A DAUCHTER OF MIDIAN.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXV, Issue XXVI, 29 December 1900, Page 1194

A DAUCHTER OF MIDIAN.

Serial Story.

(PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.!

By

JOHN K. LEYS.

Author of “ A Sore Temptation,” “ The Thumb-print,” “ The Broken Fetter,” “In the Toils," “ A Million of Money,” etc., etc. COPYRIGHT.

PART lII.—MR MITCHELL’S SECRET.

CHAPTER XXII. SYBIL PLAYS THE SPY. “What shall you do?’’ whispered Sybil to her sister. Sidney made no reply, but she trembled all over. The fact was that, relying on Mr Mitchell’s old offer, and sick to death of the monotony of school life, Sidney had thrown up her situation; so that the cool rejoinder of the laird that he also had changed his mind was something like a sentence of death for her. “Let us go up to bed,” whispered Sybil. “You will sleep with me tonight, wont you?” “Please don’t go upstairs yet, young leddies, said the laird, eyeing them suspiciously, though without changing the position of his'head as it hung over his plate. “I’ve got something to say to ye.” Of course the two girls kept their places in the chimney corner, whilst the master of the Castle went on with his supper. Before he had finished his meal a mesasge was brought to him saying that the factor was waiting to see him.

The laird grunted, and went on with his supper. Evidently he considered the factor a personage of greater consequence than either of his guests, for when he had finished supper he hastily rose from table and went to the library, forgetting, apparently, that he had asked Sybil and her sister not to go to bed till he had spoken to them. So the two girls remained where they were, while the silent butler removed the supper tray, and then took a cellaret from the sideboard, and carried it out of the room. “That means that the conference may last all night.” said Sybil. “Pm going to bed.” “Please stop a little longer, dear,” pleaded Sidney. “Remember that 1 have no one to look to but Mr Mitchell, and it would be a pity to offend him on the very first night.” Sybil was not so much afraid of the “dour” consequential little man who was master at Inveroran as her sister was, and she wanted to go to bed; but of course she coidd do nothing but carry out Sidney’s wishes. They sat down together before the dying fire, and again their hands insensibly met. Miss Dalrymple had considerately left the two sisters to themselves, and retired long since. The servants, too. had gone up to their rooms, and the great house was as still as a tomb. ■An hour went by, and Mr Mitchell did not return to the dining-room. He seemed to have forgotten that the two girls were sitting up at his request. “I will go and tell Mr Mitehell that we are waiting for him,” said Sybil, springing to her feet. ‘I dare say. he has quite forgotten that he asked us not to go to bed till he had spoken to ns; but it would be quite like him if he were to be sulky with us to-morrow, all the same, if we disobeyed him.— Wait here till I come back.” Sybil’s shortest way to the room where Mr Mitchell and the factor were sitting lay through the disused closet in which she had once before tried to hide herself when she was anxious to hear what was being said in the laird’s room. It was with no intention of eavesdropping that she took that way now. but as soon as she opened the door of the closet she rememliered that with a little trouble she coidd manage to overhear the conversation between the lain! and his factor. For a few minutes she stood still, considering whether she would be justified in playing the spy. Ami she came to the conclusion that there was not the same necessity, or the same excuse, for playing the spy on Mr Mitchell that had existed on the former occasion.

She had new established her identity, and it was no business of hers, she told herself, to pry into the affairs of the laird. She decided, therefore, that would simply knock at the door, and putting her head into the room wish Mr Mitehell good-night. and come away. But she forgot to tap at the door, for no sooner had she reached the inner door, which opened into the laird’s room, than she heard a name shouted out in a loud and angry voice — a name that made her start and her face turn pale—the name of her father. What had these two men to say about him? Surely, whatever it might be, she had a right to hear it? So she opened the door very softly, held it open about half an inch, and bent her ear to listen. MePail was speaking. “Don’t you owe it all to me, you dirty scrub? What could you have done without me? You never could have done the job without me? Grant could have eaten half a dozen of you!” The reply was so low that the listening girl could not catch it. MacPhail burst into a loud, mocking laugh. “You hadn’t the nerve!” he cried. You’d have missed . What’s that you say? Don’t speak of it? Wha’s wantin’ to speak of it? But I’m not going without my fair share. If we had divided fair, or onything like fair, how comes it that you’re the master and I’m the man? How comes it that you live i’ the castle, an’ I bide i’ the factor’s lodge?” “Because you threw away your chance when you had it, like a fool. 1 warned you not to part with the shares, and you preferred ready money. And yet, ten thousand pounds and a post like yours is not to be despised. Duncan, and none kens that better than you. You’re very well off, and you're not such a fool as not to know it.” The answer to this was an indistinct grumbling, like the growling of a wild beast in a cage. Would they say nothing more about her father, Sybil wondered. If only she had happened to come a minute or two sooner! "And now, what are ye going to do wi’ they twa young weemen?” demanded the factor. "I’ve been thinking of that,” said Mr. Mitchell, in his thin, hard tones. I'll offer the auld sister two pound or two pound ten a week to go to Italy —or some place far awa’, an’ bide there. 1 offered her three hundred a year to do the same thing the year before last, and the silly creature didna tak’ it. So I can mak’ my ain terms wi’ her. After all. she has no claim on me.” “An’ the young ane?” “Well, she's what I ca’ a credit to the establishment. I’m no’ in ony great hurry to part wi’ her. She’s bonny. and though she’s a deep ane she can do me no harm. I have thought sometimes that the Honourable Ronald Keith took a fancy to her, when he was staying here for the shooting; ami it would suit me very well if he were to marry her. It would be a good thing for our family.” “But she’s no kith or kin to you!” exclaimed the factor, with a note of surprise in his voice.

“No; but I’m her guardian, and it would doubtless tend to draw his lordship’s family an’ mine thegither. What the are ye sniggerin’ at there?” “Hoots, man, naethiu’! Ye’re juist clean awa’ wi' your suspeecions. But I’m sayin’ this. Ye may keep that young wuinman here, but it’ll be at yer ain peril. Ye said yersel’ that she was a deep ane, and she’s proved it ”

“Never fash yer thumb aboot that, Dunean, ma man,” said the laird. He

had relapsed into the broad Scotch he had spoken in his youth, by which Sybil knew he was pretty far gone in liquor. "The lass has nae suspeecions —hoo could she hae ony? And here she'll bide as long as it pleases me. And noo I’m thinkin’ it’ll be about time ye were steppin’ doon bye, Duncan. Ye’ll juist hae ae mair gless, an’ than ye’ll gang.” Sybil, in terror lest she should be caught playing the spy, drew gently away from the door, not even daring to close it. Dark as it was she made her way without any mishap through the adjoining room, and thence into the hall. Sidney, tired out with her long journey, had fallen fast asleep over the fire, now a heap of white ashes with a red glow in the centre. “Come, sister,” said Sybil, laying her hand on her head to wake her, but speaking under her breath. “Come, and I will take you up to your room.” “Why. Sybil, how strangely you speak! What is the matter? Has anything happened?” “No. And yet something has happened. I have learned that Mr. Mitchell and that wretch the factor have cause to be afraid of me.” For those words of McPhail still echoed in her ears, “If you keep her here you keep her at your peril!”

CHAPTER XXIII. IN VINO VERITAS.

It was not the run he had made to catch the moving train that made John Blackwood’s heart beat fast when he flung himself down on the seat of the carriage he had succeeded in boarding. He had made, not in so many words, but in effect, a declaration of love to his beautiful client, and she had not repelled him.

The truth was that he had fallen in love with her from the time when he took his seat in the railway carriage in which she travelled from England, when he had interfered to protect her against the impertinence of a “smart” vulgarian. He had had no hope of seeing her again, and it was with a feeling almost of bewilderment that he recognised her when she spoke to him in Glasgow. His delight when he found that he might be of service to her. and would naturally be brought into a relation of more or less intimacy with her, may be imagined. And now that he had had the pleasure of a second and a longer meeting with her he could no longer resist the temptation of telling her of the devotion that burned in his heart. The young lawyer was not by any means a wealthy man, but he was well connected, and fairly well off, and it did not occur to him that there was any discrepancy between him and Sybil. Young Scotchmen are not accustomed to expect a dowry with their brides, and Blackwood had full confidence in his ability to keep the pot boiling independently of his small private fortune. It was late when Blackwood reached Glasgow, and his first care was to go to a restaurant and order supper. The restaurant he selected was fitted up with boxes, resembling private rooms without doors; open to the in-

spection of those who might be passing, but quite secluded so far as conversation went. Blackwood was sitting in one of these boxes, waiting for his meal to tie brought to him, when a man somewhat older than himself walked along the corridor with rather unsteady gait, and finally came to an anchor opposite the doorway of the box in which he was sitting. “ ’Pon my life! Our old friend Blackbird!” cried the stranger, in a rather thick voice. The young lawyer smiled at hearing the nickname, which had not greeted his ears since bis school days; and although Bertie Simpson was not-the kind of man he cared to be intimate with, he felt that for old acquaintance’ sake he could not do les»s than hold out his hand, and ask him to join him at supper. “Thanks, aw’fly, old man, but I’ve just been dining. So hard to get a Johnny to speak to in this straitlaced village. All the feUows have gone home to tea, like good go-to-meet-ing young men. In town, now, we never think of dining till half past seven or eight, and then look in at the Empire or the Gaiety, and spend a jolly evening. Here, in the provinces “Have you been down long?” interrupted Blackwood, who did not care to hear the customs of his native city scorned by one of her renegade sons. "Only ran down two nights ago. I say, let’s drink to old times! Let's have some champagne!” "Thank you all the same, but a glass of beer with my dinner or supper is good enough for me.” “Stuff an’ nonsense! Who would drink beer when he can get champagne? Champagne’s the tipple for a gentleman, I tell ye. —Waiter, bring a magnum of the best brand of champagne you’ve got!” Blackwood was annoyed, for he did not wish to drink with the fellow. He saw that Simpson had had enough to drink already. But when the wine was brought, it would have seemed downright churlish to refuse to take a share of it. So Mr Simpson, his foolish face looking even more vacuous than usual, and his hat perched very much on the back of his head, sat opposite the young lawyer, leaning his arms on the table, and caressing every now and then the big bottle of champagne that stood at his elbow. “Still grinding away" at the law?” inquired Simpson, when they had gravely drunk to each other’s health. “Still grinding away,” said Blackwood, cheerfully. “I’ve set up for myself now.” “Awful grind it must be!” said the man of fashion, sympathetically. “For myself, I never cared very much for oftiee work. I find that lookin’ in now and then at a broker’s and takin’ a squint at a tape is about as much of it as I can stand.” “You have made your pile, then?” asked Blackwood, with a greater show of interest than he had yet shown. Bertie Simpson had not by any means been considered a clever boy at school, and Blackwood was inclined to put him down as a brainless young braggart; but he was beginning to think that he must be more clever than people had supposed, or he would not have made enough already to enable him to live in idleness. In answer to Blackwood’s question Simpson gave an elaborate wink. “I'm sure I beg- your pardon.” said Blackwood hastily, and flushing a little. “When you spoke as if you had given up business I naturally supposed that you had made your pile. But T assure you T had no wish——” Simpson burst into a roar of laughter. “My dear fellow. I’m not offended. I only meant to insinuate that my pile is more or less a matter of private interest——” “Exactly so. And T am very sorry “No more apologies, my dear f’lah. I lieg of you.” said Mr Simpson in his

very grandest manner. “In fact. I am rather proud of the level-headed-ness I showwi on one occasion, which has enabled me ever since to live the life of a gentleman. You know I have always maintained that in the world of finance chances happen to a man that he would not get elsewhere.” “Yes. I remember you looked down upon law as being too slow.’” “I did. And so it is. You don’t have the chances you have in the financial world, though I admit there are pickings to be had sometimes. Shall I tell you how I managed to snare the oof-bird?” Blackwood saw that the champagne was having its effect, and he hesitated about accepting the confidences of a man in that condition.

“Thanks, old man,” he said drily, “but I’m afraid your experiences would not be of much use to me.” “Dare say not. Such chances don’t grow on every bush. But it’s the being able to' take advantage of the opportunity when it comes; that’s the thing, my boy.” Blackwood saw that the fellow was simply dying to expatiate on his own cleverness, so he curtly told him to “fire away.” “It was not long after I went up to town,” began Mr Simpson, . “that I was connected with the floating of one of our largest mining companies. You’ll excuse my mentioning names, won’t you? Weil, this mine was not one of those miserable wildcat things that are floated by the dozen, but a genuine first-class article, which has been paying handsome dividends for years. I was in a solicitor’s office then, and the prospectus was put before us —that is to say. my principals—in the wav of business. The vendors of the mine were willing to take the greater part of the payment in shares, but they needed some capital, for they hadn’t a penny between them, so far as I could make out, and of course they needed capital to work the mine. And one of them. I remember, wanted ready money. The other preferred shares, because he had faith in the mine. And he was right.” “Well, after a bit the company was floated, and before long there were rumours flying about that there was something fishy about it.” “But I thought you said it was a good, honest mine,” interrupted Blackwood. “The mine was right enough, you Juggins,” retorted Mr Simpson. “It was the title of the vendors that was said to be a trifle queer. I put one or two questions to one of the vendors I think I mentioned that there were two —and he looked so scared that I felt convinced that there was something seriously wrong. So I went to the expense of engaging a man out in, Australia to make inquiries for me on the spot—on behalf of persons interested, of course. And what do you think was the result? I found that the men who had sold this mine—worth nearly a million of money, mark you —had no more right to it than you or I have at this, moment!” “Good Heavens!” exclaimed Blackwood. Mr Simpson, greatly pleased with the effect he had produced, leaned back in his chair and folded his arms, enjoying the look of undisguised astonishment on his friend’s face. “They were a pair of downy ones. I can tell you,” said Mr Simpson, unfolding his arms, and resting them on the table in his former attitude. “But I thought those mining titles had to be registered in the colony,” observed Blackwood.

“So they have; and so far as the title was a copy of the Register out there it was all right- But the flaw went deeper than that. The vendors were not the original discoverers of the mine. The man who discovered it had registered his claim in proper form, and shortly afterwards the two men I have been speaking of—the vendors to the Company—registered an assignment of his claim in their favour.” “And some people doubted the validity of the assignment?” “Well, very few folks knew as much as 1 have been telling you now. There were vague rumours that all was not square; and at one time these rumourS made the shares jump up and down to any extent; so most men believed that they had been put about for that very purpose —see?” . “I see. But what was wrong with the assignment?” “Only this —that it was actually dated the day after the death of the man who granted it!”

“That may have been a mistake—a mere clerical error.”

“I thought that might be so. But the matter seemed worth looking into. And in the first place 1 ascertained beyond a doubt that while the assignment was dated May 18th. Grant had been killed on the 17th of May.”

Blackwood had been prepared for hearing that the assignment was a forgery, and in a vague way he had thought that it must be the Lone Gully mine that Simpson was talking about. But he was not prepared for the mention of the name of Grant. The word struck him like a blow. It scarcely needed the phrase “had been killed” which Simpson had used to tell him that he had been speaking of Sybil’s father. For a moment he felt half-bewil-dered. but quickly recovering himself, he said —“They must have been impudent scoundrels! What made them so careless, do you suppose?” “I’m not sure that it was carelessness. Perhaps they had knowledge of something that made it impossible that a genuine assignment eould have been executed earlier—for example, if the vendor had been trying to sell the mine elsewhere, and they thought the false date necessary. But that’s all guesswork on my part. Either through accident or by design the false date was there in black and white.” “And what did you do next?” asked Blackwood. “Now, what do you think I did do?” demanded Mr Simpson, setting his head askew, and leering at the lawyer in an insinuating way. “What would you have done, old Blackbird?” “I’d have warned my principals—or perhaps laid the matter before the Director of Prosecutions, or whatever they call him.” “And got the sack for your pains, and serve you right!” exclaimed Simpson, contemptuously- Not me! Not much! No. I set myself to discover some real, genuine, undoubted specimens of the handwriting of this man Grant—there now, the name is out, and I didn’t intend to let it slip!’’.cried the ingenuous youth. “But I know I am safe with you, old man. You’re not the one to give away an old pal. Where was I? Oh, got some letters of his, after a lot of trouble and writing backwards and forwards, getting them identified by affidavit, and all the rest of it. At last it was done. And it was as plain as the nose on your face from a comparison of the handwriting that the assignment was a rank, palpable forgery! A forgery that couldn’t have deceived a child, if it had been anyone’s interest to raise the question whether the assignment on which the whole thing rested was genuine or not.” “And what did you do then?” “What did I do? I waited till the thing was in full swing, and money was coming in freely. Then I bought a share or two, so as to give me a locus standi, do you see?—and then went and interviewed the chairman — the vendor—the forger, I have no doubt.

“I didn’t beat about the bush, I can tell you. 1 simply said, ‘Look here, my fine fellow, you have been and put your foot in it. I have you on toast. And now you many take your choice between paying me one thousand pounds per annum, in equal quarterly payments, or standing your trial at the Old Bailey on a charge of forgery, fraud, and conspiracy?” “And how did he take it?” “Oh, at first he mounted the high horse—would give me in charge for attempting to obtain money, et cetera, et cetera. “ ‘Yes, I am attempting to obtain money,’ says I, ‘and don’t you forget it. And what’s more, I rather think 1 shall obtain it. What do you think, my good sir?’ My word, you should have seen his face when he tumbled to it that I was in earnest, and wasn’t to be frightened off! He was mad, I can tell you. But in the long run he knuckled under—he had to —and he pays me the one thousand per annum as regular as clockwork. And now I am like to bite my fingers off that I didn’t make it two thousand while I was about it.” “You might make it two thousand even now,” said the lawyer, sarcastically. “What do you take me for?” demanded Mr Simpson, assuming the attitude of an aggrieve(T and combative man. “It seems to me that you want to make me out a regular blackmailer!” Blackwood nearly burst into a laugh at the rascal’s transparent self-

deception; but he restrained himself, for he reflected that Mr Simpson might have it in his power to be a valuable friend or a dangerous enemy. Finding that it was Mr Simpson’s intention to return to London on ihe following day, he took the precaution of obtaining from his his town address, and shortly afterwards persuaded the young man, who had taken about as much wine as he could carry, to go to his hotel. Then John Blackwood went home, and lay awake, notwithstanding his fatigue, for the greater part of the night, thinking. And somehow his thoughts always came back to the same point—“ Suppose that 1 follow up this and find it is not only correct but demonstrably correct; suppose that I succeed in recovering the greater part of this valuable property for Sybil. She will be a very wealthy woman —a great heiress, in fact. Is it likely that, living in luxury, and with crowds of admirers at her feet, she will care to remember the obscure Glasgow lawyer who served her? It is not likely. It would not be fair to expect that she should look at me a second time—not in that way. Friendly and grateful, and all that, she would be, I am sure. But the sober fact is that if she recovers the mine, which Mitchell has apparently stolen from her father, she will be as much above me as a princess is above a baker’s boy.” And with this unpleasant conviction haunting his mind he lay and tossed from side to side till the winter dawn crept through the smoke curtain to tell him that a new day had been born. CHAPTER XXIV. THE SCHEMING OF LOUIS DURANT. Louis Durant was a soldier of Fortune, and being liberally provided

with brains, and being free from anything resembling a scruple of conscience, he had made a very good fight of it.

He was an Englishman only on the mother’s side, but as his father had been nothing to boast of in any way, he had long since kept his French parentage as much in the background as l>ossil>le. One thing, however, he had inherited from his father —his artistic temperament. It mattered little that the pictures he painted were very bad ones, and that he could not really play the violin—the instrument he specially affected—for he firmly believed that he was a true artist, and was happy in his belief.

He had been for many years conversant with the shady side of finance; and though he affected to dispise money grubbers and their ways, and to devote himself to art, he was dependent on his own earnings—or his own filchings—for his bread and butter.

When he was asked by the promoters of the Lone Gully Mining Company to make a. report on the title of the vendors, he quite understood that his report must be a satisfactory one to his employers, and he was ready to make his report accordingly. Hr had his reward in a liberal grant of shares in the company, which had placed him for some years beyond the reach of want. But his mopey was coming to an end. Hence his courtship of Miss Dalrymple. He thought he knew enough of Alexander Mitchell’s secret to make it impossible for that gentleman to refuse to give him a fair sum with his niece.

But he had fallen in love with Sybil Grant, and he had conceived that it was possible to gain a far larger sum than he could hope to obtain by marrying Miss Dalrymple by taking up Sybil’s cause, and making it his own.

He knew that Sidney Grant’s father had been the original owner of the Lone Gully mine. Some years before he had seen Sidney Grant, and although he scarcely remembered her. he felt tolerably certain that the eharming young lady who came to the Castle in her name was not the Sidney Grant he had once been introduced to. He said nothing, however, preferring to turn his suspicion into certainty, and then see what use he could make of his knowledge before he acted. The evident partiality of the Hon. Ronald Keith for Sybil had forced his hand; and after declaring himself to Sybil he had left the Castle, determined to discover what in reality was the nature of the claim which she had upon Mr. Mitchell. If, as he suspected, she was entitled to the mine which Mitchell and McPhail had sold to the Lone Gully Company, he would be in a magnificent position for making terms with her. Either out of gratitude, or out of a regard for her own interests. Sybil would be sure to’ listen to him when he let her see that her success depended upon him. And (as her husband) the immense fortune he meant to win for her would practically belong to him. This was his scheme; and this was the reason why he was so anxious to know whether' Sybil had any papers belonging to her father in her possession. Durant had made up his mind that if necessary he would go to Australia; but he found that by the help of the telegraph cable he could direct his inquiries from London, and he did this to such advantage that one day in December he issued from a certain office in a back street in the city with his face radiant. He had penetrated the secret which he had wilfully refrained from investigating when he pretended to examine the title of the Lone Gully Company and their mine, and he told himself that now he held that old rascal Mitchell in the hollow* of his hand. In the joy of his heart Durant went to the best restaurant he could find in the city, and treated himself to the most dainty luncheon the house could supply, with an adequate allowance of champagne. He then lit a cigar, and passed half an hour in running over the columns of the evening journals. As he was about to throw down the last of them, the following advertisement caught his eye: “Signor Zucatti, Professor of Palmistry, Astrology, and the Allied Arts, receives every morning from eleven to one, and every afternoon from four to seven. Those who consult the Professor may rely on the strictest confidence being maintained concerning their affairs.” “By Jove,” said Durant to himself, tossing down the newspaper, “that was the Italian fellow I saw with Sybil the first time I saw* her. I remember T recognised him as the man who was accused of being concerned in a murder in Italy. I wonder what connection there can have been between him and Sybil. Suppose I were to go to see him. and under pretence of consulting him try to find out . Bah! is it worth while?” He almost decided that he would let the Italian alone; but he had nothing particular to do that afternoon; and he ended by making up his mind to pay the Professor a visit. Even if he learned nothing about Sybil, he thought the man’s pretensions to mystical lore might lie amusing. So he asked a waiter to call a hansom, and gave the cabman the address of the Professor's house. (To be continued.)