“A Heart to Keep,”

Wairarapa Daily Times, 20 June 1925, Page 7

“A Heart to Keep,”

(PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.) A BRILLIANT LOYE STORY OP DOMESTIC INTEREST,

(By Eileen and Ellice Crane.) Authors of “Pierrette,” “A Woman’s Love—a Woman’s Hate,” “Under Her Husband’s Thumb,” “Arna of the Red Gold Hair,” “Woman’s Weapons,” etc., etc.

(COPY EIGHT.)

CHAPTER XX.—Continued

Hamylton stared at Isobel as though she must suddenly have taken leave of •her senses.

“Save your husband!” he exclaimed. “That scoundrel! Why, I would not offer him a helping hand if I saw him dying at my feet, and I knew that I could save him!”

‘‘ It is in your power to save him now,” she said, her eyes pleading silently with him for the help he seemed so likely to refuse. “Well,” he returned, “if I have the power you imagine, I certainly have no intention of exercising it, and I tell you that frankly, so it it is no use your wasting time and compromisii% your reputation by remaining any longer in my rooms.”

He crossed to the door, but as he passed her she placed a detaining hand upon his arm. “Phil,” she begged, “I want you just to listen to me for one moment before you make up your mind.” “It is already made up,” he said, taking her hand from his sleeve, but still holding it in his. “Then won’t you let me try to alter your decision, Phil —for the sake of old times?” He looked at her for a moment in silence, then he asked abruptly: ‘Well, what have you to say?”

“I ask you to help my husband now because he once suffered himself to be convicted and imprisoned in place of your sister,” Isobel said boldly.

“Pine tale, that!” Hamylton retorted, with a slight sneer, and Isobel could See that he had never heard the story, in any form, from Blanche Sinclair’s lips. “It is true, all the same,” slie insisted, and then for the third time that day she related the facts connected with Kildene’s former friendship with Hamylton’s sister. He stood pondering for a while over what she had told him.

“I remember Blanche did get in with a rather fast crew after her husband died,” he conceded. <‘l heard all about it from some people who came out to India when I was slogging away there, trying to earn my own bread and butter and pay her debts, which often threatened to ruin me utterly. And I grant you, too, that idea about the cheque might certainly have emanated from her fertile brain, but at the same time I do not admit that she either carried it out or even actually thought of it, come to that. Besides,” he added, all unconsciously echoing Inspector Brail, “that would make no difference in the end to the fact that your husband is suspected of being concerned in Whitmore’s death.”

“It will make this difference,” Isobel hastened to say. “It would win you over to Jim’s side if you believed that he had endured imprisonment for your sister’s sake' —it would make a great deal of difference, Phil.”

I When the thought first entered his mind it possessed no actual significance; it was merely a passing reflection 1 upon the ways of women in general, • and of the ways of this, one woman in particular. But suddenly he realised the enormous temptation that lay behind it. If Kildene were out of the way! He was certainly in a most dangerous position. And it would be so easy to say that there was no possible hope for Kildene —to simply let the matter slide wdiile pretending to search diliI gently for clues_to prove his innocence, j Even the cleverest counsel could not ’ save a man from 'the consequences of overwhelming evidence against him. Hamylton strode over to the window and stood looking out upon the street below with unseeing eyes. His temptation gripped him by the throat, j Love and honour fought for the possession of his soul. j He glanced back into the room, and I thought how beautiful Isobel had look- ' ed as she pleaded with him to save her husband. “By heaven, I must have her!” he declared aloud. “I must have her —no matter what the price!” CHAPTER XXI.'. Hamylton sat down and wrote a short note to Isobel as he had promised, telling her that he would take up her husband’s case and see what lie could do with. it. He said nothing about doing his best, because lie had no intention of doing his best. He went out to post the letter himself, and then turned up Shaftesbury Avenue. He had not gone far when he came face to face with Mrs Sinclair, who was walking slowly in his direction. He greeted her with a casual ! “Hullo, Blanche!” to which she Te- ■ plied without much enthusiasm. “What arc you doing here?” he demanded. “Is that any business of yours?” she asked, somewhat sulkily. “It might be, perhaps,” he returned in a somewhat significant tone. “Well, the truth is, Phil, I’m fed up,” Mrs Sinclair informed him. “There seems to be no one in town whom I know, with the exception of your own sweet self, of course. There; is no one who matters at the club, and I have no money to play with if there' were. I got so restless that I came out for a stroll —to be met by your disapproving countenance before I have gone a dozen yards.” ■“• Look here,” returned Hamylton, “come and have dinner with me at a charming little Soho restaurant that I know of. It will cheer you up, perhaps, and I’ll see if I can help you in some way. ’ ’

“But I should still think him a. scoundrel,” he retorted. “You have no denial to offer in the matter of his bargain with your guardian, have you?” “Yes,” she answered, and told him of the letter that had been found by the police. “Either the man is a quixotic fool or a deeply-dyed rascal,” muttered Hamylton, as he began to pace the room.

“He is neither,” the girl interposed with dignity. “My husband is the noblest man that ever lived. If he had been the scoundrel you suggest he would probably have made a big success of his life, instead of lying in prison now under an unjust accusation.” .•“How do you know that it is unjust?” he demanded. “My husband swore to me that he never saw Straker Whitmore, from the time he left the house until he found him dead in Marbury Woods.” “It seems,” he said, after a. moment, “that it is a case of your husband’s word against my sister’s. She certainly has some sort of proof behind her, while you have none.” “I want you to find proof for me,” she cried. “And, anyway,” she added, “Blanche did not speak the truth at the inquest?” “What do you mean?” he asked her, and then l9obel went on to tell him of the little half-lies that had crept into Mrs Sinclair’s evidence, whether by accident or intent she could not say. “Are you then making any actual allegations against Blanche?” he questioned sharply. “No,” she Teplied, “but I do say that for some reason I cannot fathom she is permitting her spite against my husband to place his life in danger.” “Then what do you want me to do? To prove that my sister has been guilty of perjury?’ ’ “No, no. I don’t want that. I want you to prove, not that your sister is lying, but that my husband is innocent. Surely that is possible.” For a while he continued to pace up and down the room in deep thought, carefully considering the matter from all points of view, and finally he came to a standstill directly in front of her.

“It is rather curious that you should have come to me—to ask me to save the man who was my rival for your love, to say nothing of the fact of Blanche’srelationship to me.” “It is not so very strange after all, Phil, when you come to think of it,” she said in a low voice. “You and I have been chums for years, and often and often you have told me that if ever I was in trouble, I was to come to you and ask vour help. Then again, if I went to a stranger, the first thing he might try to prove would be that your sister’s evidence was not to be relied upon, and who knows what that might not lead to? Don’t you see that you could try and save my husband and protect Blanche at the same time.” “ Your reasoning is certainly ingenious,” lie remarked. “Anyway, I will think the matter carefully over and let you know my decision later.” “You won’t keep me in suspense any longer than you can help, Phil?” she pleaded.

“I will let you know first thing iu the morning,” he told her. When she had gone Tlamylton once more commenced his restless pacing up and down the room, going over all that Isobel had told him at that strange interview. It was so like a woman, he told himself, to ask a man to save his rival without considering his feelings in the matter at all. Why, if Kildene were out of the way it would give him, Hamylton, a decent chance of winning Isobel’9 love, for to whom would she be more likely to turn than her old playfellow?

(To be Continued.)