The Penalty of a Crime.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume IX, Issue 5, 30 January 1892, Page 98

The Penalty of a Crime.

BY

WILLIAM BELWORTHY,

WELLINGTON.

CHAPTER VIII. UPS and downs.

OHN OLPHERT severed his connection with Brightstone and emigrated to Australia, leaving v his only child Gerald—as the reader already knows—inthechargeof his Aunt Emilia, residing at Finchley. John Olphert experienced many of the ups and downs incidental to colonial life, but in course of time amassed a considerable sum of money, which he deposited in one of the Melbourne banks, after deducting his usual remittances to his maiden sister. At last, after

an absence of several years, he felt an uncontrollable desire to see his only child again, so selling his share in the ‘ Enterprise ’ claim, he bade good-bye to his chums, and came into Melbourne to consult a lawyer with regard to the title deeds of some land which he had purchased near that place. Finding that a vessel would be leaving for the Old Country in the course of a few days, he bought his ticket, and having seen his baggage safely stowed on board, he called at the bank and drew out a sufficient sum for current expenses, and then strolled down to admire the alterations which were being rapidly carried on in all directions, and which were transforming Melbourne from a collection of tents and settlers’ huts to what was eventually to become one of the largest and finest cities in the Southern hemisphere. When returning to the ship he met a man who claimed to have known him when he was connected with the banking establishment of Maxwell, Flinders, and Co., and a few inquiries soon convinced Mr Olphert that the man was, at any rate, well posted in the events which had occurred in connection with the firm, but he could not iemember having met the gentleman before, and was not inclined, therefore, to give him much encouragement. The other was, however, so persistent, and withal so good-humoured in his remarks, and evidently very little abashed by his companion’s coolness, that he suggested that the two should repair to a certain hotel to dine. Mr Olphert, against his better judgment, consented. After dinner they took a walk together into the suburbs, and the stranger offered Mr Olphert a drink from a flask which he carried. Mr Olphert accepted his offer, and remembered no more till he came to his senses, and found himself lying on the sea-beach some miles distant from Melbourne. How he reached there he never learned. He only knew that he must have been exposed for some hours, as when he awoke to consciousness the sun was beating down on his unprotected face, and when he attempted to rise his brain seemed * reeling.’ As soon as he was sufficiently recovered he returned to Melbourne, but though he made every inquiry with the object of discovering the whereabouts of his quondam friend, all his efforts were of no avail. His purse and watch and chain had been stolen, but luckily he had left his cheque-book and the major portion of his bank notes on board ship. As it was, he called again at the bank and drew a draft on one of the London banks for the balance of his account, and shortly afterwards sailed for the old country, and in due course arrived at his sister s residence in the Finchley Road, where, as may be guessed, he received a hearty welcome. His son Gerald, whom he had left a child of two years, had developed into a good-looking intelligent boy, who was now at home on his holidays from the Harlow Grammar School. During the few years that followed, life at the little villa ran on in a very even groove, till one day John Olphert came home complaining of a pain in his head. A doctor was sent for, and, after examination, pronounced that his patient was suffering from inflammation of the brain. From that day Mr ( Hphert’s health got gradually worse, until at length he was confined to his bed altogether, and he felt that the end was not very far off. With careful nursing he recovered from the original complaint, but his health seemed in some way to be undermined, and toward the close of a lovely day in June, just at sunset, John Olphert fell asleep to wake again in that better world where it is always day.

CHAPTER IX

A i I ei: his father’s death Gerald and his aunt went to reside with some friends of the family living in Edinboro’, Scotland and it was while on this visit that Emilia was persuaded to let her nephew stay till he was old enough to enter his name as student at the I Diversity in that seat of learning Here, then, by dint of hard work and attention to his studies f.erald graduated with honours, and as he was destined for the legal profession, jurisprudence became his Special Study, t>n leaving college he returned to Bright’tonan‘* entered the otlice of an eminent lawyer there—lr Edgbaston by name — who, recognising the talents of his colleague, entrusted one or two important cases to his charge, «Inch he managed to bring to a successful issue, earning for himself considerable local notoriety. It so transpired that Squire < lakfield of (fakfield Grange, had occasion to consult his legal advisers with reference to E,. e recnyery of some land adjoining the Oakfield estate. 1 he family lawyer happened to be the same gentleman With whom f.erald was co operating, and as Mr Edgbaston’s presence was required to attend an important Chancery vase in London, the Squire's case was entrusted to Gerald. 1 he Squire was so pleased with the manner in which the young lawyer conducted the affair, and entertained such a high opinion of his qualifications mental and social, that he not only gave him pressing invitations to spend the shooting season at the (.range, but he lost no opportunity of urging him to ride over in his leisure time and finish up his evenings amongst the Squire's own guests, with the lesult that f.erald olphert and Constance Oakfield were thrown verv much into each others company, and a- a consequence the

young couple fell deeply in love. Although not actually engaged, still it was tacitly understood amongst their most intimate friends that the rising and popular young lawyer, Gerald Olphert, looked upon Constance as the woman who was one day to be his lawful, wedded wife.

CHAPTER X. A TERRIBLE TIME. The ball was over at the < I range. The guests had all departed, and the ladies of the household were left discussing the merits and demerits of the evening's entertainment, when suddenly a hurried pull was heard at the hall bell, and the next moment a man with a white, excited face was ushered into the drawing-room. The ladies started in some alarm, for the expression on the man’s face betokened some calamity. Edith was the first to find her voice, and turning to the man, whom she recognised as her father’s head gamekeeper, James Fenton by name, she asked him what had happened. ‘ A. gentleman has been shot, miss, down by the old stone quarry, and Mr Olphert sent me for assistance.’ At the mention of her lover’s name Constance changed colour, and without waiting to hear further particulars, the ladies hastened downstairs to find the Squire. By this time the news had spread amongst the rest of the guests who were staying at the Grange that a gentleman had been shot, and as the stone quarry described was only a few hundred yards from the lodge gates, lanterns were quickly procured, and one or two of the gentlemen, the Squire himself being of the number, and two of the male servants, were soon on their way to the scene of the disaster, guided by the keeper who had brought the information. On the way the Squire closely questioned the man as to how the accident—if accident it really was—had happened, but could elicit nothing beyond the fact that the man, while proceeding to his nightly watch near the pheasant preserves, had heard a shot fired, and thinking it might mean poachers, had hurried cautiously in the direction of the sound, being joined by his underkeeper, George Malcolm, and when the two men reached a spot, about midway between the stone pits and the Finchley Road, they came across Mr Gerald Olphert, who was stooping over the body of another gentleman, and that the latter was moaning as if in mortal pain. ‘ Who was the wounded gentleman ?’ questioned the Squire. ‘ I hadn’t time to notice much, sir, as Mr Olphert, seeing who it was approaching, called out excitedly to me, saying : “Is that you, Fenton ? Run to the Grange as fast as you can for assistance. A gentleman has been shot, and tell the Squire to bring some brandy, and, if possible, bring Dr. Oakfield along with you. Quick, man ! there’s no time to lose I” and I hurried away ; but here we are at the spot, sir,’ and as the party turned a corner of the drive leading on to the main road, the moon came out from behind a cloud, and Gerald Olphert was discovered on his knees, bending over and supporting some dark object lying on the ground. • Too late, doctor,’ said Gerald, as Dr. Oakfield hurried in advance of the rest. * I’m afraid he is beyond your aid. ’

Exclamations of astonishment and horror burst almost simultaneously from the lips of the gentlemen as they saw that the body was that of Mr Dixon, and as some of them recalled the dispute that had taken place in the ball-room, they anxiously awaited some explanation from Gerald. ‘ This is a sad affair, Olphert,’ said Dr. Oakfield, atter examining the body and ascertaining that life was extinct. ‘ How did it happen ?’ ‘ That is more than I can tell you,’ Gerald replied. ‘ I was proceeding homewards when I heard a shot fired from the direction of the old stone quarry. My first thought suggested poachers, but on second consideration I came to the conclusion that no poacher would be rash enough to fire within such a short distance of the Lodge gates, so being curious to find out who had fired the shot, I hastened in the direction from which the report seemed to have come, and when near the quarry was startled by a moan as of some one in mortal pain. Just at the same moment the moon which had been temporarily hidden by a dark bank of shone out in all its brilliancy, and on looking around I discovered the body of Mr Dixon lying in a pool of blood, which, upon examination, I found proceeded from a wound in the side of his temple. I had scarce time to stoop down and lift the poor fellow’s head on to my knee when your gamekeeper, Janies Fenton, came hurrying up to know what had happened. I sent him at once for assistance, while I staunched the wound as well as I was able with my handkerchief, but all was of no avail, and just before you arrived Mr Dixon’s breathing became more and more laboured till at length it ceased altogether.’ As Gerald finished his explanation the Squire directed two of his men servants and the two keepers to place the body of the dead man on a stretcher, which had been temporarily constructed, and the little party wended its wav slowly back to the Grange. J * W ho could have fired the shot ?’ questioned Major Stuart * That is the mystery.’ ‘ Yes, it certainly is a very strange affair,’ rejoined the Squire, ‘ and as horrible as strange. I will send information at once to the police.’ Turning to Gerald he said, ‘ Did vou pass anyone on the road, Olphert ?’ • Not a soul,' replied the gentleman addressed, • and I can in no way account for the sad occurrence.’ No more was spoken on the subject till the party arrived at the Grange, when the body was placed, by the Squire’s orders, in the library, there to await the post mortem and the coroner s inquest. I’he ladies were horror-stricken when they learned that the bo<ly was that of Mr Francis Dixon, and although de-

ceased had not been very popular with the fair sex at the Grange, yet now in the presence of such a fearful calamity his faults were forgotten, or at any rate, mercifully covered, and pity took the place of resentment in their feelings towards him as they realized that he had been in a moment suddenly called into the presence of his Maker with all his sins upon him. CHAPTER XL WHO DID THE DEED? There was very little sleep for the members of the Grange honsehold that night, and early next morning fashionable society in Brightstone was startled to its foundations when the local papers announced in large type, ‘ Suspected murder at Finchley. Gentleman shot whilst on his way home from a ball at Oakfield Grange,’ etc., etc. Many were the surmises as to the motives actuating the supposed murderer, and various were the reasons assigned, but there was a pretty general concensus of opinion in favour of the conclusion that revenge had been the primary motive. The fact that a gold watch and chain had been found in the vest pocket, and some bank notes for a considerable amount also being found in the inside breast-pocket of the deceased gentleman’s dress coat, seemed clearly to indicate that robbery, at any rate, had little to do with the motives for the murder—if murder it really was—unless the criminal had been disturbed in the act. A gloom, sudden and terrible, seemed to have fallen over the towns of Finchley and Brightstone. Business men, usually too busy to discuss any subject of greater importance than £. s. d. now talked of little else than the Finchley murder, for it was very generally conceded that the act would resolve itself into that title eventually. Little knots of men gathered at the street corners and in the workshops, and everywhere the principal topic of conversation was the same. The local sergeant of police and two of his men had been down to the spot where Gerald Olphert had discovered the body, and detectives from Scotland Yard were expected by the night express, but up to the time of the arrival of the coroner no evidence was forthcoming to prove how the deceased gentleman had met his death. A jury was, however, empanelled, and after hearing the evidence of Gerald Olphert, Fenton, the gamekeeper, and his nnderkeeper, as well as that of Squire and Dr. Oakfield and others, the jury returned a verdict to the effect that ‘ Deceased died from the effects of a gun-shot wound, but there was not sufficient evidence to prove by whom the wound was inflicted.’

The late Mr Dixon’s parents had been communicated with, but as they happened to be absent from their town residence at the time, some delay occurred before the intelligence reached them. On the day following the coroner’s inquest a carriage drawn by a pair of high-stepping horses entered the lodge gates leading to Oakfield Grange, and upon the carriage stopping at the front door, a lady and gentleman dressed in deep mourning stepped out, and the gentleman handed his card to the footman who opened the door with a request that he would convey it at once to his master. The man ushered them into an ante-room, and went along to the drawing-room to the Squire. The latter took the card from the salver, and saw that the imprint indicated ‘Mr and Mrs Dixon, Elmsleigh House.’ He turned to the footman, who was respectfully awaiting his pleasure. ‘ Show them in, William, and afterwards request the butler to bring in some wine,’ and as the servant left the room, Squire Oakfield rose from his chair, realizing that he had a very unpleasant task to perform. In a few minutes the footman returned and ushered the visitors into the room, and having placed chairs for them, at a nod from his master retired.

Mr Dixon introduced his wife and himself to the Squire, and the latter, turning to the lady, remarked, ‘ Take a seat, Mrs Dixon. I regret exceedingly the unhappy circumstances to which I am indebted for this visit. Believe me, you have my heart-felt sympathy in your sudden bereavement.’

* Yes, it is, indeed, a fearful blow,’ she replied, * and so unexpected and horrible that I can hardly realise even yet that it is true. But please let us know how it happened. ’ At this juncture the butler appeared with the wine, and the Squire, pouring some into a glass, handed it to Mrs Dixon, and then, as briefly as possible, told his visitors all he knew of the unfortunate occurrence, omitting, for the mother’s sake, some of the more sickening details. At the conclusion of the sad tale Mrs Dixon seemed completely overcome, so the Squire rang the bell for a servant, and when the man appeared he was directed to ‘send Miss Laura up at once.’ By the time the young lady arrived on the scene Mrs Dixon had somewhat recovered, and the Squire hoped the ladies would pardon the absence of Mr Dixon and himself for a short time, as it was necessary for them to discuss some matters of importance in connection with the recent unhappy occurrence. Down the long corridor, hung with numerous paintings of dead and gone Oak fields, the two men paced, and from thence out on to the lawn, but it was not until they had reached a secluded part of the ground that Mr Dixon, turning to his companion said, ‘ Well, Squire, you have not told me all. Who was my son’s murderer ?’ ‘Mr Dixon, I speak the truth when I assure you that I do not know. More than this I dare not at present say.’ ‘ Listen to me, Squire Oakfield,’ replied the other. ‘ I know you to be a gentleman, and therefore do not dream of doubting the truth of any statement you may be pleased to make, but—’ and here he looked searchingly into the Squire’s face, ‘ you suspect someone. I read it in your manner. Who is it?’

‘Do not press me to reply,’ said the Squire. ‘ I will answer you this far. Since the coroner’s inquest the police have been searching for some clue to the murder, but till witbin about two hours previous to the arrival of Mrs Dixon and yourself at the Grange they had discovered nothing that could in any way assist them in unravelling the mystery, but in dragging the lake near the scene of the catastrophe —the Squire purposely avoided the ugly word murder, and Mr Dixon mentally noted the fact, ‘ the police sergeant discovered a six-chamber revolver of peculiar workmanship, and with only one barrel empty. This weapon he quietly took possession of, and brought it to me for identification, and I immediately recognized it as the property of a gentleman with whom I am intimately acquainted, but whom I am morally certain had no more to do with the actual murder than I had myself. However, the police are evidently of a

different opinion, and although they would prefer obtaining more conclusive evidence before proceeding to extreme measures, yet at the same time they deem it necessary to closely watch the actions of the gentleman I have mentioned, of course, unknown to himself. The officers expect that the clue already obtained will eventually lead to the discovery of the person whose hand committed the dastardly act. As I have stated, I am almost positive, nay. I feel absolutely certain that the police have mistaken their man, and will be compelled to look in another direction. I would almost as soon suspect my own son as the gentleman whom the detectives think it their duty to “ shadow,” as they term it; yet there are one or two awkward facts brought to light which may be misconstrued by prejudiced or malicious persons, and may lead to unpleasant complications. You will, I feel sure, pardon me, Mr Dixon, if for the present I withhold the gentleman’s name. I can assure you every effort is being made to solve the mystery, and I have instructed the police to offer £lOO reward for the apprehension and conviction of the person or persons implicated. I may mention that the circumstances connected with the finding of the revolver are at present known only to the police authorities and myself, as the lake was dragged in the early morning, and so far the knowledge has not been disclosed to anyone else.’ ‘ Forgive me, Squire,’ returned Mr Dixon,’ I quite agree with the steps you are taking and thank you very much for your interest in the matter. You may double the sum offered, for while the untimely fate of my son has shocked and pained me almost beyond expression, yet for his sake, and for the sake of my family, I shall leave no stone un turned till the murderer has been run to earth. You recognize the necessity of this, do you not ?’ ‘ Certainly,’ replied the Squire,’ ‘ and I, for one, trust that your efforts may prove successful. ’ CHAPTER XII. About a week after the visit of Mr and Mrs Dixon to Squire Oakfield, a benevolent-looking, elderly gentleman in spectacles, dressed in a suit of broadcloth, and wearing an immaculate white collar, with tie to match, might have been observed slowly wending his way along the Camberwell Road, London, his eyes bent upon the ground, and his brows knit as if some problem had presented itself to his mind which he found considerable difficulty in solving. In his right hand he carried a neat black leather bag, and his appearance generally, seemed to indicate that he was a minister of the Gospel. There was nothing remarkably striking about the gentleman, and nineteen out of every twenty of the people who passed him on the road never turned to bestow on him a second glance. As he approached the more frequented streets, however, a close observer might have noticed a slight change in his demeanour. True, he walked along at nearly the same pace, and his right hand still kept its hold of the little black bag, but his eyes were no longer bent upon the ground before him ; instead, they looked out from behind hisspectacleswitha very keen glance ; in fact, nothing seemed to escape their penetrating gaze. Once, as the clergyman stepped aside to avoid collision with a spruce-looking gentleman, who was hurrying in the opposite direction, the bag I have mentioned was accidentally knocked against a lamp-post, and emitted a ringing sound, such as would be caused by two metallic substances, like iron and steel when brought into sharp contact with each other. At the sound the benevolent-looking old clergyman glanced from the bag to the man who had passed in such haste, and smiled as if the connection between the man and the contents of the bag had aroused some pleasurable reminiscence. * Have a care, my young friend,’ soliloquised the clergyman. ‘Be very careful now, or we shall renew our acquaintance before long, so I warn you,’ muttering which he hailed a passing hansom, and taking his seat in the vehicle, directed the cabman to drive to Paddington Railway Station. Upon arriving at the station the clergyman alighted, and after paying the cabby his fare proceeded to make his way to the booking office. He did not procure a ticket, however, but after a swift glance at the faces of those gathered round the ticket box, he continued on his way down the platform. The elderly gentleman’s movements seemed to have some attraction for Policeman X. 21, who was on duty in the vicinity, for no sooner did he catch sight of the clergyman than he immediately made it his duty to saunter in the same direction, and brushing past him near the book-stall, said, in a voice which indicated that his remarks were intended solely to catch the ear of the gentleman he was addressing, 1 11.15, South train. Alone.’ The clergyman halfturned, gave the constable a slight look of recognition, and bent his head to imply that he had heard the remark and understood its meaning, and at once became apparently absorbed in the contents of a book which he had lifted from the book-stall.' The book must have been an interesting one, for the gentleman scarcely raised his eyes whilst perusing it, save when he turned a leaf. Presently, however, he closed the book, just at the moment when a tall, dark, gentlemanly-looking man came hurrying along the platform closely followed by a hotel-porter, the latter carrying in his hands, a Gladstone bag and a gentleman’s travelling rug. As the two passed the book-stall the clergyman noticed that the bag which the porter was carrying was marked with a monogram, ‘G.O.’in gilt letters, and as the dark gentleman reached the door of an empty first-class smoking carriage, the clergyman saw him turn to the porter remarking as he did so, ‘ you are quite sure the rest of the luggage is all right ?’ _• Yes, sir,’ responded the man. • I labelled them for Finchley, and put them on the luggage van myself.’ * Thanks,’ replied the gentleman, and handing the man some silver for his trouble, the porter touched his hat and went off. The clergyman also left the platform for a brief space of time and made his way to the ticket office, and having procured a ‘ first class single ticket for Finchley,’ returned to the compartment occupied by the dark gentleman. The latter, in the meanwhile, had divested himself of his silk bat, for which he had substituted a tweed one, and nowsat in a corner of the car with a pile of papers and books on the cushions at his side. In a few moments the startingbell rang, porters rushed along the platform calling out, ‘AU aboard ! Take your seats please!’ the clergyman stepped into the compartment occupied by the dark pasasnger, the guard blew his whistle, and the engine with its living freight rushed on its journey. For some miles the two gentlemen did nothing but read their papers, till at last the younger man, feeling an inclination tor a cigar,

drew out his cigar case, which be politely handed across to his fellow-passenger, with the request that he * would oblige him by taking a cigar.’ The elderly gentleman, whilst thanking him for his courtesy, assured him that * being a martyr to dyspepsia, hie medical adviser had ordered him to discontinue smoking.’ After this slight break they both lapsed into silence again, and became absorbed in the contents of their respective papers. Had the dark gentleman been aware of the true name and occupation of the elderly passenger, it is questionable whether he would have been so unconcerned about him, for the pseudo clergyman was none other than that astute gentleman, Mr Jeremiah Flint, exsergeant in Her Majesty’s Police Force, and at the present time a member of the detective staff of Scotland Yard, London. As the train stopped at a little roadside station for the purpose of putting off a few passengers, Mr Flint, in a mild tone of voice, addressed his companion. * I beg your pardon, sir, but can you inform me what time this train should arrive at Finchley?’ * I believe 6.30 p.m. is the time, according to Bradshaw,’ responded the other. * Oh, thank you, thank you,’ effusively from Mr Flint. ‘I do hope I shall not be over carried. I mentioned to the guard to be sure to let me know when we arrived at Finchley. I trust he won’t forget to do so.’ ‘ You may make your mind easy on that score,’ replied the dark gentleman. ‘ as I get out at Finchley myself.’ ‘Do you really ? Then I’ll not worry myself any more about the matter. By-the-bye, 1 notice that the papers are still pretty full of the Oakfield murder which occurred there the other day. What a shocking affair that was to be sure, but, pardon me, perhaps you were acquainted with the unhappy man who met such a terrible fate.’ The gentleman thus appealed to removed his cigar from between his lips as he replied, ‘ Yes, I had a slight acquaintance with the poor fellow, hut as the subject is a rather painful one to me, you must excuse me if I prefer not to discuss it,’ with which remark he resumed his cigar, at the same time bestowing a searching look on his questioner. The latter’s face, however, wore such a benign aspect, and appeared to express so much regret lest he had, unintentionally, wounded the feelings of his companion, that the gentleman felt that he had been rather curt in his answer to the old clergyman, so to make some amends he addressed Mr Flint again. ‘ You seem interested in this case, sir?’ ‘ Yes, yes,’ replied that gentleman, with some emotion. * It was a sudden call for the young fellow ’ (and to do the ex-sergeant justice, we must add that he was not incapable of appreciating the moral underlying the remark he had just uttered) ‘and,’ he continued, ‘ I have heard it stated that a few hours before he met his death he had quarrelled with another gentleman, and had been forcibly expelled from the Grange, he being at that time in a state of intoxication ; and it was also stated that the gentleman with whom the deceased had been quarrelling had been heard to threaten he would horsewhip him.’ ‘ I am happy to be in a position to contradict part, at any rate, of your statement, and since we have approached the subject, and it is evident, from your remarks, that mischievous reports are in circulation, I think it is time some steps were taken to refute these assertions ; so allow me to inform you that this statement about threatening to horsewhip the gentleman, and the other about his being forcibly expelled from the Grange, are entirely without foundation, and must have originated in the brain of some evil-minded or thoughtless individual with a morbid tendency to exaggeration.’

‘ Indeed I’ replied Mr Flint. ‘ I am extremely glad to hear it. I was afraid that if the reports were to be relied upon, the consequences, so far as the young gentleman who quarrelled with the deceased was concerned, might have been of a serious nature, as I believe he was the first person to discover the body of the murdered man ; and as it appears that no one else saw the deceased, so far as is at present known, after he left the ball-room till he was found dead, why, you know, the police, and the public too for that matter, might have put an ugly construction on the circumstantial evidence at their disposal. But if, as you say, the report about the quarrel, etc., is untrue, then, of course, no suspicion could attach to the other gentleman, whose name, If I mistake not, is Olphert.’ Mr Flint noticed that his companion started, and his features grew a trifle paler than before. Then he turned angrily towards the detective, and selecting a card from his card-case, he handed it across to him, remarking as he did so, ‘ Perhaps you will be good enough to refer your friends who may be desirous of obtaining reliable information to the gentleman named on that card, with my compliments.’ Mr Flint took the card, and on inspecting it read that the name and address minted on it were GERALD O L P H E R T, Temple Chambers, Brightstone, and Haverstock Villa, Finchley. Extending his band, he said with some show of feeling, ‘ Pardon an old man s garrulity, Mr Olphert. I am afraid my remarks have given you pain. ’ ‘ Oh, it’s all right,’ said Gerald, ‘ but if I may be allowed to offer, advice to one older than myself, I would say, don’t be too ready to credit all you may hear till you have heard the other side of the question. But here we are at another station,’ and as the train slowed up Gerald stepped out on to the platform, the guard intimating that the passengers were allowed half an hour for refreshments. When the starting bell rang Gerald found that he would have other company for the remainder of the journey, as several fresh passengers had joined the train, and by the time he had taken his seat again the compartment which he occupied was fairly well filled, so that he and Mr Flint were unable to continue their conversation, much to Gerald's relief. When the train eventually stopped at Finchley, Gerald jumped into a cab, and was driven to his aunt's residence, Haverstock Villa, while the reverend-looking gentleman took a circuit, and at last brought himself up at the local police quarters. CHAPTER XIII. ’ We seek to mount the still ascending stair To greatness, glory, and the crowns they bear ; • We mount to tall heart-sickened in despair." Law van. The day following the arrival of Detective Flint, at Finchley a rumour was in circulation that the rising and popular

young lawyer, Gerald Olphert, had been arrested on a warrant signed by the local magistrate, charged on suspicion with the murder of Mr Frances Dixon. The news came to many like a thunderclap. The most intimate friends of the suspected man were horrified and indignant, and emphatically vowed that * the thing was impossible : absurd." ‘What !’ said Gerald’s friend, Stanley Grahame, ‘Gerald Olphert a murderer? It’s a base falsehood ! He wouldn't hurt a worm that crossed his path, much less take the life of a fellow creature. Besides, I have l>een in his company several times since the body of Mr Dixon was found, ami whenever he has reverted to the unfortunate occurrence it has always been accompanied with expressions of regret at the untimely end of the murdered gentleman,' and Stanley hurried off to the police-station to request an interview with his friend, and learn the true state of affairs. Gerald was, as we have previously stated, what is termed * popular,’ and amongst his legal acquaintances and his fnends at the Grange he was always spoken of as a * capital fellow,’ but like many others who enjoyed that title, he was not without a circle of envious acquaintances, who were always ready to traverse his actions and assign some ulterior motives to every generous deed, and who, when they heard the news of his arrest shook their heads knowingly as much as to say, ‘ Ah ! I knew he wasn't such a model as his bosom friends insinuated : but I didn’t think he was quite so bad as this; although it certainly is a curious coincidence that he should have been the only one near the spot when the shot was fired by which poor Dixon met his fate,’ and such like remarks of a similar nature indicative of their own astuteness, and very possibly—though they might not allow this—of their own evil-mimledness, if I may be allowed to coin a word. There was one, however, who heard the news as if she had been listening to her own death warrant. Constance Oakfield was sitting in her favourite nook in a retired part of the Grange gardens, little dreaming of the evil spells which were being woven in her destiny. It was a lovely afternoon in June. The bright sun shone in a cloudless sky, the birds sang gaily as they flew from tree to tree, and the soft, drowsy hum of the bees, the fragrant perfume of the Howers, and the quiet beauty of the scene around her made her feel that life was, indeed, worth living. From where she sat she was enabled to obtain a magnificent view of the surrounding country. Stretching away in the distance the river ran winding in and out like a ribbon of silver, passing, in its passage to the mighty ocean, through fertile valleys and well-timbered parks, by country village and county town, gathering volume as it ran from all its tiny tributaries; while here and there, half-sheltered by the surrounding trees, some little church modestly reared its spire to heaven. Under the influence of such a scene as this it was little wonder that the thoughts of Constance ‘ lightly turned to love,’ and as she drew from her pocket a letter, and perused its contents for the twentieth time that day, a happy smile came into her eyes and wreathed itself around her almost-perfect mouth, and with all the ardour of an affectionate, sensitive nature she exclaimed, ‘ What have I done to deserve such happiness ? God grant I may prove myself worthy of your love, Gerald, dear.' The contents of her letter ran somewhat as follows ;— ‘My Darling Constance,—l hope to have the pleasure of seeing your dear face again on Thursday next. All being well. I intend leaving Paddington on Wednesday, but as it will be late before the train arrives at Finchley, I shall not be able to call at the Grange till the following evening, so must possess my soul in patience till that date. I need scarcely tell you. my darling, ho« I long to see you again. You have not repented the promise you gave me, Constance ? It seems almost too good to be true, and is worth all the Lord Chancellorships in the world.' Constance refolded the letter, and put it carefully back into her pocket again, and then, softly humming to herself the refrain of an old ballad, "A thing divine, for nothing natural I ever saw so noble.' she rose from her seat and wended her way back through, the garden. Very pretty she looked as she stooped to pluck a bud from a rose bush growing near, and had t Jerald Olphert been by her side he would have proclaimed her ‘ the fairest Hower that ever grew.’ She was dressed in a white summer costume, relieved by light blue bows, and the rich coils of her bonnie brown hair were half-hidden by a roguishlooking gipsy hat, which was coquettishly tilted to the back of her shapely head. As she came to a bend in the gravel walk she saw her sister Laura coming towards her, frantically waving something above her head. As Constance ap proached, her sister provokingly doubled the object up in her hands, and placing them behind her back, said laughingly, ‘ “ Open your mouth, and shut your eyes, and guess what he has sent you.” Now, Constance, a forfeit, mind, if you fail to guess right the first time.' ‘ A letter,’ said Constance. ‘ Wrong returned her sister. ‘ Forfeit that sweet little rosebud you wear in your breast, and try again.’ ‘ Now, Laura,’ pleaded the other, • please do not provoke me to anything desperate, for you know what a dreadful virago 1 am when roused.’ ‘ Well, since you give it up,’ said Laura, ‘ look !’ and she brought her hands to the front again and handed Constance an envelope containing a telegram. ‘ This has just arrived,' continued Laura, * and I thought it might contain welcome news of . Now don’t blush, Connie, for you know how well it becomes you,’ and she considerately turned aside, and became, apparently, deeply absorbed in the Howers at her feet. She had scarcely time to gather more than three or four, when an exclamation of pain and astonishment caused her to turn quickly round, just in time to observe her sister, with one hand pressed to her brow, and the other nervously clutching the telegram, while her face was paler than the lilies in the garden, and a wild, hunted look was in her bonnie blue eyes. Laura saw all this at a glance, ami sprang forward to catch her, but before she could reach her side Constance fell in a swoon to the ground. Laura was considerably alarmed, but her presence of mind did not forsake her. Hurriedly unfastening the neck of her sister's dress, she hastened to one of the ornamental fountains that was fortunately near at hand, and quickly filling one of the drinking cups sprinkled the water over the neck and face of Constance, who was moaning piteously all the time. In spite of her efforts, however, Constance's eyes remained closed, and her moans became so painful to listen to that Laura decided to run to the Grange for other assistance, first of ail taking the precaution to Iw sen the telegram from the hand of Constance and put it in her own j>ocket; then gently, but quickly, lifting the form of her sister out of the rays of the burning sun, she ran with ail possible speed to

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