Serial Story. MURDER WILL OUT.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXIV, Issue XXII, 2 June 1900, Page 1010

Serial Story. MURDER WILL OUT.

By

EDGAR PICKERING.

Author of “A Stout English Bowman, ’* “King for a Summer," etc.

CHAPTER XVII. (Continued.)

The Yarra made fair weather in crossing the Bay, and in due time the coast of Spain was sighted, then the rock of Gibraltar, and by this time madam spoke and acted as though the sea were her native element. She anti Captain Brown appeared to command the yacht, and with the pros[>ect o! being speedily released from her un< pleasant position Madge found herself enjoying the trip. "We leave M’sieur Dorman when we come to Malta,” said madam. “He is so reckless a man, and yet so tender at the heart. He grieve to me tha? you avoid him. Why? Is he not generous? Is he not rich? Ma foi, there are some that would en-vay you, my chaile.” “I do not wish to discuss the sub. jeet. Madam Duval.” replied Madge, coldly. “1 have been very badly treated. and am only desirous of reaching my home.” "So angry is this sweet one.” laughed madam, addressing the air. “So wilful and eager to be gone. But is it not to lx- soon? Yes, at Malta vva leave this sheep, look you.” Whether madam was speaking th<i truth, or giving this promise to appease her companion, matters not, for an interruption to the Yarra's voyage was at hand which none of those on board had anticipated. Her destination had been changed for some reason that Madge was not allowed to know, Naples being freely spoken of as the port where the vessel would touch, and with a favourable wind the yacht was being- swiftly carried towards Italy. Hitherto nothing had occurred, save the unwelcome solicitation o£ Dorman, to mar the voyage; but one evening Captain Brown, watching the barometer, shook his head gravely. He and Dorman were in the little deck house busied over a chart, and the latter observed the captain’s gesture. “Anything unusual. Brown?” he asked. “I don’t like the glass doing this,” replied the other. “Why. you can almost see the index drop! We’re going to have had weather, Mr Dorman. I know these Mediterranean storms. Quick and sudden they are, and heavyenough to blow a ship out of water.” Captain Brown was no false prophet, for before sun-down a bank of sulphury cloud was observed and the wind which had been blowing gently all day suddenly lulled, whilst under foresail only the “Yarra” dipped along, bobbing to the short curling waves, that, although as yet there was no wind felt, seemed rising angrier and angrier each lightning. And then amid lightning stud thunder, the storm broke over the yacht, bringing the foretop to deck in a tangle of rigging and laying the vessel on its beam ends. Released from some of her top hamper, however, the yacht righted herself gallantly and drove through the water her decks a-wash. and of her boats only one remaining uninjured. All that skill and courage could do was done promptly, but for some time the Yarra was in the greatest peril. The green waves came inboard, and went in a swirling torrent from stem to stern, clearing everything from the deck that was not made fast and pouring in ca.seades down the companion into the saloon. Hooding it almost knee deep. Enveloped in pitchy darkness the yacht plunged ami reared, testing every timber in her. To describe Madam Duval's condition would be inqsissible. She screamed until her tihroat was too dry to scream any more, but fright prevented her from being ill, and standing on the saloon seat, holding with a convulsive grip to the lamp fittings at the side, she invoked all the saints in the calendar, and at each fresh cascade which came hissing and leaping down the companion way, she gave a jump to escape tihc inundation. Madge was on the couch opposite her, a.nd in total darkness they renniined thus, whilst the Yarra. driven out of her

course, plunged onward through the raging sea. Morning- broke at last, and Captain Brown, who had saved his ship from foundering, put his head in. at the door and splashed through the saloon. "We’ve had the worsrt of it, ladies,” he said in a gruff voice. “You’ve had a gay time, but it was better than going to Davy Jones’ locker. We’ll clear the saloon first thing.” “Mon Dieu! angelic Captain Brown,” eried Madam, who was a more deplor-able-looking wreck than the “Yarra” itself. “When is it that we arrive to Naples?” and he gave her a snappy a nsw er. “We’ve got. to find Naples first,” he replied. “We’re somewhere off the island of Sardinia, Mam, if you’ve ever heard of such a place, and the Lord only knows how we’re going to refit the eraft.” "Sardinia!" repeated Madam. “Parbleu! How wonderful is this! Oh what a night I pass through.” “You ought to be thankful that it wasn’t worse,” said the captain crossly. “It’s bad enough though, for we’ve carried away our steering gear, ami are drifting.” “Dreefting?” screamed Madam. "How mean that strange word. Captain?” “It means that I can’t steer the vessel, and the current is setting on shore, fast.” was the reply. “That’s enough for me to say. I suppose? I’ll lend you ladies a hand on deck, whilst the saloon’s being swabbed out.” With the captain’s aid Madam was was conveyed up the companion, and Madge followed her to where, in the lee of the partially destroyed deckhouse, they were sheltered from the wind which was blowing heavily still. The storm had passed, however, but the trim “Yarra” presented a woeful picture with her broken mast and tangled rigging. The greatest harm done her was the smashing of her tiller chains and wheel, and until a temporary steering gear could be rigged, the yacht was in danger. Lurching along at the mercy of the sea, she drove past the Strait of Bonafacio, and along the coast until at length the town of Aleria was sighted. The sea was rapidly calming and all fear of danger was over by this time, but Madam Duval was to be neither appeased nor comforted. Having recovered from the deadly fright occasioned by the storm, she had also recovered the full use of her tongue, and Captain Brown at last lost patience with her. In consultation with Mr Dorman, who had taken his full share of the work of saving the yacht, Captain Brown expressed himself tersely and with effect. “I can do with most things,” he said, “that come in a seaman’s way; such as we've just had, Mr Dorman, but a woman screeching in your ears all day long, 1 can’t abide. That French party hinders work, so with your permission I'll send her ashore at Aleria. The ship isn’t so comfortable as to make her. sorry to go, and she can join you again when we’re refitted. Dorman said he would consider tl> idea, and walked aft to where Madam was seated wrapped in a thick shawl. Madge was standing at some little distance, with her gaze on the shore, and he saw that she was unprotected from the wind. Taking off his heavy overcoat he handed it to her, telling her to put it over her shoulders. It was the first time that he had spoken to her for some days, and she repulsed him, saying she was not cold. “I mean this, as T mean all that T do.” he answered irritably, “in the sincerest kindness. Am I never to receive any reward?” "Yes. Some day,” replied Madge, and Dick’s face seemed to rise up before her, as Dorman turned away, speaking in an undertone to Madam, who after he had left her. got up quickly and called to Madge. “We leave this miserable sheep this day. my chaile,” she said joyfully. “Oh

the so beautiful land that we step again!” “What is the name of the land I can see over there?” asked Madge. “The captain call this place Corseeca,” said Madam. “Is it not a strange country? Yet it is dry and one need have no longer the fear of being killed.” The prospect of at last escaping from the yacht, gave Madge as much pleasure as Madam had exhibited, and in a short time the one boat that was still serviceable had been lowered. The “Yarra” was to be taken on to the next port, where she would be repaired ami made ready for sea again, but what Dorman's directions to Madam Duval had been, only those two knew. Then after some difficulty Madam was got into the boat with Madge and rowed ashore, reaching the quay at Aleria without any mishap. There was a little knot of boatmen standing on the quay as Madam and her companion landed, and one of the men uttered an exclamation of surprise. Madam’s sharp eyes had observed him also and a look of apprehension came into them. Sending Madge on, she lingered a moment, and the boatman accosted her. “The report went about that you were dead, Celeste.” he said, speaking >n the native languag-e, and Madam answered in the same. “Hush,” she whispered. “Do not speak my name, Marco. I am content to be thought dead. Is Nasorie alive? Are there many left who will remember me?” “Yes,” he answered. “How many years is it since you and he were lovers. Celeste?” and he laughed. “You are going to Bastia perhaps.” “I take this English girl there. Her name is Selby.” “Then we may meet there,” said Marco. “I am going to Bastia also tomorrow.” There was no time to speak further. Madge had turned, waiting for her. and she hurried forward, her companion asking her if she were ill. For Madam’s face was ashen, and she was trembling. “111, ask you? Peste—who would be well, who has suffered as I? Mad chaile,’ answered Madam. "Allons. we go to Bastia. understand you?"

CHAPTER XVIII. "Samuel Morder, Esq.” Sylvester stood looking down and repeated the name in such confusion of thoughts that for some time he could not get his ideas; into a consecutive train of reasoning. This coat had belonged to I he junior partner of Squire Gifford’s firm of solicitors, and in some inexplicable way the piece of cloth had been torn from it. and left hanging on the wall of Whyteleas Manor. "Before I can unriddle this,” he mused, “1 must discover something further. Motive. Yes, the reason why the Squire was murdered. But what possible motive Samuel Morder, Esq., could have had for committing a crime. I can’t imagine. But I’m getting on too fast. Was it Samuel Morder? Common sense tells me that it wasn’t; my eyes tell me that this is his coat, and I’ve got the evidence of the piece torn from it. Now the question presents itself, whether the firm ot Seripp and Morder didn’t have a motive? What was that their smug little clerk said about their being pressed for money, and how could he have earned two E* 500 notes in their employment? This is simply a maddening puzzle. Anyway. I’ll have a chat with Mr Morder." It being impossible for Sylvester to divest himself of the puzzle, or to follow his ordinary occupations, he made his way next morning to Southamp-on-street. finding Mr Driver alone in the clerk’s office, and Sylvester cast an inquiring glance at a vacant stool. “Where is that amiable little colleague of yours?” he asked. “Gone," replied Mr Driver, laconically. “Dismissed ?"

“Dismissed himself,” was the answer. “Rum chap, Kedar was. You’d think he was the simplest fool that ever stepped by the look of him, but there was precious little that went on in the office that he didn’t know.” “Not a friend of yours?” “I don’t think he was a friend of anybody’s. He came and went, that’s all 1 know of him, and where he lived or what he did with himself out of office hours. I ean’t tell you. Some people may have liked him. I didn’t, but the new Squire down there at Whyteleas seemed to take quite a fancy to Kedar. I ve seen them whispering together for ten minutes at a time.” “Rather a strange thing for a wealthy client to do.” “Isn’t everything strange?” asked Mr Driver, who was apt t o take peculiar views of life. “Who killed Squire Gifford? There’s something that’s very strange. But whatever is the use of bothering? They pay me one pound sixteen and six a week here; you’d never believe the trouble I had to screw that last sixpence out of Seripp. and I’ve a family to support. I’ve no time to think of anything else. Yes. Morder’s in. Did you want to see him? My opinion about Mr Morder is that he’s ’booked.’ Heart wrong.” Mr Driver slipped off his stool, and went to Mr Morder’s room, returning after a colloquy carried on between the edge of the door and the door posil saying “if Mr Courtenay would walk in please,” which Sylvester did. closing the door behind him. There were a few ordinary words, and Sylvester drew the client's ragged easy chair close to Mr Morder’s desk, and broached the object of his visit. It was rather a difficult task that he had set himself, one requiring either a great deal of diplomacy, for Mr Morder was evidently on his g-uard or a plunge into the middle of things. Sylvester chose the latter course, and Mr Morder’s ejaculation, with which he received the shock, was peculiar. “I want to speak to you about Squire Gifford’s murder,” said Sylvester. not more emphatically than he might have said, “It’s a tine'day.” My G—d!” and Mr Morder made a clutch at the blotting pad. “Yes,” continued Sylvester; “I rather fancied that you would be surprised. I want your opinion about something connected with the minder.” “But, my good sir,” Ireplied the other, “the affair is forgotten, and I may remind you that every possible thing has been said about it. We’re busy just now, and although I’m the last man in the world to appear discourteous, I must point out to you that office hours are scarcely the time to discuss—in fact, I must positive!' decline to continue the conversation." “Im afraid that strain won’t help you, . Mr Morder,” said Sylvester. "You’d better hear what 1 have to say. I don’t want to go to Scotland Yard yet; don’t send me there.” Scotland Yard!” exclaimed Mi Morder, giving a gentle thump at hipalpitating heart. “This strain won’t help me? I don’t want any help. All i want is a little peace. I’ve no wish to send you anywhere.” He spoke with such genuine accents of anguish, that Sylvester almost pitied him. Was he talking to a murderer, or someone who knew more about a murder than would allow his conscience to rest? “Mr Morder.” he said, sternly, “you find it much better to be quite open with me in this matter. I don’t want to hold out threats, or to say an unnecessary word, hut you are a lawyer. and possibly well acquainted with the criminal law. There is sueh a place as the Old Bailey ” “You’re as bad as Seripp,” shouted Mr Morder. interrupting him. “He wa-s always talking about the Centr il Criminal Court. Oh. whv did I ever listen to him? Why have I allowed myself to be influenced by Seripp? ft was base cowardice, sir; base coward ice on my part. That’s what it was. and there’s not a night that I put my head on my pillow—Oh. misery!” anil he bent himself over the blotting pad. Sylvester sat watching him for a moment, and then in the most concise manner he narrated the story of the piece of cloth and the finding of Mr Morder’s coat. “I don’t think that you’ll deny that it is your coat,” he said. “I’ve shown it to your tailors, who have identified it- They know nothing about repairing it. I offended their dignity by asking that question. I'm afraid. Did you have it mended?” “Then, perhaps, you can explain

how it came to be on the stall of a second-hand clothes dealer?” “I cannot.” “And this is all you are willing to say ?” “1 know nothing more that I can say,” replied Mr Morder feebly, a strange white spreading over his face. “You’ve asked me about the murder of Squire Gifford, and it's only right to tell you that there are suspicious—very strong suspicions pointing to the guilty party.” “Yes. There are.” “We had a visit from someone who lives at Marlhurst, a Mr Selby,” continued Mr Morder. “Possibly yon may have heard of him?” “I know him personally.” “Well, he came here about some extraordiary invention of his; he saw Scripp in the matter; it was about forming a company or a syndicate to exploit the invention, I think—dear, dear, I can scarcely collect my thoughts to-day.” “W’hat has Mr Selby to do with this suspicion ?” “Exactly. I’ll explain. Scripp tells me that this Mr Selby, in speaking of Squire Gifford’s death, referred to a Dr. Morti ” “Hold!” exclaimed Sylvester. “I’m not here to listen to calumny. There is not the slightest credence to be placed on what Mr Selby may think or say, but, by Jove! you’ve opened my eyes at last, Mr Morder. I’m beginning to see now the reason for Mr Selby’s daughter—but we won’t speak about that. Poor Dick! I’ll put that straight if mortal man can. Now we’ll come to business, please.” “What is it that you want?” and Mr Morder positively quailed before Sylvester’s indignation. “Plainly this. It is either you helping me, or my having help from Scotland Yard, t promise nothing and I threaten nothing, but. I’ll unravel this hateful business. Where is your clerk, Jean Kedar?” “I don’t know. He left us without a word of warning.” “Where is your client, the present owner of Whyteleas?” “I believe Mr Dorman is abroad. He spoke of going yachting to the Mediterranean.” “Why were he and your clerk, Jean Kedar, on such intimate terms?” “I don’t know—for mercy’s sake. Mr Sylvester, don’t cross-examine me like this. I’m not a strong man. and latterly my heart has been giving me a great deal of trouble.” “Then I’ll make this suggestion,” replied Sylvester. “You may have the, rest, of the day to consider the matter over, and come to a conclusion about it. This is not the most convenient place for our discussing it. I shall be at home till e'ght o’clock to-night, that is my address, and if you choose to see me there, well and good. Further I shall expect you to clear up the mystery about your coat, and to tell me all you know in reference to Mr Dorman and Jean Kedar. I shall expect yon to aid me in finding the murderer of Squire Gifford. And I think you can do all these things. Whether you will is another matter, but I’ll show no mercy, Mr Morder. on you or anyone else who may have a hand in so vile a conspiracy,” and he rose from his chair. “Give me time!” gasped Mr Morder. “That’s Scripp’s voice outside: keep this interview that you propose a secret from him. He is a man who will stick at nothing.” “But yon see it isn’t Scripp’s coat that 1 want to know about,” answered Sylvester. “However. I’ll leave you to consider. 1 shall be gone at five minutes past eight, unless you have arrived.” ami saying this he took his departure. Mr Scripp, coming into his partner's room a little later, found Mr Morder in such a condition of helplessness, that he recommended him to go home. "You're knocking yourself up. Morder,” he said. “What you want is a little wholesome excitement," and Mr Morder groaned. He had just gone through more excitement than he liked. On h's wuy home to his chambers Sylvester encountered Mr Nicholson, whom Mortimer had described as Dr. Everest's factotum in England, and a frown was on his face. “Heard from your friend, Mortimer, lately?” he asked Sylvester. “Not for some time.” was the reply. “He's gone mad," went on Mr

Nicholson. “Because no man in his senses would have acted as he has. Here’s a wire I've had from him; read ?t. ‘Send someone to take my place. Gone.’ That’s a nice sort of thing, isn’t it?” “It’s not Mortimer’s ordinary way, certainly. Where’s he gone to?" “How can I tell you?” replied the other crossly. “All I know is that I’ve to send someone off to Bastia at an hour’s notice. To Bastia. mind you. that isn't everylxxly's money. Shouldn't like the place myself." “I wonder what it can possibly mean, and what Mortimer's object is." "Mad. sir,” answered Nicholson, touching his forehead. "Climate too much for him. Drank probably. 1 should if J were transported to a desert island.” “I wasn’t aware that Cors'ca was a desert island.” “Same thing, same thing,” retorted the other irritably. “Thought you might have given me some information. Everest must give up the practice if he can't attend to it himself. Men won't go to Bast'a, if they can get a club appointment in England. I wouldn’t myself." and Mr Nicholson walked off. “Now I should very much like to know what all this means." mused Sylvester. "Why has Dick left Corsica? That suspicion of Selby's too —horrible! However 1 mean to dear up the mystery if it's with'n my power to do so. If Morder fails to keep his appointment. I’ll have him arrested.” A quarter to eight, and Sylvester sat waiting for his visitor, w'atch'ng the hands of the clock creeping to the appointed hour. Then it chimed, and as it did so the door opened and Mr Morder appeared, mopping his face as though the exertion of mounting the stairs had heated him. He was panting heavily too, and Sylvester noticed the extreme pallor of his cheeks, as he seated himself on a chair, heavily. “I’m here in time you see, Mr Courtney,” he began. “I was ready to come with'n five minutes of your leaving the office. I couldn't have lived the life I’ve been living much longer, and you’ve only hastened -my inevitable confession. Pardon my asking’, but have you some brandy? I should like a small quantity.” He was always a polite man, punct.lions in his treatment of others, and the request was a strange one for him to make. Going to the sideboard Sylvester took a spirit bottle and put it before his visitor, who tilled a glass, drinking the brandy undiluted. "There is no hurry, Mir Morder,” said Sylvester. “You can take your own time in telling- me whatever you have to say. I’m asking for an explanation, remember, not a confession.” “Yes, I know that,” replied Mr Morder. But it will be a confession. A confession of the part I’ve had to play, in a scheme of the vilest nature, Mr. Sylvester. I have had the prospect of utter ruiu held up before me; the disgrace of my name, and the destruction of my family; and I have submitted to countenance acts that have revolted me. I’m here to make a definite statement, and to do what I can to repair a great wrong.” Is this man a hypocrite, or a bigger scoundrel than I’ve thought him? was the question that flashed into Sylvester’s mind. He was being invited to listen to more than he had expected, and was on his guard. “We may as well take your statement down on paper,” he answered coldly. “And I warn you that 1 shall act promptly on it. Mr. Morder.” "By all means,” said the .other. “It will need prompt action, and let the worse that can l>e. come, it can’t be more terrible than carrying a guilty conscience as I do." “Hypocrite.” decided Sylvester as he tu ok up a pen. "I shall have to act very warily or he will get the best of me. I’ll* disbelieve half what he says. Now I’m ready. Mr. Morder." he said, glancing at the white face opposite him. "The first thing I have to state concerns the firm of which I am a member." began Mr. Morder. speaking slowly. "Il is necessary that I do so in order that you may understand clearly what follows.” "Very good. I am waiting.” "We hail several very heavy losses on the Stock Exchange,” continued the speaker, "but without affecting our credit. That we had maintained by employing moneys, entrusted to us for other purposes, to our own use ”

“Like a great number of outwardly respectable lawyers,” remarked Sylvester. “In other words you embezzle, your clients’ money.” “It is a hard word to use, but a true one,” replied the other. “I was always opposed to the practice.” “And your partner over-ruled you, I presume?” "In this and every other instance,” was the answer. "Go on, please.” for Mr. Morder had suddenly stopped, helping himself to the brandy again. "There came the crisis at last,” he continued. “The time when absolute ruin stared us in the face. Several thousands were required to make good the amounts we had appropriated, and my partner worked on my fears, on my weakness. I’m not asking for your consideration, nor attemptins’ to mak myself out to be entirely blameless; I’m only describing the temptation. These thousands were offered us, ay, and enough to reward us for whatever we might do.” “Who offered this money?” “I’m coming to that. There shall be nothing kept back, I promise you. One day a stranger solicited employment in the office. We did not need extra help, and I set my face against engaging him. In that I was defeated. The fellow was in league with my partner, and too late 1 discovered the plot in which they were concerned. You know the man to whom I refer.”

“Jean Kedar,” and Mr. Morder nodded. “What was the nature of the plot?” asked Sylvester, after a momentary silence. “Yes. yes!” exclaimed the other, his words coming thickly. “1 will tell you all!” and he struck the table excitedly as he rose from his chair, standing with his blanched face and heaving breast confronting Sylvester. “1 only discovered the full extent of this plot yesterday; I only knew the name of Squire Gifford’s murderer yesterday, ami I shall never return to the office.” “You know who murdered Squire Gifford!” cried Sylvester, starting to his feet also, and there was a, deadly |Miuse. "Yes. His name is " What was that awesome change creeping over the speaker, who had suddenly stopped? The meaning of that, sharp shrinking together of the t reinbling ixxiy, the gasp of agony that had esca|xxl the livid lips? and with a rapid nn.vement Sylvester had caught Mr. Morder in his arms. No more will those glazing eyes behold Southampton Street, nor their gaze lx l on those whom he loves so well. No more will that troubled heart beat or suffer, for it is still now for ever, and the body that Sylvester supports becomes leaden in weight. For with the name of Squire Gifford’s murderer upon his tongue, unuttered, Mr. Morder lay dead. (To be Continued.)