The Stolend Submarine.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXII, Issue XIX, 7 May 1904, Page 6

The Stolend Submarine.

By

GEORGE GRIFFITH.

Author of “ The Angel of the Revolution," " Brothers of the Chain,' “ The White Witch of Mayfair," “ The World Masters," &c.

150011 I. BFJ "ORE THE STORM.

Tells of a Traitor's Deal ; of The Vanished Submarine , and of certain passages in the history of Arthur Erskine, barrister, of Lincoln's Inn : a brilliant defence at the Old Bailey ; and how the evidence of Arthur Erskine's wrongdoing vanished from his possession.

PROLOGUE. Many of the events which are hereafter to be related practically came about through the chance meeting of an r.nglisman and a Frenchman —or, to be more precise, a Corsican just after dusk, one lovely autumn (‘veiling, in the Hue Canebiere, Marseilles. Victor Erskine. the Englishman, had just come back from Canton, where he had put in five years of hard and uncongenial work, little better than slavery; in fact, under the domination of an uncle who was himself the slave of his liver, a circumstance which naturally made him the tyrant of everyone, white, yellow, and black, who had the misfort um* to be dependent on him. Victor, who possessed one of (hose pliant but unbreakable natures usually associated, as it was in his case, with boundless ambition and utter unserupulousness, had sot his teeth and hardened his heart, and played the slave to perfection. Now he had got his rcAvard. An attack of bilious fever had transferred his uncle, as he devoutly hoped, to an even warmer region than Canton in the summer. and he was rather agreeably surprised to find himself his sole heir. He had at once sold up the business, and here he was. a patient, uncomplaining, inwardly-cursing drudge. 1 ransformed info a gentleman at large, with nearly a hundred thousand pounds to his credit in the London and Shanghai Bank. He had sent his baggage on to the Hotel Louvre, and was strolling up the L’up Canebiere, smoking a long, thin cigar, and thoroughly enjoying the relief from the monotony of the ship to the ever-changing variety of the broad street, with its rows of glittering, mir-ror-lined cafes on either side, and its quadruple procession of electric trams. Hashing up and down the centre, when he met the CorsicanIf was just outside the Brasserie du Slid, and Erskine was thinking of stop ping and taking a vermouth. As he ap proached one of the little marble-topped tables, a man of about his own age. 28 or so. in the uniform of a French lieu tenant-commander. who was coming down the street, turned in under the awning, ami laid his hand on the chair opposite. “ Pardon, monsieur.” Erskine looked up and their eyes met. His were steady, cold, ami steely blue with a thin dark rim round the pupil, which was visible in some lights and not, in others. The Corsican’s were him* black, restless, and with a spark of yellow fire lurking in their depths. They

stared at each other for some 3(1 seconds without speaking, and then the Corsican showed a gleam of white teeth under the neatly-trimmed black moustache which so exactly matched the closeclipped, pointed beard, and said: “Is it possible—can you be Victor?” “About as possible as it is that you are Orsino.” replied the Englishman, putting out his hand. The other gripped heartily, and laughed: “Then, since I am Orsino, you must bo \ ictor. Welcome, brother. And now we will have a consummation, and you shall tell me what you are doing here in our good city of Marseilles. You look as it you had just landed from somewhere.” “\ es,” said Ersine. as he sat down, “from the Australien. 1 left Canton five weeks ago, after five years’ hard labour under an old tyrant of an uncle w ho has just obliged me by dying and making me his heir-” “Ah."’ said the other, raising his brows ami looking at him with the two sparks of yellow lire glowing in his eyes, “that is excellent to hear. And now. 1 suppose*. y'Hi are going home to marry a wife, it you haw not done so already, ami enjoy your well earned wealth. Happy moi tai. And here am 1. your poor Corsican foster-brother ” ‘Well. said Erskine, looking at his epaulet les, his Madagascar medal, and the military cross of the Legion of Honour, “it doesn’t seem as though you had dour so very badly, my deal brother Orsino. considering where w e both started from, that we were both nursed by Hie same foster-mother—your mother, that splendid Corsican woman—but par don. I ought to have asked before now after the health of la mere.” “She is well." replied Orsino. “Sim has a»ked about you several times since w e lost sight of you.” “And circumstances?” queried Erskine. “If there is anything wanted, you know, you must tell me. as brother to brother. 1 am rich enough now to keep the promise which my father could not fulfil. But we can talk about that :i f 1 erw a rds. If your professional duties permit, of course you will dine with me to-night al the Louvre. Ami meanwhile. mv dear Orsino." he continued, raising- his glass to his lips, “allow me to congratulate you upon having advanced so far in the most honourable service Io which a man can devote himself.” “Ab. honourable." said the Corsican, bis voice dropping to a whisper. He shrugged his shohulders. and the two

yellow spots in his eyes gleamed angrily. “Yes, 1 will dine with you to-night, bro ther, and afterwards we will talk, and 1 will tell you something more than you know, perhaps, about honour in this French marine which we Corsicans have made for France with so little thanks or profit to ourselves.” During dinner these two foster-bro-thers, one the son of a Corsican peasantproprietor who had made a fairly profitable combination between agriculture and smuggling, and the other the son of an Englishman, a wandering artist and the scapegrace of his family, who had married a beautiful Corsican girl—only to lose her a few weeks after Erskine was born—talked of many things, mostly commonplaces, each telling the other Oi such adventures and experiences as had befallen him. But when dinner was over, instead of taking their coffee and cognac and smoking theii cigars on the glass-fronted verandah overlooking the Hue Canebiere, Victor took his guest up to his private sitting-room, and when the waiter had left the room he locked the door, closed the windows, and said as he lit his cigar: “Now. brother Orsino,” y »u said quite enough during dinner to give me the impression that you have a good deal more to say. We are quite by ourselves. and if you have any confidences to impart Itliink you will find an appreciative. and I hope I need hardly say. an absolutely confidential listener.” “There is no need for that, Victor." replied Orsino. lipping his glass of cognac into his coffee; “our mothers were both Corsicans, and, in another sense, mine was yours also. That is quite enough. There could be no breach of faith betAveen us. If you wish you shall hear everything.” “Perfectly,” replied Victor, leaning back in his chair and looking keenly at him through the blue haze of cigar smoke. “But. after all. it is not quite fair that the confidences should be altogether on one side. Let me begin.” “As you vvilL brother." replied Orsino. “It is not possible that we can under stand each other too well, as I think you will confess when you have heard what I’m going to tell you.” “Very avcll, then,” said Erskine, dropping his words between the puffs of his cigar. “Since all things begin or end with money, avc may as Avell start there. From one or two remarks you made at dinner. I conclude that it is mainly a question of cash with you.” “Bather the want of it. the want of sufficient money to carry out one of the

greatest schemes that has ever been conceived.” V es,’ said Erskine, looking across tile table at him. the dark rings round the pupils of his eyes growing more distinct. "Yes. and J suppose that is where my part of the confidences would come in. Now it comes to this, Orsino,” he continued, tapping the tablecloth with the fingers of his left hand. “I have made money. You have not. and you have something to sell. What is it? No—don’t hurry, think about it before you speak, and meanwhile I’l tell you just where I stand. I’ve got nearly a quarter of a million francs at my disposal. That might satisfy some people, but it doesn’t satisfy me. 1 want more ‘‘A quarter of a million! Ah, mon Dieu! With that, and with what 1 can tell you. it could be made into millions.” ‘■.Millions of what—francs or pounds?” asked Erskine, pouring out another glass of cognae. "Francs, pounds, anything.” exclaimed Orsino, draining his cotfee cup and rising from his chair. "More or less criminal. 1 suppose?” interrupted Erskine leaning flat back in his chair, and looking at him very straight in the eyes. “You know you don’t make millions that way. even between the Chains at Johannesburg, unless there’s a bit of a crook on the end of the deal. No. no. don’t get offended. It's quite possible that neither of us knows how bad the other is, or how good. To put it more politely ” “Ah, now.” said Orsino. sitting down again, it seems as though we should understand each other.” “It it’s just a matter of hard cash, and something coming out of it,” said Erskine. getting up and lighting a freah cigar. "I’m there. Inside or outside the law. I'm not troubling much, if it is only fairly safe. Now, what is it? You said something about a submarine at. dinner. Has that got anything to do with it?” "It has everything to do with it, brother Victor,” replied Orsino, throwing his arms out over the table and looking at him with the yellow spots burning more intensely in his eyes. “To put it into plain figures, as you say, hov. much are you prepared to risk to make millions, I don’t say pounds just yet. but. of francs, and possibly after that, pounds.” “It’s your turn to call the game, my dear Orsino. If I’m putting the money up I want to know what I’m gambling on. If you can’t tell me that, of course we can’t, do any business. If you can. well. I’m good for ten thousand, say

five-and-twenty thousand francs to begin with. Is that good enough?” There was another silence of some 30 or 40 seconds, during which the two men stared at each other across the table, each trying to solve that secret which has never yet been solved, to break down the barrier between two human souls, a barrier which an all-wise Providence has placed between every human being and every other, lest each should understand each other’s thoughts so entirely that human society would become impossible. “Yes,” said Orsino, getting up and lighting a fresh cigar, which trembled in his fingers as he held the match to it. “Yes, that is it, and now I will tell you. To begin with, it would be outside the law.” “That is rather a curious statement for an officer of the French Navy to make, is it not?” said Erskine, throwing himself back in his chair and spreading his legs wide apart. “It seems to me that there ought to be a good deal hanging on to that. Come now, Orsino, what is it? You are not going to be another Muller, are you?”

“Ah, mon Dieu, you have it,” exclaimed the Corsican, jumping from his seat and facing him across the table, his fists clenched, his eyebrows drawn into a straight line, and his eyes burning. “Yes, it is just that. You know that story. He was not guilty of the act. Ho was guilty of the intent, and he was eaught before the intent became the act. and so he was condemned. Now I —

“Yes—and you?” “I.” exclaimed Orsimo, throwing out his arms, “am a betrayed man. A Corsican, who never was a Frenchman, betrayed, sold, and swindled by Frenchmen —officials who think that genius is worth nothing until it has passel through their own mill and has received, the official stamp.” “Taking all that for granted, my dear Orsino. it doesn’t seem that we are getting much further along.” said Erskine, pouring out another glass of cognac and taking out another cigar from a silver case.

“Suppose we get to business at once, and see how we stand. Take another drink and a smoke, and let us get at it. As I’ve told you, I’ve worked fairly hard for my money, and I want to use it to make more. There’s ten thousand of it down to-night if you can show me that it’s a good, solid investment, will not too much risk in it. Now. what is it?”

“It is this, brother of the blood,” replied Orsino quietly; so quietly, indeed that Erskine was surprised at his sudden change of manner, “ton see that I have been decorated, and that T am still, what you would call, in your English Navy, lieutenant-commander.” “Yes. and. for a man of your age. I thought you had got on pretty well. You’re not 30 yet.” “Ah, yes, but I am more than that. I am more than lieutenant-commander. I am an inventor. T have invented an apparatus which solves the greatest difficulty of submarine navigation." “And that?”

“Is a means of seeing the object which you wish to see. or strike, through the water without being seen yourself, and I am at this present moment commander of the finest, the most perfectly equipped submarine vessel that has ever taken the waters. I have designed her. 1 have watched every Irm” of her building. I have made what I call my water-ray apparatus with my own hand, and I'have installed it, tested it, and proved it perfect.

“And what has the French Government done for me?” he went on. playing with the cross on his left berast. “They have given me this, and an increase of four francs a day with promotion to the command of the submarine Ts’Anonvme.”

“Ah. now, my dear Orsino. I think you’re beginning to talk business. It strikes me that there might be a lot of possibilities in a thing like that if you could once get her outside the threemile limit of international law. But you’re not doing this for nothing, you know. What’s the trouble with you? Horses, cards, bad company, any or all of them, i suppose?” “Yes, you are right,” said Orsino. throwing out his hands again with a gesture of deprecation. “It is not only one, it is all of them. In other words, my brother, there is a matter of a hundred and fifty thousand francs between me and social and professional damnation.

That is all.” “And. to put it otherwise,” said Erskine. “I take it that you would be prepared to arrange for the transfer of L’Anonyme with your unrequited invention to myself in consideration of, say, fifty thousand francs down, and the balance on delivery at any place that I shall specify. If that’s a bargain, say so, and it’s done. You shall have the money before you leave the hotel.” “There will be no trouble, you know, my dear Victor, if I accept. Possibly' bloodshed We make our trial trip tomorrow morning. Of course, if I could take you on board it would be another matter, but that I cannot do. Still. I have one man with me. a quartermaster, also a Corsican, who is devoted to me and- my house, and with him it van be managed.” “I don’t see that that has much to do with me, brother Orsino,” replied Erskine, after a long, slow pull at his cigar, “but, for the sake of the blood, I’m ready to gamble ten thousand on the venture if you’ll give me a letter saying just what you intend to do as In-tween ourselves.” He pointed to a case containing the hotel note paper and envelopes, and took out his cheque-book. “Pay to the order of Monsieur Orsino Lugand, the sum of twenty-five thou sand francs,” he murmured as he wrote the words which meant so much to that foster-brother of his, shivering on the brink of ruin. “Now.” he said, looking up, “when you’ve finished your note. I’ll sign this cheque.” “There it is.” said the Corsican, sign ing his name with the usual flourish at the bottom of a sheet of note paper, and holding it up to the light.

“I, Orsino Lugand. Lieutenant-Com-mander in the Marine of the French Republic, agree and undertake to deliver the submarine now called L’Anonyme to Monsieur Victor Erskine, within three weeks, at any point which he shall select. This in consideration of the sum of twenty-five thousand francs, now paid to me. and one hundred thousand francs to be paid on delivery of the said vessel. — Orsino Lugand.” ‘‘There you are brother.” said Erskine, js he exchanged the cheque for the let ter. ‘Yes. that is quite satisfactory, as far as I'm concerned, and I hope that our chance meeting this afternoon will turn out to be a fortunate occurrence for both of us.” “I hope so,” said the other, looking at the cheque as he held ir quivering between his shaking hands. ‘ And tomorrow,” he went on. looking across the table at him. “to-morrow I shall be an outlaw and an outcast. No longer a gentleman and an officer of France, but the slave--of my brother. Well. I suppose 1 might have a worse master. “My dear Orsino.” replied Erskine, pushing the brandy decanter across the table to him. “I don’t think you need have any fear of that, at least as long as we work together harmoniously. And as to the outlaw and outcast part of the business- from what you have told me, that would have happened. I suppose. even if you had not met me. Besides. I can see the way to a lot of business when we once get to work, and you shall have your fifth. Afterwards, when this little affair has been forgotten and you are a rich man you will be able to set up a nice little establishment! on some conveniently out-of-the-way is land and have a glorious time.”

“it will be possible, no doubt,” said Orsino regretfully us he thought of all that he was leaving behind him. “Yes, it will In* possible, but there is a good deal to be done before then. Xow, tell me. Granted that 1 am successful, where do you wish to take possession of the submarine?” “That is a point which 1 shall have to think about, my dear Orsino,” replied Erskine, after a few moments’ thought. \ on see this is rather a big business to have sprung upon me at a few hours’ not ice. ami that is a matter in which 1 -hall want your help. There's no hurry. Have your trial trip tomorrow, get things arranged with your Corsican friend, and meanwhile we can settle upon a convenient place of rest and base of action.” ” \ cry well, brother,” replied Orsino, folding up the cheque which he had been looking at all the time, and putting it into his pocket book. “You have saved my lift*, for I would have put a bullet through my head rather than face the ruin that was coming, and so. by all our Corsican traditions. 1 am yours for life or death, good or evil, as the Eates may decide. And now, good-night. I have a good deal to think about, and I am on duty at four in the morning.” They shook hands, and a few minutes later Erskine sat, down with a fresh cigar and his own thoughts, and turned his patiently disciplined intellect to the consideration of the extraordinary prospect which the chance meeting with his < o» 0.-an foster-brot he»* had opened up in his life. Nearly a month afterwards. when he has looking over his paper at breakfast in the cosy little flat in Bedford Man

sions which he had taken for the time being, lie was considerably interested by the following paragraph: “DISAPPEARANCE OF A FRENCH SI BMARINE FROM MARSEILLES. “TOTAL LOSS FEARED. “It has leaked out that nearly a week ago the new French submarine, which lias been provisionally called L’Anonyine, and which the French naval authorities openly claim to be the largest, the most perfect, and most powerful craft of her kind in existence, left Marseilles in company with a small cruiser and tor pedo squadron for manoeuvres in the Gulf of Lions. According to the most trustworthy account which has so far reached us, the submarine dived, with orders to reach as great a depth as possible, and never returned to the surface. The squadron waited for twenty-four hours about the spot where she disappeared, and then returned to Marseilles without her. It is concluded that some accident must have happened to the machinery. when she was being forced into the depths. She was in charge of Lieutenant-Commander Orsini» L ligand, a young Corsican ollicer of great pro mise. who is said to have been the inventor of many iinpruvenients with which the ill fated eraft was credited. and which w ere believed to make her the most formidable vessel of her class.’' CHAPTER 1. ('RIME OR SHAME. •■Bui surely. Leone. things cannot have come to such a terrible pass as this. You know that for love of you I would do anything that a man could do in common honour and honesty. But just think what it is that you are ask ing me to do. Unless 1 am very much mistaken in your meaning, it conies to this—you want me, in fact you have practically asked me, to make use of the curious likeness bet ween my writing and \ ietor's to commit forgery’Why should you use that horrible, hateful word. Arthur?” she pleaded, speaking very softly. She got up from her chair, crossed the floor of the dingy, book lined old Victorian room which looked out over the wintry dreariness of Lincoln's Inn, and laid her hand caressingly on his shoulder. He half turned in his chair and looked up at her with something like the frightened expression .sometimes seen in the eyes of a hunted animal. It is a well-worn simile, but no other could lit more exactly 1 he desperate position of Arthur Erskine, the still struggling, though now rising, barrister and halfbrother to Sir Victor Erskine—the mil Bonaire financier, philanthropist, and politician, who three months before had bought a baronetcy from the Government in power for twenty-live thou sand pounds, to be expended as the party managers thought best. It was a very lovely face that was bent down so near to his own. and the big pansy-blue eyes with the floating specks of yellow in them had a com polling witchery which hardly any man w ho had blood in his veins and nerves under his skin could have resisted. The delicately curved lips the upper one short and beautifully arched and the lower one of an almost irresistibly sensuous fulness-—were trembling ever so slightly, and yet their appeal was infinitely more eloquent to him than any words which even they could have spoken would have been. “(’all it what you like. Leone." he said in a shaking voice that was very unlike his own. •’but the act. the thing it self is 1 he same." lie had put up his left hand and covered the one which rested upon his shoulder. Then with a quick movement he took it away, clasped both his hands over his eyes and leant forward with his elbows on the desk in front of him. ami said with something like a sob in his voice: •‘No. no. Leone, it is impossible, if is too much even for you to ask. If I had the money, if it was all I had in the world: if I could only raise it in any way that would be decently honest, you know that you should have every penny of it. But forgery surely you cannot ask that of mt*. No. no. then* must b* some other way out of the dillicillty.” She took her hand from his shoulder, straightened herself up. and looked nt him. the blue of her eyes hardening slowly to black, and said: “Yes. \rthur. there is another way. for me at least, if not for you. I have

made a clean breast of it all to you; I have confessed everything. You know that 1 am cursed with a combination of poverty and ambition. 1 must be somebody and do something. It is as much a part of my nature as your appetite is yours. 1 must have dresses and hats and jewellery, whatever price 1 pay for t hem. “1 love you as I hope never to love again, in a year or so with your luck and your brains and your industry and al) tlic support you have now. you will succeed splendidly at the Bar. and then, of course, we shall marry and after that you shall find me not only a wife, but a real helpmate. 1 shall bi* proud of you: I shall glory in your success, ami I will make it for you—but if you cannot, or will not, help me out of this hideous difficulty., then I tell you frankly that we must give up our dream, for you will force me to take the other way.” “The other way?" hr repeated, with a jerk in his voice and a look of fear in his (*yrs. “What do you mean. Leone?’’ “I mean.’’ she continued. with a slight hardening of her voice, “that, un happily, it is merely a question of plain figures. I am horribly in debt. Over five hundred pounds for frocks and hats and fripperies —and, worst of all, nearly five hundred more for borrowed money, lost at bridge and baccarat. And those,” she added with a bitter little smile and a swift motion of her hands towards him. “those are debts of honour. If 1 cannot pay them I am disgraced. Society will turn its back on me and say ‘Not at home.’ and so—well, you see. Arthur, it will be the old story of the sheep or the lamb.” “I am afraid I don't quite follow you. Leone." he said, although his face was growing paler and his lips had begun to twitch. “Surely you cannot mean—no. no. I would not insult you. You cannot have intended to suggest the impossible.” “My dearest Arthur." she replied, taking a step towards him. still with her hands outstretched. “There are circumstances in which the impossible may — sometimes must—become the possible." “No. no. Leone, you can’t mean that.” he cried, springing to his feet and taking her by the wrists. “With you the impossible must for ever remain the impossible. Anything rather than even the thought of that. Who is it that you are thinking of? Not that beast Ackermann, surely? If you tell me that he has dared even to make a suggestion I’ll break his neck for him. thick and all as it is.” The golden-fringed lids drooped over her eyes. Tier hands lay limply in his. She bowed her head and murmured just above her breath: “Sir Julius knows what a terrible position I'm in. and he h-s offered to release me from it. Of course, at a price.” “Curse the brute. I thought so," he said in a hissing whisper. “He has been watching you and hunting you for months. But by all 1 ever held sacred. Leone. I'll go to prison for you before vou shall find yourself at the mercy of a sweep like that. If that is the only other way. I'll do what you want. But you will have to promise me two 11 lings.” “Help me this time. Arthur.” she interrupted. releasing her hands and putting them on his shoulders. “Only save me this time from myself and him - and I will promise you anything, anything.” Her eyes were him* and smiling again now. and they were very near Io his. Her lips, half parted were silent asking for the kiss which would se-d the pledge of his dishonour, and perhaps of her salvation. If he had been a little less desperately in love with her. he might have caught a glimpse of what there was behind tin* smiling mask of her exquisite loveliness. Bui he was blind, and saw nothing but the mask itself. He hesitated for the fraction of a second, and then his arms went round her. and. as he drew her to him. he bent his head and their lips met in not the first kiss of its kind that has been given ami taken from the days of Circe until now. Twenty minutes later h* was alone, looking blank'll out of his window over 11n* moral wilderness ‘hat love and passion and a woman had brought upon him. As for her. her own disgrace and ruin were already Io her as passing thunderclouds. which had drifted away from the landscape of her life. for. curiously enough, although she had betrayed Arthur Erskine in cold blood, and lied to

him with calculated deliberation, she trusted his honour absolutely, and felt perfectly assured that he would do as he said. CHAPTER 11. THE WAY OF SALVATION. Arthur Erskine had sent his clerk away as soon as he had shown Leone in, as it was already getting late, and it was unlikely that any more professional visitors would call. Now, as it was getting dark, he lit the gas, folded up the latal cheque and put it into his pocketbook, and proceeded in a mechanical, impersonal sort of way to put his more important papers away before closing his roll-top desk. He was vaguely wondering, also, what he should do with himself for the evening, what effort he should make to escape from the haunting spectre which, with his own liana, he had just beckoned to his side, when he heard footsteps on the stairs, then a knock at the door of the clerk’s office. He then opened the door of his own room, passed through the little antechamber in which he was already beginning to keep clients waiting, aiftl went to the outer door. For the moment he was inspired by the despairing hope that Leone might have relented, or suddenly found some new way out of her terrible dillicillty. and had come to release him from the necessity of crime. But as he opened the door a fami.iar voice said to him out of the semi-darkness: “Ah. Mr Erskine, good evening! Lucky to have just caught you. I was afraid I should have to hunt you up at home or miss you altogether until I saw your light.” “No." replied Erskine, with a sudden feeling of relief. "Come in. Mr Pulker. come in. You're just in time. Another three minutes and I should have been gone. Go in and sit down, and tell me what I can do for you.” Mr Rufus Pulker. of Pulker and Ramage. Bedford Row. was a man whom most barristers were inclined to nicer with welcome in their chambers, for his advent in person usually meant important. and therefore lucrative business. He was a good-looking, fresh-complex-ioned. keen-eyed man. well set up. perfectly dressed. He had much more of the atmosphere of Pall Mall and the Row about him than of Bedford Row or the Law Courts. For all that, he was one of the smartest and most prosperous solicitors in London. He sat down in a chair by the side of the desk, and said, opening a little black bag and taking a bundle of red-tape tied papers out of it: “I won’t keep you any longer than I can. Erskine, and I'll come to the point at once, so that you can say yes or no. Of course, you are familiar with the police-court proceedings in the Yondall Erskine disguised what would have

been a somewhat violent start, by getting up to pull the blind down. The Yondall case was one of alleged forgery, and the accused was the Hon. Forester Yondall, a member of an ancient and noble family, whose name he had brought within measurable distance of dishonour. “Oh, yes, of course, I know it,” replied Erskine, sitting down again and mechanically unlocking his desk. “What's the matter; any hitch?” “A very serious one. About four o’clock this afternoon we got a note from Bennett-Kinnaird, returning his brief and the fee. and saying that he felt so satisfied of Yondall’s guilt, after certain private information that had just reached him, that he felt in honour bound to throw up the case. Quite too bad. you know, considering that the said ease comes on to-morrow about IL Anyhow, the long and short of it is, are you prepared to take the brief?” “But why on earth do you come to me. my dear sir?" replied Erskine, with a strange emphasis which Mr. Pulker naturaly missed the meaning of. “Ben-net-Kinnaird is at the top of the tree, ami I'm just beginning to climb. Besides. are there no K.C.’s in town?” “Couldn’t get a K.C. worth his salt for this work to read up the brief and do the work to-morrow morning, could not get one for love or money,” replied tin* solicitor, with crisp decision. “Another thing, I asked you because you an* a rising man and the judges like you, and I needn’t tell you that that’s a lot in favour of a prisoner with a shaky case. “Then, again, the way you got that scoundrel Kearton off last session was simply masterly. If any one can save Forester Y’ondall from seven years you can. Will you do it? There's two hundred on the brief and a hundred a day refresher.” “And." he continued. instinctively lowering his voice. “I am at liberty to toll you that, if you manage to get him off. A thousand pounds will bi* at your disposal within an hour of the verdict, which may be to-morrow evening.” A thousand pounds! Just the sum that was wanted to release him from the horrible bondage into which he had allowed himself to bo drawn. It was the ransom of bis honour, the price of his freedom, and it was to be won by the exercise of these very gifts in whose exercise he took so much pride—the logic, the wit. and the eloquence which were his already well-proved weapons. Leone must wait- It was only a day, and if she could not or would not do that, then she would prove herself unworthy of the sacrifice which she had demanded. “It’s rather difficult taking a brief that a man like Bennett-Kinnaird has thrown up. you know,” he said, taking refuge from his own eagerness and professional precaution, “especially if it is known why he has thrown it up.”

"You needn’t worry on that subject, tny dear fellow; he’s been very good, about that, for the sake of the family. He left town this evening, and he is quite willing for us to say anything we like —sudden indisposition or something of that sort, yon know.* * "Then that’s all right so far, and I’ll do my best. By the way, I suppose he hasn’t told you what the private infdrmation was that made him throw it iovert” "No. He said in his letter that he considered it as a proefsslonal secret, which would necessarily embarrass any man who accepted the brief.” “Very honourable of him, I’m sure,” said Erskine pleasantly, but with a horribly cold grip at his heart, and an involuntary movement of his hand towards his pocket, in which his own forged cheque was lying. “Very straight indeed. Well, Mr. Pulker, if you think I can do the case justice, you may depend upon my doing my utmost, though I confess I don’t quite like the way the brief has come into my hands.” “My dear Erskine, you must know by this time that one cannot be too squeamish in the law. After all, an advocate’s duty is to his client, not to the abstraction which we call justice,” replied Mr Pulker, getting up briskly. "Now here are all the papers, including the brief adorned with the notes of the eminent 'Bennett-Kinnaird. I must be off. I have a theatre and a supper on to-night, to say nothing of dinner. Good-bye, and remember we shall expect something brilliant to-morrow.” As soon as Mr Pulker had taken his leave, Arthur sat down and wrote a guarded but perfectly comprehensible letter to Leone informing her of what had happened after she had left, and giving her clearly to understand that she. like himself, would have to await, probably for a couple of days, the hazard of the jury’s verdict in the Yondall cas?. It might not have been possible fox- him to do this with those wonderful eyes of hers looking into his, or those falsely tempting lips ready to reward surrender .with kisses, but writing a letter was quite a different matter. The cool, white sheet of paper offered no temptations, and so he was able to write a purely formal letter, such as he might have written to a lady client on a purely business matter, and which might have been read by anyone without arousing suspicion. He sealed up the envelope, saying to himself: “If she is not ready to take that risk, With me I shall put this infernal cheque in the fire and wash my hands of the whole business. But if she loves me as I love her she will do it. If she doesn’t, I should certainly not be justified in making such a tremendous sacrifice, and I won’t do it.” It was curious how, now that he was alone and his intellect had been braced up by this conversation with Mr Pulker, ■the lawyer had begun to dominate the lover. In fact, if he had not pledged his word he would have put the cheque among the embers of his fire then and there, torn up the letter, and trusted everything to the verdict which was to decide his fate as well as that of liis client. But he was one of those strangely constituted -men who can be honourable even after they have consented to dishonour, so he put the precious brief and 'the other papers into his bag and went tout with the letter in his hand, walked across to the district office in Holborn, posted it, and then, after a chop and a half bottle of Bui gundy in the grillroom of the Holborn Restaurant, he betook himself to his first-floor suite of -rooms in Bloomsbury Square to spend the rest of the night, and possibly some tof the morning, in getting up the case upon which there depended, for him, so tremendous an issue. CHAPTER 111. PE It J URY. The case of the Honourable Forester Yondall was one of the last that was tried at the “old” Old Bailey. It was, in fact, a kind of farewell performance in that judicial theatre in which so many bitter tragedies of real life have been played out, and where the curtain has fallen on so many ruined lives—some to be cut short by the hangman’s noose in the execution shed only a few yards away, and some to be obscured for ever tinder the gloom which overhangs the irrevocable lot of a convict. _ The audience was befitting the occasion. No dramatist ever wrote and no Actors ever played such drama* as are

witnessed by the audiences in a criminal court, for here is the fascination of that terrible spell of reality which the highest art can never quite imitate. In the mimic theatre the audience knows that the same tragedy and comedy will be repeated, that the same people will love and murder and marry and die night after night as long as the run lasts, but in this theatre the curtain only falls once upon each drama, and the principal actor is seldom, if ever, seen again. The audience which thronged the body of the court was for the most part as brilliant as you would find at the most fashionable of first nights, and quite half a dozen ladies of title, each armed with her pitiless lorgnette, occupied seats on the long bench which extends to the left of the judgment seat. Arthur Erskine had taken his place early in the seat which should have been occupied by the great K.C., whose sudden indisposition had already given rise to considerable comment among the gentlemen of the long robe. He had had only four hours of broken sleep, and since eight o’clock he had been engaged in an anxious discussion with his client and his junior, for the second K.C. had thrown up his brief at the last moment in disgust, on learning that he was not to lead, describing the briefing of Erskine as “an outrage on the traditions of the Bar.” This second defection was, of course, anything but in favour of the accused. Happily Erskine’s junior, a personal friend of his own, was a brilliant youth with a perfect genius for destructive cross-examination, which was exactly what was wanted in such a particularly doubtful case as that of Mr Forester Yondall. Still, the defection of the two K.C.s had produced a very bad impression, and if Erskine had not been about to play for such a tremendous stake, his heart might have failed him. But the agony of doubt was over now, and his was the desperate courage of the gladiator who takes his place in the arena well knowing that there is nothing for him but victory or death. The first case was only a sort of eur-tain-raiser. It lasted less than an hour, and ended in a miserable, half-starved clerk, who had tried to recoup losses on the turf by bucket-shop speculations, getting eighteen months for embezzlement. During this piteous little interlude Erskine found time from his note-mak-ing to look round the court. As he expected, there were plenty of his friends and acquaintances, mostly women, as was to be expected, among the audience, but there were only four figures in all the brilliant crowd which had any interest for him. To his right, just behind the last of the barristers’ seats, his half-brotheij Victor, dark of eye and brow and hair, handsome, grave, almost saturnine, was sitting between Leone and Marian, her younger sister, a girl of nineteen, whose fair, fresh loveliness seemed strangely out of place in the dingy old court, around which her big grey eyes were ■wandering so wonderfully, until they caught his and lighted up suddenly with a glance which even, in such a moment as that, brought back swift memories from the days when they had been boy and girl sweethearts together — days which, unhappily for him, she remembered in secret far more fondly than he did. Victor nodded to him and smiled in a friendly, brotherly sort of way, which made him turn his eyes quickly towards Leone. Her eyes, too, lighted up, but there was a glint in them which was almost a threat. Her lips moved slightly, as though she were saying something to him. She had not answered his letter. It seemed to him as though she had come to watch his fight for honour and freedom —for he had told her about the thousand pounds which victory would win—and though the thought brought a certain resentment with it, it strengthened his resolve to win. Then his glance rose to the seats of the favoured. A pair of hazel eyes, almost golden, with a diamond spark in the centre of each, looked down at him from under a pair of evenly-arched, dark-brown eyebrows. A pair of lips, which before now had tempted kings and princes, smiled sweetly at him. and a queenly head, crowned with thick' red-gold masses of hair, and surmounted by a perfect miracle of a picture-hat, nodded a friendly and encouraging greeting to him. “Isn’t he a handsome fellow 2” whis-

pered the lady of the golden eyes to the Duchess of Lesengham, one of the latest ducal importations front the United States. “I am told that he is quite the cleverest of the rising advocates, and he certainly looks it. I do hope he will be able to save poor Yondall.”

“I reckon. Princess, he’ll have to be a pretty smart man to do it,” replied the duchess, who had not yet acquired a perfect command of the English idiom. “Still, I’ve got to say that he looks it.”

“Order, order,” said the usher, in a sort of growling murmur, and the buzz of whispered conversation died down. The evidence against the accused had been hopelessly clear, and the jury had consulted in the box. The verdict was guilty. The judge passed sentence after a few platitudes on commercial morality, a warder touched the pale and shivering clerk on the shoulder, and he disappeared down the steps into prisonland.

The buzz of conversation broke out again, and an atmosphere of tense expectation suddenly pervaded the court. “The King against Yondall.”

The ominous words hushed the audience completely into absolute silence. The curtain was about to rise. Fifty lorgnettes and hundreds of eyes were turned upon the mean little stage opposite the judgment seat, upon which the principal actor in the drama was to make his entrance. There was a little flutter and rustle of anxious expectation, as a tall, squareshouldered man of about 34, perfectly dressed and groomed, stepped smartly forward from between the two warders, and took his place at the front of the dock, facing the judge. He. bowed slightly towards the judgment seat—not because the judge had been a personal friend of his own, but because he had been told it was the proper thing to do.

Then he looked round the crowded court, half filled with the acquaintances and a few friends of the day before yesterday, who had come to see how he would stand the torture of the legal inquisition. His utter contempt and fierce hatred of the spirit which had brought them there gave him the courage that he needed, and be looked about him over the sea of faces with less concern than he had watched a horse race over which he stood to win or lose three or four hundred pounds. “He faces the music pluckily, I must say,” whispered Victor Erskine to Leone. “I wonder whether Arthur will pull him through.” "I sincerely hope so,” she replied, with a good deal more meaning than he could have grasped. “Ah,” murmured Princess Zaida Dorosma, leaning her bead towards the Duchess. “They are wonderful, these well-born Englishmen. Even in the felon’s dock they are gentlemen. Look at him.” “If he looks like that at the end, I shall reckon that he’s pretty good grit.” whispered the duchess, with a just perceptible sniff. Then the clerk of arraigns read out, the charge, which in common speech was that of forging and uttering three acceptances or bills of exchange, for three, seven, and nine hundred pounds respectively, the said bills being drawn in favour of the acused. and purporting to be accepted by Sir Wilfrid Aldon-All-

croft, of Allcroft Manor, in the County of Cheshire, lately deceased. “Francis Forester Yondall, do you plead guilty or not guilty of the charges contained in the indictmentT" 'rhe clerk of arraign* put down the blue paper, and the accused man answered in a clear and perfectly steady voice, “Not guilty, my lord.” “He has a splendid nerve.” murmured Victor Erskine to Leone, and similar remarks fell from the lips of other men in the eagerly listening audience. The counsel for the prosecution, one of the ablest of the Treasury barristers, opened for the Crown In a studiously moderate but none the less damning speech. He showed that the accused had been in grave financial difficulties ’for a considerable time previous to the issue of the bills, and that not only pecuniary ruin, but the still greater disaster of being posted as a defaulter at his clubs and at Tattersail's were hanging over his head at the time he discounted ’ them, or, rather, parted with them for their full face value to a mutual friend, Mr Randall Ackermann, the well-known financier. He would bring three experts who would prove that the signature to the ' acceptance was not in the writing of Sir Wilfrid Ahlon-AUcroft, although it was doubtless an excellent imitation; Mr Randall Ackermann would state that he 1 paid the accused full face value for the bills, as a matter of friendship, believing f them to be genuine; and finally. Sir Ed ward Aldon - Allcroft, Sir Wilfrid’s younger brother and heir, would swear that, when on his death-bed, his brn’hcr told him that he had never accepted 1 Ise bills. A murmurous rustle of sensation thriljed through the court when this weighty announcement fell from the lips of the learned counsel, anti all eyes ami lorgnettes were immediately focussed , upon the accused. He returned the multitudinous glances with a steady stare, and his thin though well - shaped lips curled slightly under his beautifullytrained moustache. The experts were called first, and one by one they handled the fateful little slips of blue stamped paper, and one by one they swore that, liaviug made careful examination and comparison of and with the deceased’s handwriting, to the best of their belief the signature to the acceptance was not written by Sir Wilfrid Aldon-Allcroft. Then, one by one. they were crossexamined by Erskine's brilliant junior, who riddled their evidence with satire, crumpled it np. opened it out again, and tore it to shreds and tatters, which he metaphorically flung into the jury-box for the twelve good men and true, to assess their value. When lie sat down the audience felt that the honours were so far equally divided. Mr Randall Ackermann's evidence was purely formal. He was a tall, well-built man of about fifty, with regular, if somewhat sensuous features. He was the very type of the supremely successful magnate of finance, and to what he had to say the jury, themselves smaller fry ip the City almost io a man, listened with profound attention and respect. He said nothing whatever against the accused. He had reasons of his own for not doing so. He simply said that he

received Hie bills from Mr Foresfet Yondall, who had admitted to him that he was somewliat pressed for an immediate supply of eash, and that he had given him their full value, not at all as a matter of business, but purely as one X>f friendship. He believed them to be genuine. That was all he knew of the matter. m

His cross-examination by the brilliant Junior was brief and to the point. '•You have known Mr Forester Yonilall for some years now I believe, Mr (Ackermann ?” lie asked in very different tones from those in which he had addressed the experts. "Yes, we have been on friendly terms lor the last five or six years.” "And I presume you would not have continued that friendly intercourse for so long if you had had the slightest suspicion as to Mr Forester Yondall’s honour and integrity?” _ t ,.j “Most certainly not!’* ! “Thank you!” (And with that the brilliant junior sat ’down, having practically converted a witness for the prosecution into one for ihe defence. Then the prosecution played its trump Card. "Sir Edward Aldon-Alleroft,” said the counsel for the Crown quietly but clearly, and a rather short, sandy-haired, pale-complexioned man with unsteady light blue eyes stepped up into the witness box and took the oath. “You are the brothel - of the late Six (Wilfrid Aldon-Allcroft ?” , “Yea.” “Arc you well acquainted with his hand-writing?” “I may say very well indeed.” •‘Kindly look at these bills and tell me whether you think that the signature to the acceptance is that of your late brother.” T “I feel quite certain that it is not.” “What are your reasons for thinking to?” “Well, it is not altogether unlike, but there are differences in some of the Jeffers which ” The brilliant junior was on his feet in an instant. ’“May I ask whether this gentleman is also a writ ing expert ?” he interjected, just in time to get the shot home. There was a titter iu court, which proved to the leading counsel for the Crown that he had committed the fatal mistake of asking a superfluous question. “My lord,” he said, with ill-concealed Vexation, “X must protest against such an unseemly interruption.” The judge nodded, and said with a motion of his quill towards the junior:; “I think you might have left that for. cross-examination, Mr Deighton.” “My lord, I beg to apologise,” said the junior, bobbing up and bobbing down again with an almost seraphic smile. “And now, Sir Edward,” continued the’ counsel for the Crown, in a slow, impressive voice, “I wish to ask you on your oath as a man, and on your honour as a gentleman, whether your late brother did or did not tell you on his deathbed—” > “My lord. I object to that question.” They were the first words that Arthur Erskine had spoken, and they rang very clearly in the ears of the listening .throng. “On what grounds do you object, Mr Erskine?” . "On the grounds, my lord, that, iu English law, hearsay is not and cannot be accepted as evidence.” 1 An absolutely dead silence followed .the utterance of the last words. Lawyers and laymen alike knew either from knowledge or instinct that the decisive! moment had come —that on the judge’s answer hung the social fate of the man in the dock. He stood immovable; his hands resting on the ledge in front and his eyes wandering over the fixed faces of the audience. “Then,” said the judge, with the shadow of a smile on his shaven lips, “I must uphold your objection. Mr Agnew, I cannot allow you to put that question.” "Then I have no further questions to ask. my lord,” exclaimed the great K.C. with a thrill of anger in his voice. “That is the case for the prosecution.” And he sat down with the uncomfortable feeling that he had been outwitted by d clever junior, and that the said ease had practically collapsed. Mr Deighton had no questions to nsk’ Sir Edward, and when he had left ths vox Erskine rose find said in a voica

which he intended to reach every eax in the court:

“My lord, I now propose to take an unusual but, under the circumstances, what I consider to be a necessary course. I propose to call the accused.” It was the supreme moment of the drama. Counsel for the Crown almost gasped at the audactiy of the move. A rustling movement ran through the audience, and not a few smothered oaths broke the stillness amidst which Forester Yondall left the doek and walked erect, and with light, firm steps to the witness-box. As he faced the crowd from his new position the emotional tension of the atmosphere became almost painful. He took the oath, and the bills were handed up to him, and Erskine, as well as a good many others, noted with satisfaction that the thin slips did not even tremble in his hands. “Mr Forester Yondall,” he began, in quiet, almost commonplace tones, “of course, you recognise those documents which you hold in your hand?” “Well, I ought to know them,” he replied, with a laugh, which made Mr Agnew sit up and rub his eyes. “On your oath as a man and your honour as a gentleman,” Erskine continued, with admirable mimicry of the Treasury counsel's manner, “is it true that you forged or procured to be forged the signature or Sir Wilfrid Aldon-All-croft to those acceptances?” “It is absolutely untrue.” “Is it true that you saw Sir Wilfrid sign those acceptances, and that he handed them to you in settlement of certain debts of honour existing between you?” . “That is true.” “Thank you, that will do.” Again there was dead silence, through

which the clearly spoken words somehow seemed to echo, and the judge said: “Mr Agnew, do you wish to ask the witness any questions?”

“Not after those answers, my lord,” growled the great K.C., now thoroughly disgusted and exasperated. “You will allow me to say, Mr Agnew,” said the judge, bringing his brows together, “that that is not by any means a proper remark to make. You may stand down,” he continued, pointing his quill to the witness.

As the accused left the box the foreman of the jury, who had been putting their heads together of late, stood up and said:

“My lord, unless the learned counsel wish to address us, we think we have heard enough of this ease. We are quite agreed at present.” Mr Agnew, collecting his papers, shook hi head violently. Erskine, knowing that the day was won, half rose and said with a smile:

“My lord, I have no desire to trespass further on the time of the Court,” and as he sat down the clerk of arraigns eaid:

“Gentlemen of the jury, are yort agreed upon your verdict?” “Yes,” replied the foreman. “Do you find the accused guilty or not, guilty of the charge or charges laid against him?” “Not guilty.” ' i '•“■'■•■”’ “The accused is discharged,” said the judge briefly, looking at his watch and finding that it was just lunch-time.

Then came many and hearty congratulations for Erskine and the man whom he had so adroitly saved. The women were the most profuse, and several of the men turned away, muttering hard things about legal technicalities. Sir Edward openly expressed his opinion

that it was an infernal swindle. When Victor shook hands with his half-brothex he said cynically: > “Devilish clever, my dear Arthur. Lucky you thought of that, wasn’t it?” He had no time to reply before ha felt Leone’s hand in his, and heard her, murmur: “How splendid! You did it magnificently!” 4 And then Marian said very sweetly* but with a shade of hesitation: “I am so glad you won your case, but don’t you think you ought to havq let Sir Wilfrid tell Mr Agnew what his brother said to him?” “Certainly not, Miss Marian,” he laughed, still in the elation of his triumph and his release. “If you allowed witnesses to tell what other people had told them, trials would never end, and we should never get at the truth. We cannot take any evidence that is not at first hand.” Then he left them and went to thd robing-room, promising to join them outside the court, and eat a well-earned lunch at Victor’s expense. As he pushed his way through the crowd in the vestibule, a tall, spare, half-foreign looking man squeezed past him on the left! side. They were jammed for a moment in the crowd, and then Erskine shook himself free and got out into the street. “Why, Arthur,” said Victor, when they had gone a few steps towards Ludgate Hill, “what have you done to your, coat? Torn it? There on the left side.” He looked down, a thrill of fear ran into his heart. Two flaps of cloth cleanly cut as though by a razor hung down. With a cry he clapped his hand to the pocket. It was empty. The letter-case containing the now priceless forged cheque had vanished.

To be continued, f