"The Dark Inheritance,”

Wairarapa Daily Times, 30 May 1927, Page 7

"The Dark Inheritance,”

A DEAMATIC STORY BY A POWERFUL WRITER.

BY J. B. HAKEIS-BUBLAND. Author of—-“ The Battle of the Giants,” “The Splendid Sacrifice,” “The Half-Closed Door,” etc., etc. n lUI.IIMII. iiiiriTTiinuMnwni 111 mi in n■ni ■i m ■ii ini Timm nanWOTin^WC

CHAPTER XG Continued. “No, ho, my dear young' lady. We have not yet had our duel. He’s in there,” and he jerked his thumb towards the fo’c’s’le door. "He’s asleep. ” “Asleep, you brute? You’ve killed him.}’ “Not vet, my dear young lady —nor you either. I didn’t hit him very hard over the head. He came to and I gave him something to revive him. It sent him to sleep. Later on you shall have a, drink. Then you will both sleep. What a pity your sister Alabel is not here.” “Mabel? What’s Mabel to you?” “Only another Polyblank, my dear young lady. Well, I can deal with her later on. There is plenty of time. But I work methodically. I take each one in turn—first the heir, and then the two charming young ladies —not that I bear them any ill will, mind you. But they might marry and carry on the rotten line of the Polyblanks.” He drank from his glass, and laughed. “You arc mad,” said Anne. “Of course you are mad. And my sister was mad to put you on the right track.”

“The right track? Oh yes, I found the Almida up the Aide in Suffolk, and Douglas’s man had just left him. I offered mv services, and I have been with him for a week. He was not likely to recognise me, because we have never met before. At any time during the past week I might have killed him, but 1 preferred to wait. There i 9 ideasure in waiting. The cat finds that when the mouse is under its paw. It has amused me to wait.”

“Then perhaps it will amuse you still more to wait longer.” Ho looked at his watch. “Not very much longer,” he replied. “We are not at the mouth of the estuary now. We are at sea. We are ‘hove to,’ though I don’t suppose you know wha.t that means. It is blowing pretty hard, and I’m single-handed. I do not want to get too much inshore. I’d like you to hear my story. Then perhaps you will forgive me. I will tell it as briefly as possible.” “Don’t hurry,” said Anne quietly. “I’d like you to make it as long as possible.” “Ho, ha! good girl,” laughed the little man. “I admire your pluck. You can joke with death.” “Oh, I’m not afraid of you,” she answered with a laugh. “It’d take a fairly strong-minded brute to kill a woman in cold blood.” “You think I’m not up to it, eh?” “I think you’re an imbecile. You don’t want to be hanged, do you?” “Oh, I shall not be hanged.” “You’d be hunted down. Wouldn’t it be better to—to retire —on a nice little pension?” i “I do not want money. I do not even want my life. It is the lives of others I want.” He picked up the automatic pistol, and tapped the muzzle of it lightly on the table. “This will give me all I want,” he continued, emphasising his words with the taps. “Listen to me. I am the son of Ebenezer Polyblank.?’ “The sou of Uncle Ebenezer?” exclaimed Anne. , “Oh, then we are a jolly family party. And you are my cousin. What is your name?” “John.” “John Polyblank? That’s rather a nice name.” “Not Polyblank,” the man answered in a low voice. “Oh, I see. I —l’m sorry, Cousin John.” “Cousin?” he shouted. “Don’t you dare call me that. It’s my shame that there is a single drop af your cursed blood in my veins. My shame —and my mother’s, too.” “No,” said Anne gently. “ills shame. ” “Listen to me,” said the man. “I’ll tell you all. You must know. She was mad when she died. Starvation and despair. Yes, and love for the brute who killed her, drove her mad. I was a bov of twelve then, and not quite old enough to understand. He had me educated for a time—until I knew the truth and ran away from school. I made an attempt on his life—” “On your father’s life?” queried Anne in horror.

and found,him. I made an appointment with him. We met down by the docks, and lie was drunk. I sprang at him, and a touch would have sent him off I'iis balance into the water. But his very drunkenness saved him. He lurched forward and fell, and I went clean oyer him into the liver.” Anne laughed until the tears ran down her cheeks. The man stared at her without animosity —just as one might stare at someone laughing on the stage. “It was no joke, I can tell you,” he said, after a pause. “Winter — snow on the ground —water like ice. Most men would have been drowned. But I was saved. God would not let me die until I had accomplished my purpose. What, are you laughing at, you fool?” “You—you are not very good at killing, ar e you? I mean that was your second failure.” “Yes, and there was a third. I was laid up for a bit after my bathe in the river, but when I was well enough to go tout, I came across Richard Douglas again, and realised that lie had not gon c to Ashton Towers. I watched him, and found lie was passing under the name of Stephen Mulrose. I hid myself in his rooms one night—lay under the bed, crept out when I thought ho was asleep, and tried to stab him. But he was awake all right, and we had a pretty tussle in the dark. Unfortunately he was sober that night, and he half killed me. But I got away from him without his seeing my face. I knew him by sight, and lie didn’t know me from Adam.”

“Oh, I’d give it up, Cousin John,” laughed Anne. “Really, I’d give it.up if I were you.” “He left- those lodgings,” the little man continued, “and I lost trace of him. A few days later I saw that the body of Stephen' Mulrose had been taken from the river.” He paused and finished his drink. Anne’s nerves were near to a complete breakdown. She could not keep up very well to pretend to be amused. ; But sbe was fac e to face with a poten- j tial murderer, and even if his mind was weak, a pressure of his finger on tlio trigger of a. pistol might mean death. "“And you cannot claim the credit of having pushed him into the water?” Anne queried with a smile. “I’m glad of that, anyway. You see, it was not Richard Douglas* after all. The coward had handed over all his clothes and belongings to some poor devil who was glad of the suit without worrying about what was in the pockets of it —the suit and the watch and the money. A windfall to any man. He may have fallen into the river, but I daresay Richard Douglas pushed him in to make an end of the chase. Then I went abroad. ’ ’ “Just for a rest and change,” said Anne, “before you dealt with us—your less important victims?” “No,” the man answered quite seriously. “I wanted to follow up a clue. I had an idea that the chap who was drowned was not my man. I was right. But it was a long job. I kept on picking up the trail and losing it again. I ran him to earth at last in his rooms in Putney. By jove, I nearly killed Stephen Mulrose instead of him —in the grounds of Ashton Towers. ’ ’ “You. ar e mosit unlucky, Cousin John —or would you rather I called yon Jack?” The man paid no attention to her jest. “You see,” ho continued, “I knew at the start —or soon after the start —that the two men had changed places, and that was why I kept away from Ashton Towers, after I had had a. good look at Mr Stephen Mulrose. I had seen both the men, mind you, and spotted the difference —the one a fine, strong fellow, too good a husband for any Polyblank; the other a drunkard and a rotter.”

Anne’s strength and courage were failing her. Still, she faltered, “He’d rather have me than the money. Come, Cousin Jack,. I don’t really believe von could hurt, me.”

‘‘Yes, and I failed. IT e did not go to the police. My mother had written out her story before she lost control of her poor brain for me to read when I came of age. I could have published that to the world. But I would not hurt my poor dead mother. And lie would not have cared. You knew him. Do you think he would have* eared?’' “He cared for neither God nor man,” Anne answered. “He had n,o affection for anyone in the w 7 orld. He let his sister, the mother of Bichard Douglas, starve to death. He would not' even acknowledge my father as \i brother, and he only asked Mabel and myself to his house in order to insult us.” “Yes. We have something in common. It is a pity you must die.” Anne smiled. She knew that she was dealing with a man who was not in his right mind. No doubt there was insanity in his family. His mother had broken down under the strain, and now he had broken down. The curious look in his eyes, the twitching lips, the nervous movements of his fingers—all told the same story. “You see,” he explained. “It’s not as if I’d killed him, and made things balance. He died a natural death. For years he had me followed by a detective, and I was kept out of England by some work I had abroad. Then T came back and had a talk with him— I was sitting close to the muzzle of a pistol—just as you are sitting now. And he offered to leave me a thousand a year if I’d forgive him. I refused, and he told me about his nephew, Richard Douglas. I went to Liverpool,

“The tide is on the ebb,” he said dreamily. “Sailors believe that the lives of men go out on an ebbing tide.” (To be Continued).