“The Lifting of the Shadow.”

Wairarapa Daily Times, 4 July 1925, Page 7

“The Lifting of the Shadow.”

(PUBLISHED BY SPEC lAL ARRANGEMENT.) POWERFUL STORY OF LOVE AND ACTION,

(By Ben Bolt.) Author of "Love Finds the Clue,” "A Bride from the West,” "A Modern Delilah,” etc., etc.

(COPYRIGHT.)

CHAPTER lll.—Continued. Wai'lcw made no move towards the door. It was very cold outside, and there was no occasion to lower the temperature of the cabin needlessly, particularly as the new arrival would almost certainly follow the custom of the Klondykc and enter the wayside cabin unbidden. A sharp rap made with the handle of a dog-whip sounded on the door, a hand fumbled at the latch string, and a man stepped inside, carefully closing the door behind him before he spoke. ‘'Good evening,” he said cheerfully. ‘‘l'm wanting a, bunk for the night, if you can spare one. It’s mortal cold outside. ’ ’ Rufus Warlow looked at the stranger, who, with his mittened hands, was already tugging at the icicles winch clogged his beard and moustache. 110 was tall, of open countenance, and with a gaze frank and fearless, and his voice proclaimed him unmistakably as an Englishman. “Of course,” answered the engineer, following the unwritten law of the North that the man on trail shall not be denied the hospitality he seeks. "And I shall be jolly glad of your company. I was just, feeling fed-up with my own. You’ll like, something to eat, I suppose?” The visitor laughed. "I could eat a tuck-shop clean out. I’ve travelled since breakfast on nothing but chocolate.”

Rufus Warlow nodded. "Then, while you’ro changing your socks I’ll fry the bacon and make the coffee.’

"I shall be awfully obliged,” said the stranger, drawing off his mits and beginning to unloose his furs. "I was thinking I should have to camp for the night when I caught the whiff of your stove. It’s wonderful liow the smell of burning spruce travels on the Arctic air.”

"Yes,” assented the engineer, reaching for a frying pan which hung on the wall, "and it’s a very comforting odour when a man is on trail at the edge of dark.” After that neither of the two men spoke for a while. Rufus Warlow busied himself with the cooking, whilst the stranger stripped his outer furs, wrung out his wet socks and replaced them by dry ones, pulling over them a pair of dry mocassins, and, that done, looked round the cabin with an appreciative eye. It was rough enough, but warm, and, compared with an outside camp in the snow, seemed the acme of comfort. His eye caught a map pinned to the wall, and underneath it a little sketch scarcely bigger tahn a postcard. He looked at them curiously, and then picking up the slush lamp from the table, he crossed the cabin and examined them more closely. The engineer, busy with the frying pan, glanced round at him, but made no remark, and the man, holding the lamp close to the sketch, stared at it with puzzled eyes. . - The scene it imaged was unquestionably English, and was simple enough, consisting mainly of a running stream flanked on one side by a- wood and on the other by a long patch of gorse, in the background of which rose a stretch of moor and a single, lonely tor. As he looked at it, the puzzled look left the man’s eyes, and the light of recognition leaped in them. He stared at the .sketch as though fascinated, and then bent closer to read the tiny signature in the corner —"Kathlvn Wedit! ore. ’ ’

"rt’s not very good, then, after nil?” said his visitor quietly.

He was still staring, when the clatter of a tin plate and cup, and the odour of steaming coffee impinging on his senses told him that his supper was almost ready, and, as his host’s voice announced the fact, he turned round, and seating himself at the table without a word, began to eat. Warlow lit a pipe, and taking a stool near the stove, refrained from speech until liis guest should have stayed his hunger; but now and again he glanced at him and noted that he seemed preoccupied, and that from time, to time his gaze wandered to the tiny sketch on the wall. He wondered idly why it should do so, and found a possible explanation in the fact that as bis visitor was an Englishman the sketch reminded him of some home scene. He said nothing, however, but smoked on quietly, and presently the man pushed the tin plate from him, and turning round to the .stove, lit his pipe, and, as he blew out a cloud of smoke, said appreciatively: "Now, this is what you may call comfortable.” Rufus Warlow laughed. "That’s as one looks at it. The cabin isn’t exactly a drawing room, but it’s a very cosy place at the end of a day with the sled-dogs.” "It’s heaven after a frozen hell!” laughed the other, and as he spoke his eyes wandered to the sketch once more. The engineer noted the glance, and again was assailed by curiosity —curiosity which moved him to say: "You seem interested in that Christmas card of mine. Do you know the place—it’s in Devonshire. ’ ’

"Know it!” the other cried, and broke into sudden laughter. "I should think I do.”

The man turned to the sketch as he spoke, and then, still gazing at it, fell into a brown study. Warlow watched him, wondering what thoughts "were in his mind, whilst the man saw himself, a hunted convict, crouching in. the stretch of gorse, watching a girl whipping the stream for trout, and in mortal fear of a terrier sniffing about the roots of the bushes. Then the man laughed again harshly. “Yes,” he said, “I know the place, and I have good cause to, for I spent some of the "worst moments of my life there” ’ “Indeed!” said his host politely. “Yes. And I know the lady who painted that sketch.” “You do?’’ Rufus Warlow 's surprise was plain. “You know Kathlyn Wedmore?” His visitor nodded. “Yes. She did me a great service once, and I am very greatly in her debt.” “Ts that so?” asked Warlow, with interest, hoping that his companion would continue his revelation. But in that he was disappointed. The man who had told him so much had no intention of proclaiming himself as the convict, John Waddilove, who had escaped from Dartmoor five months before. It was unnecessary, and that was a story lm would never tell anyone, least of all to a stranger. lie let the question go unanswered, then after a moment he asked: “How far do you call it to Grey-wolf Creek?” “Twenty-seven miles or so. Are you going that "way?” “Yes. There’s an Indian up there I want. I'm on a moose-hunting trip,

"Oh, good enough, but it doesn’t happen to be meant for me, after all. The girl was mistaken, but I’d give a thousand pounds- if she were not.” "It must be a very good thing if you are prepared to give that much for it, .remarked the other quietly. “It is a very good thing—only it goes to a cousin, confound him! —a. cousin with a name very like mine—a man I’ve never seen since I wore trousers, and whom I’d cheerfully strangle if T had the chance, for he stands between me and a (baronetcy with a rent roll of six thousand pounds a. year. And he’s a rotter, too, I’m told. Always in some fancy scrape, and yet he gets the estate, whilst I shall probably get nothing at all. The lawyers are advertising for him in that paper.” (To be Continued.)

and ’ ’ 1 1 e was interrupted by a sudden clamour of dogs outside, and through the jioisc sounded a feminine voice in reproach and command. Rufus Warlow leaped to his feet and made for the door, Hinging it open regardless of the ice-cold air that streamed in, and for one moment ihis guets had a vision of a bright-eyed fur-clad girl on snowshoes. Then the door was drawn to, but he caught his host’s questioning voice. "Why, Babette. Whatever ” "1 bring you dis. Now, inon clier, I not come in, you haf a guest. I see do dogs. But dcre is some tings in the paper for you. You will see it dcre. It voire good.” "But where did you get this paper, Babette?” "Pete the Canuck, he bring it from Dawson, all de way. He tink I like it, so he bring it. Good man, Pete, I like him. But now I go, or Nanon she tink me lost in the snow. Bon soir, Ruif.” The dogs gave tongue again, a burst of feminine laughter sounded, then the door was thrust open, and Rufus Warlow hurried in, threw a begrimed newspaper on the table, and began to rub his hands vigorously. He looked at his guest, to whom every word of the brief conversation had been audible, then he laughed. "Newspaper shops are scarce in these parts, and one has to be thankful for small mercies. From the look of it, that paper has been thumbed in every camp between here and Dawson.” He picked it up and began to open it. "The girl said there was something in it for me —something very good. I wonder what it can be?” ° His eyes roamed up and' down the columns, while his visitor watched him carelessly. Suddenly the engineer started, and an expletive broke from his lips as lie threw the paper from him.