might help us, Bobby." "What do you want me to do?" The sailor thrust' back the sleeves of his heavy travelling coat, as though about to tackle the entire French Republic single-handed. '' We can't do anything definite yet. All we can do is to watch him, and hope to catch him tripping. That man's movements require constant observation." "He's making for the street now; it's funny we didn't see him on the boat coming over. And yet—l don't know. Do you think there's any possibility of " '' Quick, or. we 'll lose him. Come on.'' They moved swiftly down the station, keeping themselves hidden as well as they could. Quickly as they went, the man they followed was quicker still; he had thrown his trunk on to a fiacre, and was just entering the vehicle as they emerged from Jhe gateway. Farquharson hailed another carriage, and as it drove up spoke to his companion. "Did 3'ou hear anything—any address?" "Yes; I think it was Bue Berchon—that's up Montmartre way, isn't it? What's 'quatre-vingt-cinq' in English?" "Eighty-five, that'll be the number. Ho, cocher, follow that cab there, but do not overtake it." The cabman grinned; it was evident that he had been engaged on similar duties before. They had only hand luggage, and this they flung into the cab and entered. A panting motor wagon obstructed the way for a clear minute, and Leatham swore himself hoarse; but when they moved off, Farquharson leaned out of the window and glanced ahead. "We haven't lost him yet—there's the cab.'' They drove on, almost blind to the sights of the Paris streets, and their cabby roared himself distracted at his straining horse. "If this had been London, we'd have been run in for furious, driving long before now," said Leatham with a chuckle. "Being Paris, we'll be lucky to get off without broken bones." The cab spun round a corner on one wheel and a fraction, and tore along like a

'hurricane. On and on, through the heart of the city, threading a miraculous way amongst the traffic, followed by shrill expostulations from pedestrians who had nearly come to grief. It was exhilarating; but the thunder of the iron-tyred wheels put connected discourse out of the question. Twenty breathless minutes went by, then the cab drew up with a jerk. Farquharson drew in his head. "The other cab's stopped; we'd better get out and watch; but don't show yourself, Bobby—for the love of Heaven.'' It was a quiet street in the neighbourhood of Cliehy, but they had been too intent on the chase to pay much heed to the streets through which they were passing, otherwise they might

nave Known mat me nue r>eicuuii was not in this direction. But the one fact that arrested them was that immediately ahead of them the cab they had chased' had stopped, and the driver was already lifting Sown the luggage. Farquharson alighted, not knowing what he would do; at a deadlock. To accost the butler and demand from him an explanation of his movements might precipitate trouble, and make him appear in the light of a fool. Ten to one Huron would have a most plausible excuse for being there—he would be out of service -now, for Mrs Grenfell's house had been closed by Lasher's orders, and the servants dismissed, though such as were required for the purpose of giving evidence at the forthcoming trial had been warned that their services would be required. What was to prevent Huron from coming to Paris, and what could Farquharson do in the matter? He commenced to talk to the driver, nt the same time keeDine his eve on the

cab in front. The other driver had got the trunk down, and was now waiting for the passenger to alight. The door of the modest house at which the vehicle had stopped was opening—it was still early morning,- and the servants might reasonably be expected to be newly awakened —and a dishevelled woman showed. There came an excited yell from the cab, which was answered from

the doorway; the woman darted down the steps and flung herself into the cab. Farquharson waited, consumed by eagerness.

"Good Lord!" he ejaculated a moment later. Well he might, for the cab had given'up the dishevelled female and another —an elderly woman, who moved slowly and protested in a shrill, querulous voice against the strain. "We've followed the wrong cab—we must have done.'' Farquharson snapped the information at Leatham, and then moved on a pace or two. No mistaking facts here; it was an old woman, not a disguised man. They had missed Huron in the streets somehow. A glance inside the cab satisfied the soldier that such was the case—the conveyance was now empty. He returned to his own cab, and angrily demanded of the driver his reasons for making such a glaring mistake. "Monsieur is pleased to be ahgry; I did my best. I followed a cab that carried a trunk, and how was I to know that it was not the .same?" demanded Jehu in an aggrieved voice. He had reason on his side, for the old lady's trunk was strikingly similar, to that carried by the butler. "Wasted our time; we ought to liave driven straight to the number we heard," said Farquharson, re-entering his cab. "We'll go on there now, if you don't mind, Bobby."

"I vote we get something to eat first; the two sides of my stomach are rubbing together," protested Leatham. In the excitement of the chase neither had troubled to think of satisfying Appetites, but now they realised that the outskirts of Paris at an early hour of a November morning leave much to be desired in the way of comfort. "All the same, we might as well inquire about this 85 Rue Berchon. And I 'll promise you a meal as soon as we 've done that, Bobby." He gave the word to the cabman, arid they retraced their, path. But now, with the zest of the pursuit gone from him, smarting under a sense of resentment, the driver made no effort to break records, and the horse merely crawled. "We may have lost him for good,'.' said Farquharson, gnawing at his fingers. "He'll have to turn up for the trial, or else stand convicted as a fraud," was the sailor's comment. There was reason in what he said, but the soldier had not yet got over the feeling of disappointment. It had seemed to him as though he stood on the brink of a discovery that was to lead him straight to the goal which he most chiefly desired — ; Moira's freedom; and here he was with nothing gained, with a good deal lost, indeed, for now that the butler had vanished from view it might be an impossibility to -trace him again. Still, there was nothing to be done save to make inquiries at the address they knew; and when the cab stopped in the Eue Berchon the case had again grown more hopeful. Most people know .this unsavoury thoroughfare. It stands in the Moritmartre district, arid bears an unpleashnt reputation. Apaches frequent it; there are tawdry dancehalls and cafes of no reputation whatsoever. At night it carries a spurious glitter and glare which the grey of early morning banishes completely, revealing nothing but sordid shaFbiness. There were few people about, beyond sellers of milk and vegetables, though at one or two of the doorways of the cafes men were standing with brooms in their hands, interchanging harshvoiced reminiscences of the preceding night. "This is 85 Rue Berchon," said the cocher unamiably. i "Does, it please monsieur to alight?—and there is also his baggage."

"Leave it where it is and wait," said Farquharson. "Come on, Bobby; it's a cafe, and we'll be able to get something to eat here, I daresay." As a cafe it possessed no striking characteristics. It was a degree more shabby, if anything, than, the rest in that forlorn street. But the interior gave greater promise than the exterior; it was clean, the floor was newlysanded, the tables were scrubbed white.. The proprietress, too, was buxom of figure and good-natured of countenance; she came forward to greet them with an air of hospitality. "Can madame give us food?" asked Farquharson/ in French. Madame was plainly taken aback; volubly, wrapping ( her arms in her apron, she commenced explanations. The cabaret was not equipped to serve customers of such evident distinction as monsieur and his friend. A tasse of brandy now, or a bock, yes, that would easily be forthcoming, but as for a sufficient meal—she called all her chosen gods to witness that the handicap was too great. "A bowl of coffee and a roll, that is all we need," said Farquharson patiently. "And madame can supply that without 'difficulty; no?" She agreed that such a task was within her powers, and, betook herself to culinary regions, whilst the two Englishmen made a comprehensive survey of their surroundings. "Don't think we'll draw much here, but we can find out if Huron has arrived, at all events," said Farquharson, after casting his eyes around the

shabby place. "And yet; this wouldn't be a resort of criminals—although I've no reason to believe that the man is a criminal. Well, it's all hazy tb me, Bobby, but after we've made a few inquiries we'll seek out this friend of yours, and get hold of what he knows.'' Madame brought steaming" bowls of incomparable French coffee herself; she also brought crisp rolls and yellow butter. The two adventurers fell on the simple repast, and set the keen edge of their hunger ablunt; and ma'dame watched with something approaching pride. "It is seldom that one has the satisfaction of feeding hungry men,'' she explained. "As a rule-it is a glass of wine or brandy; nothing more—yes, and a petit caporal." "Madame will have many customers; that goes without saying," remarked Farquharson, with an appraising glance lat madame's comely face. "Steel flies to the magnet; n'est—ce pas?" -She tittered. "We do not badly, for our vin ordinaire is spoken well of by many. In a quiet way, you will understand, we have many customers." "Good wine, and a beautiful woman —the combination is irresistible; no wonder the customers come. Have you, perchance, one such customer who is named M. Huron?" (To be Continued.)