For Her Sister's Sake, OR, THE LAVENDEN SECRET.

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXIX, Issue 8367, 25 February 1907, Page 2

For Her Sister's Sake, OR, THE LAVENDEN SECRET.

CHAPTER XXXIX. LIGHT IN DARKNESS. "Not that," he shouted, "not that; oh! my God, not that!" His outcry was silenced; a couple of policemen had caught him and drawn him, not urgently, from the court-room. The door swung to, blotting out the scene within, and Peter Crimple i>aw and heard no more. For a few moments Peter Crimple stood in the corridor, staring at the door which had closed upon him. Then he made a motion as if to demand re-admittance. But a stalwart policeman was on guard at the entrance and he turned away moving slowly and sullenly. As he went along the gloomy lobby a footstep passed him. He looked around and perceived Charles Ingram Without seeming to notice the cab-driver the curate paused an inotant on the threshold of a doorway hard by and then with an indescribable gesture entered abruptly. A shriek arose, sustained and shuddering—the bitter" cry of an anguished woman. Peter Crimple heard it, and putting his hands over his ears hurried out of the corridor into the openair. Outside the Old Bailey Court-house a crowd had awaited the verdict. As the cab 7 driver forced a path through the throng, he caught many a pitying phrase and kindly utterance. The verdict had become known, and a wave of compassion was sweeping over the public mind. But the justice of the verdict was not questioned. "She did it right enough, poor thing," said one man to another at Crimple's elbow. "They did their best for her, but every one knew all along she killed him." Peter Crimple sneered. "Fools!" he said under his breath, and with a fierce, powerful motion of his broad shoulders he cleft a lane through the mob and hurried on, muttering to himself.. It seemed but a few minutes since he foreman of the jury had pronounced that dreadful word "Guilty," and yet already the newspaper-sellers were running with papers on which the words "Lavenden Murder. Verdict," met the eye in glaring capitals. The cab-driver ground his teeth at the sight of. them, and turned into a side street. Walking heavily, in his well-worn, buttoned overcoat, he took a road that led northward, and came at length into the old-fashioned thoroughfare on the slope of Islington Hill. Reaching his own house, he passed in by the door from the stable-yard. As he tturned he handle and set his foot on the flagged hall, a little figure started forward out of the kitchen beyond. It was Tilda Crimple, an awful inquiry in her young face. She saw his own and screamed. "Oh! dad," she cried,, "no, no don't say they've found her guilty! Don't! don't! don't!" Peter Crimple caught his daughter as she reeled. "Keep a good heart," he said hoarsely. "The jury said, 'with the strongest recommendation to mercy.' Her —her life's as safe —as your's or mine." Tilda clung to him, sobbing. "Oh! dad," she moaned, "it's penal servitude for life, and she so young and pretty. And Mr Agnew—she'll break her heart for him, and him for her." The cab-driver drew a sharp breath. But he attempted no further consolation, and, releasing himself from his daughter's hold went into the kitchen and crossed to a cupboard. From it he took a long-necked bottle **' and a glass, poured out a draft of brandy and hastily drank it. He put the cork back slowly into the bottle, and replaced it in the cupboard. Tilda was weeping violently; he turned upon her irritably. "What's the use of snivelling?" he said. "If you want to snivel, go and • do it wfth some women folk or. other. I can't stand it." He fumbled for his pipe, filled and lit it, and turned to the kitchen door. "I must see to the horses," he told her. "You'd better go and pay a I -visit somewhere. You'd cry yourself into a fit alone, and I shan't be in again till late." Tilda tried to suppress her sobs, but he had already gone out into the yard and entered the stables. The tearful girl looked round her. In the half-shadows of the dying afternoon the kitchen, with its low ceiling and fireless grate, gave her—overwrought by grief and hurt by her father's anger—a shiver of misery. She ran upstairs for her hat and jacket, came down with them on, and went into the yard. At -the stable door she spoke to the cab-driver to tell him her destination. He answered her roughly, '' and she stole away, wiping her eyes with the back of her toil-hardened little hand. Ten minutes after she had gone, Peter Crimple emerged from the stables, and, glancingfthis way and that with a strained alertness, darted to the door of the house. Tilda had left the key under the mat; he stooped for it, unlocked the door, and stepped in, leaving the key in the lock. In the Tcitchen he got out the brandy bottle once more, and drank .another draft of the spirit, half a glassful af a gulp. Then he procured matches and a candle, and went up-stairs. Gaining the curate's room he opened the corner cupboard,, withdrew the bolts of the secret entrance, and passed into the hidden ioft. From an obscure niche under the .slates of the roof he extracted a cashJbox rolled in rags, and unlocked it. j It was full of gold and notes. He irelocked it, tied the small key to the

By R. Norman Silver, thor of "A Double Mask," "A Daughter of Mystery, "MeldlApart"The Golden Dwarf," etc.

["For Her Sister's Sake " was commenced on December 20th.]

lid, and carrying it out into the curate's room, wrapped it in a sheet of paper. This done, hei sat down, took a pen and scrawled a word or two on the wrapper. The inscription read: "Mr Ingram-—for Tilda." Peter Crimple re-read it, and added two more words—"with love." Something like a groan burst from his lips as he rose and left the parcel lying there. From the curate's room he went to his own sleeping-apartment, groped among the contents of a bureau drawer, and then descended to the kitchen, bearing the candle. In one hand he held a revolver, big and powerful, with a nickel butt, that glinted in the candle-flame. Passing through the kitchen he blew, out the candle, and set it down, then r 2traced his steps through the yard, and re-entered the stables. An empty stall faced him; he paused in it, and raised the weapon to his timple. Suddenly a strong hand seized his wrist, and his arm was turhed till the muzzle of the revolver pointed toward the roof. Peter Crimple turned his head, and saw —David Garth. The next moment the weapon had passed into the possession of the escaped convict, and the two men, each breathing heavily, confronted one another. Peter Crimple was the first to speak. "You, David Garth!" he said. "What brings you here? But for you I should have been out of my misery by this time." David Garth thrust the weapon into his pocket, and put his hands on the cab-driver's shoulders. "No, no, old friend," he said; "that wouldn't help her. You mustn't take it like that. Bad as things are, they might be worse. The judge passed sentence, but only formally, and he added that he would convey the jury's recommendation to the proper quarter, and lend it whatever support might attach to his own representations. She is safe from—from that awful death. I—l came, hoping to see and tell you so." His eyes filled like a woman's, and ran over.

"I—l heard you Tin? court, old friend," he said, "and every man and woman there thanked you. And now"—he paused, trying to speak lightly —"let us have no more nonsense about pistols." Peter Crimple flung him off. "Have done with your cackle," he snarled. "Give me that revolver, or I will make you kill me to save yourself." ;

David Garth stepped back the cab-driver had caught up a„bar of iron that sttfodj in a corner of the stable. He swung it above his head; there was a terrible gleam in his eyes, and he staggered as he moved. The raw brandy he had.taken was as gunpowder to which his anger had set the match. "Come on," he hissed; "kill me, kill me as I killed your brother." He stopped. David Garth was staring at him. Peter Crimple laughed wildly. "Oh! yes," he said; "I did for him —she didn't! I followed him home that night, and we had a row, and I shot him—shot him with the pistol he had taken from her, and left where I could grab it. Come on; you're his brother—pay the debt; it's all I want. I've wished myself jfdead & thousand times since." David Garth put! a!hand into his pocket, drew out the and levelled it. * "You killed my brother," he repeated'slowly, "and you would have let them hang her for it—her, a woman, a girl. And you think that your suicide would have paid for that. I tell you' No.' She must be vindicated; she shall be vindicated !" The cab-driver set his teeth, and brandished the bar. "So you would let them I hang me?" he said. "Not if I know it. That's why I did'nt confess. I knew they wouldn't hang her; she's too young and pretty, and too innocent. But they'd have swung me, and I know it! Shoot, my lad, shoot! that's what I want!" David Garth stepped back. He was too late. The cab-driver had darted in. The bar fell; it was of jagged iron an inch square, and it beat the convict to the earth like a crushed stalk. The revolver in his hand exploded, and Peter Crimple tottered. He was struck in the chest. Heedless of his wound, and with a strident cry of delight the cab-driver pounced upon the weapon. But he was thrust back before he could seize it. The stable-door had been hurled wide, and two men, leaping in, had intervened. They were Inspector Quilliam and Detective Quail. (To be Continued.)