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Star (Christchurch), Issue 8705, 20 August 1906, Page 4

neither the cihuxch nor the law had either part or lot. I was eighteen .years of age before I learnt these initiatory facts of my history, and tliey came to ■me tthe.ii only because at that age I became 'the recipient of the proceeds of a legacy of ten thousand pounds from my late father. Both my parents were dead, and hrn lordship had left this money for me as a eo-rt of propitiation to the Fates with whom he expected he would have to deal on the other' eid'eNof the tomb. I setocat to 6e« th« world, Kenwood, but I did not plunge into dissipation. In thiat sense I was never vicious. But I began life with a grudge against Society, through wboss laws I had beem robbed of a title, and a ocraain preferred in my etead. Nature- had made me the eldest eon of a peer, tihe law, had wreisted my rights from m-&. I determined that if I could not enjoy, neither.should the usurper,'* an< * presently, took measures to effect that- pud. My cousin was ai man about thirty, pompous, inflated., but b-ran-witted, and, in secret, a gambler a-nd a debaucihee. I laid my plans wiith care, and at th« end of five yeasrs-t-but you remember the Reni-e-ha<ne cas^P Erery penny he had became mine, or went elsewhere. Some of it I won at play, some of it I stole, some of it I m-erdy helped to spend. Then I pushied, inveigled, trapped him into orim©. and though I assisted him to ©scape the meshes of the law, it was only that I might plunge him into tho lowest depths of misery and. d«isititution. Eventually h& blew his brains out, and the Renishane- titil© became extinct. When that happy comyunimation arrived', I, took stock and found, that costly as my triumph had been. I was. still possessor of twenty thousand pounds. I began, to look around me for a career. " I tFonght of politics,, for ha-ving once tasted tihe sweets of intrigue I wanted more. But it was never money that tempted me. It was the planning, and the working, and- the hair-breadth escapes which enthralled me. Had I been born in the 15th or 16th centurieß I should have entered the Church, become eventually a.cardinal, aaid probably, nay, certainly, finished as Prime Minister. Betvrcen a Richelieu and myself there would be nruch in common, but alas! I am a Richelieu three hundred yeaars behind my time. You have res*d ' The Three Musbetieers' and its sequels,?-Kenwood, and will recollect Aramis, a priest by profession, a soldier by chance, and an intriguant by itißtiuct. who becomes head of the Jesuits, and finally a duke and grandee of Spain. I, my dear fellow, am a modern Aramis. But there is no place in English polities' for an. Aramis or a Richelieu. The Englishman is a stolid ass, with prejudices which he miscalls opinions, and of a thick-headed obstinacy he falsely labels firmness. He might perhaps take a mere M.P. on trust but he insists on a cyclopaedic knowledge of his political leaders into the third and fourth generation. And r<»peotability is his god. ( The natural sou of a Parisian dancer would be hoofc-

©d down were ho £h© mightiest, geniye Heaven ever created. " When I was twenty-six I fell in love. She was the daughter of a very great personage, to his own thinking; at all events, he was frenziedly wealthy. She returned my affection, and had all but consented to go with me. when our s-ecret was discovered. ' and her, father, making: inquiries, and 1 learning something of my history, promptly turned me out of the house. ,' That, however, did not deter me. We * continued to meet, but the old man I was too keen-eyed for us. I fancy love . must have blinded my vision, and | dulled temporarily my mental faculties, i for, certainly, in our subsequent pas- [ sages, I demonstrated myself infinitely i his superior. However, catch me he did, and, calling up his reserves, in the * shape of four stalwart men-servants. I had me soundV pummelled. A few I months after this she was forced into [ a loathsome marriage with an aristoc. cratio wreck, and lees than two years 1 later ehe died, crivina; birth to an idiot ' and crippled child. I turned my ■attenr tion to her father. > "I regard that as my chef d'eeuvre. t The details may b& passed over; but > you may be interested to learn ihvi on 1 the third anniversary of her death her ' father appended in the Bankruptcy Court to undergo hia first. examination. ! I had \i?d, cheated, stolen, forged, and f slandered, but the net I drew around ' him there was no evading. , Four i months later he appeared in a felon's * dock charged with frauds he had never 1 committed, though there was evidence in plenty — of a sort. He was sentenoi ed to seven years' penal servitude— a » mild punishment for a virtual mur- : derer — but after the first 'his reai son save way, and he> died eighteen 1 months later/ a pauper in a madhotise. [ That, aeain, was rough justice, Ken- , wood, but justice uncontestably. "This girl had a brother whojS i though a youngster, had taken his sis--1 ter's side,' and had even incurred his father's resentment by championing ■ my cauee after my firet expuleion from ; the hou^e. He never guessed the part \ I played in his father's ruin, and, of course, by right of succession., in hie own. A year or two afterwards I found '< the lad, working himself to a shadow in 1 a dingy London office. I invited him to join me, and. in order that he might 6t,art afresh, we changed his name to Eales. You start, Kenwood — all, of > course, yon have met Eales. Don't run away with the idea that he has 1 been my partner; I have a horror of partners, and believe I have hi+herto pone ecaih-eless because of the ittinoe}sibility of treason. You, my dear Kenwood, first taught me that faithle^Bneits is as insidious, and almost as unpreventable, as typhoid or pneumonia. He was not my partner, yet his help hps.beAn no mrali as^etto me in pursuit of that rorgh justice against Sociey to which I have felt myself pledged. . ■ ♦ " And that, Kenwood, brings us to our own time. I determined to devote myself entirely to the work of an amateur Nemesis. At one time I was attracted by the opportunities offered in '. a career as a detective, and then it occurred to me that it would be a splen-' did idea to double the part of Sherlock 1 Holmes and the Mikado — to "unravel the crime, and then (as the law seldom does) to invent a punishment to fit. I , have a long list to go at. For instance, you have heard of Sir Charles Diamine, upon whom I /propose to revenge the wrongs of two children . whose mother, a simple but very lovely country girl, he ruined and then deserted. He is a very great man, but the erash # will be the more stupendous and amazing. At present the case of Christopher Rattray is occupying my attention." He stopped, and sat nursing his knee, and gazing with puckered face into the fire. " Then who," Rod began, ' who was that man who wa6 P "Who was murdered in Cra-neboro' you were about to say. Did you think it was I?" " I was sure of it." " But he wa6 identified by hie .wife, and I was never married." "No?" " No." He rase from his seat, and stood looking smilingly down, on nis^ prisoner, bis hands clasped lightly behind him. "You were a fool, Kenwood," he went on, "a fool to throw away your chance, and a greater fool to match your wits against mine. As if your puny opposition would avail to stay my progress. Tha final coup progresses (splendidly,, and when Miss Rattray is safely married to Cruston " " Never — that will never happen." "My operations will be complete," 1 Roachley went on. with unabated tran- | quility. "I intended you for that. You might have had her had you remained faithful. Meanwhile, I have taken a little liberty with your name, Kenwood. I wrote to Miss Rattray-*— " "Youd d !" v " Just so. I shouldn't wonder if you rt-ove right in the ©nd. However, as was saying, I wrote to Mi<se Rattray, telling her you had found her father, and asking her tojmeet you " "You infernal coward!" Rod criod, straining hard at his bonda, his face deadly pule, his lips torn to shreds be- ' tw«en his teeth. "To meet you her© alone," Roachloy ■ continued. Thera'a your one chance * of safety. She shall buy your freedom by. marrying Gruaton." 11 Let mo free I I'll kill you. If ever ' I get within reach I'll kill you." ■ ." I don't doubt that, Kenwood, and > hence my hesitation, 'to give you the opportunity you so ardently desire. ; Miss Rattray has. already started for '. the rendezvous ; indeed, she spent last r night in Crewe, and " "' D n these ropes ! If only I , could " '. "I fear the oords are uncomforti able ; I will have them readjusted. But * to return to Mies Rattray, who, as I . remarked, reached Crewe lasb night, i I sent her a message in your name, [ telling her that I- — you — would send a . carriage for 'her. The carriage has > been gone some time, and-; — ■— " There was a loud knocking at the ' door. [ "Come in/ cried Roachley. "Ah, is it you, Sanders?" » ! The one-eyed man with a lantern ' stood on the threshold. "The young lady has come," he said. " She's coane, * and her maid with her. She says L she'll not come in until Mr Kenwood * shows himself." "Ah! suspicious. Go upstairs, Sanl dera, and "warn Mr Eales and Mr Cruss ton to be in readiness. They are play- ■ ing cards in the room above this. Then * return to me here." l He closed the door, and stood once ' more facing Rod, whom he regarded > for almost a full minute with' sombre [ malevolence. [ "I think," he said slowly at last, ■ "I think ib may be as well if you do

not join — at first, at all events — in any conference that may onsue." With a quick movement h© sprang upon his helpless prisoner, and in & moment, with the aid of a handkerchief, had him securely gagged. Then, smiling cheerfully as he regai-ded his wo-rk, he disposed himself ontheedge of the table and sat thero in silence awaiting the return of Sanders.