The Scales of Justice

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXX, Issue 8528, 5 September 1907, Page 2

The Scales of Justice

CHAPTER XXV.—Continued. "There was no scene of violence, j no knocking of the impudent suitor out of the window, or anything of , that kind. Beard's request was as coldly and courteously refused as ii he had asked the king" for one of his daughters. And, Beard protesting, he was advised to study the case of Colonel Lynaley, a Yankee, who had carried off one of the Virginian beauties some years before, and been tracked and shot by her infuriated relatives as a penalty for his crime. Mind you, that was not called a crime then—it was retributive justice. "1 cannot sufficiently impress upon you what pride and casts mean in Virginia. The brothers Delamere looked upon the whole thing as settled, bu*" they had reckoned without their host where Beard was concerned. He had made up his mind from the first what he was going to do and as a matter of fact he had had more than one to help him. We went into the whole thing carefully, and planned an elopement. Everything was ready, down to the clergyman who was going to perform the ceremony. We need not go into the cunning way in which the thing was worked, but before the brothers could realise what had happened, their sister was married to Beard, and they had made their way by a roundabout route to New York, where I parted comDany for the time. "I did not see Beard again for a who.le year. I thought that he had gone back to England with his rich bride, and that he was devoting his time to someone. But one day I me f . him in the Broadway, looking a little as if fortune had been against him, and he told me everything. He had run a great risk for nothing. Ada Delamere was not an heiress at all; as a matter of fact, she had nothing, unless she married with the consent of her brothers, in which case a large sum of money was held in trust for her to be paid over on her weddingday. If she did not marry to the entire satisfaction of her family, she got nothing. There was an evil grin on Beard's face as he told me this, a look that did not say much for the happiness of Ada Delamere. I asked where Ada was, and Beard told me coolly enough that they had had a dispute and parted, and he did not know where she was. This was the scoundrel's way of telling me he had abandoned the poor girl to her fate. "Now, I am not what I know I should be, Mr Doyle, but I could not stand that. To a certain extent I had been instrumental in bringing this misery on an innocent woman and I determined to find her out. I found her literally starving in the slums of New York, I found her at the very time that her brothers had got on har track. The poor girl still believed in Beard; she was still ready to go back to him if he gave the word. All she thought of now was to save him from the vengeance of her relatives. And at this point the Cawdors came on the scene. Mr Cawdor was not the rich man he became later; he was very poor, and had hard work to support his wife and two baby girls. "They were the or.lj friends that Ada Beard had in the world. And it was they who helped her to save when the Delameres turned up. They fout.d their sister with a child in her lap. They offered to take her home again after they had done with Beara. The girl pleaded for Beard for the sake of her child; she asked for his life and they gave it. But the vengeance was not going to sleep; it was only lying dormant till Mrs Beard died. Their vengeances are never forgotten: time does not soften them. They would take their 1 own sister and her child back again. "When they were ready to go, the child disappeared. Mrs Beax-d declared that her husband had taken it away at the last moment. She pretended that he was devoted to it. It is strange to what women will resort where the safety of a loved one is concerned. As a matter of fact, she had not a child at all. The whole thing had been got up to save Beard, and the child had been borrowed for the occasion from Mrs Cawdor." "Good heavens!" Gilbert cried, "do you mean to say that—that " "I see you have guessed it," Marston went on in the same deliberate way. "The little child who was supposed to plead dumb-mouthed for the sake of its father, was Mrs Cawdor's —the young lady Winifred, to whom you are sometime going to be married. It wa- a most ingenious scheme to save a worthless scoundrel. How could the Delameres track down and kill a man who had with him the outcome of their own flesh and blood? At the same time, they did not want the child, who would remind them too much of Beard." "I see!" Gilbert said thoughtfully. "You said that you would interest inc. and you have done so. This, then, is the terror that hangs over Beard—this is what he is so afraid of? But there is one thing that I fail to understand. Why has the vengeance broken oit after ail these years? Why do . °se men come to England and'revive vendetta?" "I don't believe ihey intend to revive the vendetta in England," Marston said. "Mind you, that came tiling that applies to Beard applies to me also. I was an instrument, and have to suffer when the time comes. These Delameres will not try open violence; they will strike in quite another way when the sword is ready to fall. They are over here seeking definite information. That is why they looked up Madame Regnier, who id a renegade Vii-ginian. It was a bit of good fortune that they struck upon Beard at his home.

"And as to the child," Marston went on. "The Virginians, as I did not fail to point out, are in mourning. My idea is that their sister,

By FEED m. WETO,

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Ada Beard, is dead, and that she made a full confession before she diad. It. is the most likely conclusion I can come to. li that is so, the reason fax* their presence in England is on its obvious."

"I. begin to see what you mean," Gilbert replied. "Beard has a feeling that he has been watched ali the time. He feels comparatively safe so long as the Virginians believe that he has a daughter who is their own flesh and blood. If Winifred married well, their suspicions would be aroused by the fact that Beard never visited her. Now, as she was under the same roof as himself, things looked more natural. And that is why the scoundrel deliberately ruined me."

"I expect so," Marston replied. "You were in the way, and Beai'd does not permit anybody to be in the way. .Besides, you were useful in taking all the blame of the stolen bonds, and also averting suspicion from the real thieves. Not that they benefited much by the risk tliey were taking, seeing that they lost all the bonds, with the exception of the few found in your rooms. But I think I shall be able to set that right before long." "You mean that you can prove my innocence?" Gilbert cried. "I hope so. Mind, there is a deal to be done first, and I am by no means in the best of health. You did me a good turn the other night; you took a great risk for a stranger who is nothing to you, and I am not the man to forget these things." "It is a most amazing stoi-y," Gilbert said. "It is so strange as to be almost beyond belief; and yet everything fits in perfectly I think I had better tell all that I have heard to George Drummond. He may be able to make use of the information. I shall tell him in the morning." Marston nodded thoughtfully. The cigar had been long finished; he was gazing into the embers of the fastexpiring fire. Perhaps his mind had gone back to the past, for he seemed almost to have forgotten the existence of his companion. When he spoke again it was more slowly. "I am going to London to-morrow," he said, "on your business. I fancy I can see a way to help you. It may be inconvenient to me, but that does not matter as my end is so near. Once I get down on a sick-bed I shall never rise again; of that I am certain. And now it is getting late, and as I have many things to do to-morrow, I'll say good-night!" yfli ""-''4' Gilbert rose and held out a hand to his companion. He could not feel anything but kindly disposed jgtowards the man who was going to befriend him. "Good-night," he said, "and'many thanks for all you have told me. And if anything happens to you, your child shall never know what it means to want a home."

CHAPTER XXVI. _ _ MISSING. It was late the following aftei-noon before Gilbert had a chance of seeing George Drummond. The latter appeared to be excited and eager; he had had news from the War Office. The authorities had sent for Ronald Cardrew, who had followed George home by the next ship, and Cardrew was not to be found anywhere, though he had been seen in London. "But you know where he is," Gilbert exclaimed. "He is hiding at Madame Regnier's. When matters are quiet ripe, you can go and fbrce him to see you. Has anything fresh happened?" "A great deal has happened," George said. "It has partially been proved that it was Cardrew who ordered that disastrous retreat when I was lying uncounscious from my wounds. Cardrew said that I sent the orders by Serjeant Bexhill, and he was backed up by another man whom he bribed. You see, Sergeant Bexhill, who was the most valued non-commissioned officer in my regiment, was supposed to be killed. The good fortune that has come to me lies in the fact that Sergeant Bexhill is stili alive. He managed to get away, after all, and Colonel Courteiidy has seen him. He also saw the corporal, and examined him. Now the corporal lias disappeared—'Je&erted, 1 expect. So practically the whole thing is out, and that is why the War Office wants to see Cardrew. The thing will be public property in a few days." Gilbert congratulated his friend warmly. Then he told his own story at rlencth. Geoi'ge put his own affairs aside to listen. "We must settle this thing without delay," he said. "1 had better see Flora Cameron, and ask her what she thinks of it. She was lunching with my sister, and I left her at Grange Court when I came here. And I am glad to say that Sybil is taking her trouble very v/ell. She has the sense to see that she has escaped from a great danger." (To be continued.)