LOVE WINS THROUGH

Taranaki Herald, Volume LXVII, Issue 16504, 4 August 1919, Page 8

LOVE WINS THROUGH

POWERFUL STORY OF ROMANCE AND MYSTERY.

By BEN BOLT,

Author of “The Lady of the Miniature, “Love Finds tin: Clue,” “The Sin of Silence,” ,ctc., etc. CHAPTER Vll.—Continued. “1 do not hope to keep you for ever. Already i see you entertain the hope ot many who como to lie Non. I do not blame you. Ido not ask that you will never try to get away. I only ask that you will not do that anti lake advantage of the liberty I am. ollering you. You will give mo your parole d’honuenr ?” • Yes, monsieur!” answered John ArccU, after a pause. “'.then that is settled,” said the governor with a. smile. “I will mane arrangements. You will return now, but before a. day you will be removed to bolter quarters.” “Thank you, monsieur.” r i lie governor laughed. “You will show your gratitude by not running ewav before 1 have the ulci-iircs that I ni-ed. Will you take the lady ol tile staircase with you s'” He held tin- block towards his prisoner, and as Arcott took if, he smiled. “Arid the pastels, monsieur? Take U.'-in also.” He signalled to the guard, and as John Art-oU was led away, nodded to him genialiy. Thai had all happened lour months before, ami the hut in which John Arcott now sat meditating, and which he shared with another prisoner, was one ol idle privileges extended to him by the governor’s favour. On the wall of this hut, fastened hy a couple ol pins, was me pastel sketch of Stella Sherwood by which he had proved his powers as an artist, and Irom time to time as he meditated, he looked at it with eyes that had in them a shadow of pain. Often in those lour mouths the governor's words had recurred to min. hie himself could not understand why the girl had not intervened to save him. and once or twice he had even permitted himself to question whether he had been right to accept the girl’s word ibr.v she; knew nothing of the dead man. The question rose in his mind now as ho reflected on the past, but ho dismissed it with a shrug and a smile, and gave a glance at tinsketch. “Henri is right.” he murmured aloud. “It is not the face of a killer. -She did not, could not do a thing like that.”

Henri was the political prisoner who shared the nut with him, and to whom he had confided his story, ami who had laughed at the mere thought of iktolla -Sherwood ever being betrayed into .crime. He was awaiting his return from the work of the day now, and as ho waited, he still perplexed liimsc II with the riddle of Sielbt Sherwood's inaction and the problem of the dead man in his fiat oil the Place Pigalie. Why had the girl not eome forward to testify to his innocence? Had she been afraid? Had she left Paris and not known what had happened to him. or had sho cared nothing so long as she herself was not dragged info that terrible affair? He had not really desired her intervention, so he had told himself a hundred times, and oven now told himself again, but he could not hide from himself the fart that intervention on her part was what honour and common gratitude alike should ha ve dictated.

Ho sat there pondering these questions and finding no definite answer to them, and so absorbed was ho that lie did nob observe Henri's approach. But the laTtor saw him through the open doorway, and, understanding his absorption, smiled. “Why? Why? Why?” he cried, with a wave 01 his hand towards the portrait. “The riddle of the sphinx! Pooh I It is a little thing before the riddle of. a living woman’s action! i know how you feel, mon ami, but it is not good to think too much of the past at lie Non. 1 say that, yet to-day J bring you something that may shod light upon it.”

“Indeed, Henri! What is that? asked John Arcott quickly.

“Just a little story that I hoard whilst working with the road-making gang, to.-day. There arc two men there of the true criminal typo, and J heard them talking. One ot them was, telling of a mutual friend who had been paid two thousand francs fo murder am artist who lived near the Place Pigalie. and how wildly they hud spent the money received for the deed. It was the debauch qpd not the deed the man enlarged upon, - and I dared not question him, -since lie might grow- suspicious of me, and one of those days an at-cide.nl might befall me, a stone would slip from a crane in the qnairy or—one of many tilings that would mean my death would happen. And not yet am L tired of life, for I cherish the hope of one day breaking from prison. an« of seeing Franco once more. Bub whilst they talked I had an idea!” “Ves, Henri r” cried John Arcott eagerly. “You arc an artist, mon ami. You dwell near the Place Pigalie. What, if the man who was killed in your apartments was the wrong man? What it von were the man who was to have died?”

“(Ireal Scot!” cried John Arcott suddenly. staring at his friend with the. light of illumination in his eyes. “Aou agree? Y r ou comprehend all now, John? There is something that I do not know behind, something that has become clear to you, and which explains everything?”

John Arcott did not immediately reply. For what seemed to be quite a long time lie sat staring straight before him, and a heavy frown gathered on his luce.

“There is something,” ho said at last speaking slowly, “something that I find very hard to believe.”

“That,” said his friend, “is often characteristic of the truth. Does this, which is so difficult for you to believe, taken in conjunction with my idea of the little story I have told yon, explain the mystery to yon?” “it does,” answered Arcott thoughtfully, “everything except what "the strange man who died was doing in my apartments.” '.Poof! That is nothing! A hundred accidents would account for that, and no doubt tlio explanation of ids presence, if one but know it, is very simple. It is the other that matters—the motive for the killing. You understand that at last? Yon have the key to all?”

“It is just possible,” was the reply, '■’but I must consider tho matter carefully,”

"Vos,” answered Henri, “carefully. That is the way of wisdom. But you will permit mo one question, mon ami? The explanation that you think of-^it

docs not involve Mademoiselle Sherwood t” ‘‘No!” replied Arcolt quickly. “Xot even remotely.” ‘‘That I was sure of,” answered Henri, turning to the portrait. “And I am glad, for your sake, I am glad, mon ami.” (Continued daily.)