“The Crooked Made Straight,”

Wairarapa Daily Times, Volume 49, Issue 14972, 25 July 1923, Page 7

“The Crooked Made Straight,”

PUBLISHED BY SPEC lAL ARRANGEMENT. POWEREUL STORY OB LOYE AND ADVENTURE—

By BEN BOLT. Author of “Linked by Peril,” “Love Binds the Glue,” “The Lifting of the Shadow,’ etc., etc.

(COPYRIGHT.)

CHAPTER Xl.—Continued. “How long are you going to be there?” asked Corbett. “A fortnight, sir,” replied the old gipsy. “Well, listen to me. I believe your story, aud I find it interesting. Next Wednesday I shall pay you a visit and talk tlie thing over with you. Here’s a sovereign for you. Go quietly now —and when I come to see you I’ll bring you more. ’ ’ ‘■' Thank you, kind sir. That woman is a daughter of the Evil One. She tempted my daughter, aud now she denies it, and I know she wished the child to die ” “That will do, old lady! Keep it till Wednesday, and then you can tell me everything. I must hurry back, and not keep the daughter of the Evil One waiting. Good afternoon!” He turned and walked quickly towards the hotel, a thoughtful look on his face. As he entered, Lady Lisburne looked up, and he saw an anxious, worried look in her eyes. “Has she gone, Rufus?”

“She is hurrying down the road at the rate of two miles an hour, which for a woman of her years is express speed.” “She is a lunatic!”

‘ 1 Of course. But, like all lunatics, she is difficult to persuade of the fact. It cost me a sovereign to : convince her she was making a mistake. ’ ’ ‘■'Well, if you persuaded her, it was cheap at the price, and x shall be happy to reimburse you. It is so dreadfully unpleasant to be charged with something of which one knows nothing at all.” “So I should imagine,” he answered cheerfully. “But there’s no need to worry over a crazy old woman’s mistake. Suppose we start?” His manner gave no hint that he regarded the occurrence as of the slightest importance, and once •or twice on the way back he laughed aud chaffed his companion about the embarrassment it had caused her. But once in his own room, he gave himself to serious thought, and smoked innumerable cigarettes while he considered the matter in all its bearings. “There’s something -remarkably fishy somewhere,” he said at last, “and if only I can find out what it is it ought to be worth while. The sooner jl interview that old witch the better.”

tives of th e Sahara when overtaken by similar storms. Half an hour passed and the storm grew less violent, the air less dense with the fine sand. It began to grow lighter, and, lifting his head, John Harland saw that the worst of the storm had passed, and that, like a huge curtain of darkness, it was rolling away to the eastward, blotting out the desert landscape before it. He shook himself fre e of the sand with which lie was covered, and turned to his companion. “Johnson!” he shouted. “Johnson!”' His partner made no but lay there inanimate like a dead man. In an agony of fear, but gently as a woman, he turned him iover and hastily examined him. The kerchief with which he had plugged the gaping wound made by the spear was still in its place but it was soaked with blood, and the unconscious man’s face had a grey look. At first the young man thought that his companion was dead, but investigation revealed a slight fluttering of the heart. Rejoicing at this evidence of lingering life, he began the endeavour to revive him. The waterhole was close at hand. It was not the best of water at any time, and now it was covered with a film of red sand of infinitesimal fineness, but with a stick he broke the film, skimmed it to on e side, and obtained a pannikin of water that was passably useable. With this lie returned to the injured man and began to lave his face, and presently poured a few drops between his lips. After a few minutes his endeavours were rewarded. Johnson opened his eye's 'and groaned. Apparently li e did not see the young man kneeling by his side, for he took no notice of him at all.

As it happened, he had not to wait for that interview before the inwardness of the interesting incident at the hotel revealed itself. Bor on the Sunday, having declined an invitation to accompany Lady Lisburne and her husband to church, he went for a stroll across the park, and was driven by a thunderstorm to ; shelter in one of the lodges inhabited by the widow of a servant of the estate, a garrulous old woman. Her garrulity he found tiring, and whilst she babbled on, amused himself by examining her possessions. Walking round the room, he came upon a rather faded photograph in a plush frame. It was that of a gentleman between five and twenty and thirty years of age, and something very familiar about the face arrested his attention. Where had he seen that face before? As he asked himself the question his mind supplied the answer. It was the face of the portrait which Molly Lisburne carried in the little gold locket. He was sure. of it. But this photograph had manifestly been taken a long time; it was oldfashioned and the clothes were of a cut that H e turned Sharply and broke in on the old woman’s garrulity. “Who is this?” he asked. “That is Sir John Lisburne, the late baronet, sir, taken before his poor dead li’l boy was lost. He was never the same gentleman afterwards. It changed ’im in a way you’d never believed, an’ ” , ,

“Tell me about the child,” he interrupted. “I know nothing about it.” The old woman told the story with manv digressions, and with much sentimental maundering, and long before she had done a light had broken on Rufus Corbett. He told himself , that here was the key to that incident of the old gipsy woman, that her story, after 'all, was true; and his mind, working rapidly, began to link things together. That child had stood in the way of his host’s succession to the Manor, and he had disappeared into the bog, apparently; but, as Corbett now guessed, he had been kidnapped, either at his. hostess’s instigation or with her connivance. Then like lightning flashed the question—did Sir Anthony Lisburne know the facts? It was quite possible that he was in ignorance, that the Whole thing had been engineeredby his unscrupulous and ambitious wife, but, in any case, it was an amazing story, and when all the facts were in his possession it could scarcely fail to be a source of profit to himself. Then another thought struck him. There was at least one other person besides Lady Lisburne and himself who knew or suspected the real identity of the inan whose portrait she carried, and that was Molly Lisburne. What was it sh 0 had said in answer to his question as to whether her rescuer was a gentleman or not? Bor a moment her words eluded him, but as lie walked back across the park they recurred to him quite clearly. “By both birth aud station, though it was not known, lie had a greater right to the claim than Tyi'Olsl The girl knew, Lady Lisburne knew, but they both believed the boy to be dead —lost in the wrecked Taroomba, whilst he, for his ] art, knew that the true master of Lisburne was yet alive, for bar he not left him sleeping in the hut bn the Australian coast, when, after robbing his partner, in the character of Cyril Wilson, he had fled across the waste to civilisation? He laughed with satisfaction at the vista opening out before him. Profitable ways were at his feet. To him it seemed his marriage with Molly Lisburne was assured. He looked round the beautiiul park and thought to himself that it would stand for a good deal of money; and, as always, he was badly in need of money. Then he laughed to himself again. . _ “What amazing luck!” he said aloud “What truly amazing lucid” CHAPTER XII. With the sand whirling round him in a choking smother, John Haxland saw his partner go down; and though in the darkness of the sand cloud he could see nothing, h© managed to grope Ihis rway to tlie- fallen man. Johnson was lying on his back, and the long iron wood speftr was still in his chest. The young man nerved 'himself to draw it forth, and checked the immediate rush of blood with a kerchief h© took from the fallen man’s neck. Then, since there was nothing further that ho could do in the darkness, |»e turned the injured man over to protect his face from the flying sand, and himself crouched down beside him, face down in the sand, and back to the storm, aa he remembered was. the custom of the na-

“I say, partner, old man, is it very b&fi?” enquired Harland. Then his eyes 'turned towards him, and in them Harland read that knowledge of the end >vh:ch is so often vouchsafed to both men and beasts in the ultimate hour. “They’ve got me sure, sonny,” whispered tlie wounded man huskily. “Oh, but it’s not as bad as that,” protested Harland, denying his own conviction. “But —I—l know it! I can feel it,” answered th© other. “This is the finish!” “ But ” began Harland, and then broke off helplessly, for he knew that What his partner said was true. “It was them—black fellows—guess they thought we was after ’em an’ — w e weren’t. But —that don’t make no difference. I’m all in, an’ I won’t see my li’l’ girl now, though I’ve worked for donkey’s years to make her rich an’ happy. ’ ’ (To be Continued.J