[COPYRIGHT STORY.] THE BLACK MOTOR CAR.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXIII, Issue XVII, 22 October 1904, Page 6

[COPYRIGHT STORY.] THE BLACK MOTOR CAR.

By

J. B. HARRIS BURLAND.

Author of “ Dacobra,” “The Unspeakable Thing,”

Etc., Etc.

CHAPTER XVI. , THE TRAP. Holme made his way through the garden and crossed the park to the creek, where the “Rover” lay at her anchorage. It was a frosty night, and a full moon shone brightly in a cloudless sky. A shimmer of silver lay on the grass, and the trees sparkled with the frozen due. But his mind was not attuned to any beauties in the landscape. He knew that he had acted like a weak fool, and even the fact that he was leaving Heatherstone Hall behind him for ever did not atone for the brief outburst of passion which was bound to bring sorrow into more than one life. He knew that he would always look back to those five minutes of love as a fail - spot to be remembered, as a shadow of a great tree in a thirsty land. Yet the sparkling well he had drunk from was not altogether sweet, and the memory of how his thirst had been quenched would always be vitiated by the b’tter taste that the draught had left in his mouth. He reached the edge of the plantation, and brushing through the wet undergrowth, sent showers of frost flakes from the bare branches of the trees. Then he climbed over the wall and saw the dark outline of his boat on the silvery strip of water. He stood on the bank opposite to her and hailed the man on board. After half a dozen calls .lames Outen came to the deck of the cutter. He quickly unfastened the painter and sculled to the bank. Then he waded ashore through the mud and brought his master a heavy pair of seaman’s boots Holme put them over his dress trousers and made his way down the bank through a foot of slime. The tide was running out. “Asleep. Outen ?” he queried, as they pushed the boat off. “I was just dozing, sir. I’ll be glad to get to my bunk.” “I’m afraid you won’t get there just yet.” Holme said drily. “We leave here on this tide, and look sharp. We must get under weigh in ten minutes, or we shan’t get over the East Wick Salterns. Give me one of the sculls.” Tile two men bent to their work with a will. But Outen had let the dinghey run down fifty yards with the stream and every inch of this had to be fought against a slopping tide. More than half of the ten minutes had gone when they elimbed up on the deck. Outen looked at his watch.

“I doubt if we do it, sir,” he said. “The tide has been running out for three hours.”

“Confound you,” said Holme, “get to work. We must get as far as we can.” He had made up his mind that he would be out of sight of Heatherstone Hall when the day broke. He did not wish to set eyes on it again.

The two men set to work with a will. In less than two minutes they had set the mainsail, and it began to dap in the southerly breeze. In another two minutes the tiller was in place, put hard down and pinned, and Outen was making fast the jib halliard. The jib sheets cracked backwards and forwards like writhing snakes. Then both men set to work on the anchor. In another four minutes it came up black and dripping from the water. Outen held out the jib to cateh the wind. Holme sprang back to the tiller, let Ihe main sheet run out, and the boat swung round and started on her journey.

For the first four miles they were running with the wind and tide, and the “Rover” slipped past the banks like a steam launch. Holme changed his dress clothes for a blue jersey and a pair of old trousers. Then he lit his pipe and sat at the tiller, his eves alert for every

mark ou the bank. He knew every inch of the channel, and crossed from side to side of the ereek to get the best water. Once only did he glance behind him, and then he saw the white walls of Heatherstone Hall shine out from a circle of trees, and the hill looming dark against the sky. In the wake oi the boat the water swirled and eddied in wreaths and ripples of silver. He sighed. But for all that, he knew that the glittering path behind him only led back to dishonour, and that the dark waters 'before him represented the road that he was bound to tread.

The "Rover” reached the bend in the creek in twenty minutes. Outen hauled in the main sheet and set the foresail and topsail. The boat lay over on her side iu a freshening breeze, and the water, which had been silent while they ran before the wind, began to hiss and splash and bubble at the bows. Holme looked up critically at the canvas, and gave a few orders to Outen, who began to tighten sheets and halliards. Holme liked his sails to set well, even when t here was no one to see them. The moon shone on the rounded curves, and they looked like the firm plumage of a white gull.

They moved a trille more slowly now, and Holme’s eyes watched the creek as a tight-rope walker watches his wire. The water was certainly running out very fast, and the channel was not more than thirty feet across in places. Here and there a black saltern showed its ugly little hump above the water and split the channel into two narrow rivers. Three miles away the mound, on which the Red House stood, showed up against the flat land around it. Holme looked at his watch.

"We shan’t do it, Outen,” he said. “We touched just now, and though it’s deeper before we get to the Red House, it’s a lot shallower at East Wick. J-st go for’ard ana stand by the anchor.” Outen went into the bows and kept a sharp look-out at the water ahead. When they were within a mile of the Red House, the wind began to die away, and more than once the sails flapped. However, they drifted down with the stream, and there was just enough breeze to steer by. Then suddenly Outen gave a cry of surprise.

"Put her round, sir,” he yelled; “put her round quick.” Holme jammed down the helm, but the boat refused to come about against the tide. Outen tumbled the anchor overboard and the chain went rattling over the bow. The sails flapped idly, but the tide swung the boat round. Outen checked the cable and the boat brought up with a jerk. At the same moment the stern crashed into something and the whole vessel quivered with the shock. Holme looked over the stern, but could distinguish nothing in the shadow beneath the keel.

“What is it?” he cried out angrily. For answer Outen pointed to the shore on either side. Holme saw a long thin line run from the bank, disappear in the water, reappear on the other side of the creek, and continue its course to the opposite bank. It was just such an obstacle as selfish landowners on the Thames put across the backwaters which run through their territory—a stout chain hung from shore to shore. Holme muttered a savage oath and scowled at the Red House, which lay a hundred and fifty yards from them.

“I’ll teach the scoundrel that the ereeks don’t belong to him,” he muttered. “Can’t we break clear of the cursed thing, Outen; we shall smash our rudder.”

“We can pull in a bit of cable, sir, but not much. The bottom of this creek doesn’t hold very well, and the tide’s

running like a mill-race. We want as much chain as possible.” “Well, let’s pull her clear of this cursed chain. Then we’U go ashore and talk to Air. Jordison.” Holme had very good reasons for avoiding the man, but he forgot them in the heat of his anger. He would teach this upstart that to buy the land on either side of the creek conferred no right to the waters that flowed between the banks. He did not realise that a meeting was exactly the object Jordison had in view. They hauled in some of the anchor chain, stowed sail, and rowed ashore in the dinghey. It was now past two o’clock in the morning, and there was no light to be seen in any part of the Red House. The two men waded up to the bank through the mud, and making their way to the door, kicked on it with their heavy boots. The noise reverberated through the house, but no one stirred within. Holme stepped back a few paces and looked at the cracked walls and empty window’ frames. He had, of course, heard of the explosion, but he knew that Jordison had not left the neighbourhood. They walked round to the other side of the house and thundered at the back door. For five minutes they kicked at the woodwork, until they had knocked in the two bottom panels. Then suddenly a streak of yellow light came from behind them and threw their shadows on the wall of the house. They turned round and saw that it came from an open door in the stables, and that the dark figure of a man was silhouetted against it. They left the house and walked towards him.

As they drew near, he took the lantern from the table behind him and let it hang from uis hand, so that the light fell full on their faces, and his own was in darkness.

“Who are you,” he cried, “and what the devil do you mean by making a disturbance at this time of night?”

Holme recognised the voice, but he would certainly have been surprised if he could have seen the face, which was lit with a smile of triumph, and betrayed none of the annoyance that the words implied. “I am Arthur Holme was the sharp reply, and my boat is caught up on some eursed obstacle that you have put across the creek. You have got to remove it at once.”

“The creek is mine. The land on either side is mine.”

“You are evidently a stranger to the customs of these parts. Every man has a right of water-way up the creeks. You must take it down at once. Of what use is it to you?” “I am making a ferry from one bank to the other,” Jordison replied, chuckling to himself at the fertility of his own imagination. “I want to get carts

across to carry reeds from the marshes.” , j “You are acting against the law,Air. Jordison, and the chain muse come down.”

“1 will risk the law, but X have no wish to hinder your boat. 1 will have the chain lowered.”

He stepped inside the door and closed it behind him. Holme and Outen waited outside till he reappeared with Lipp and Jermy. “Aly two servants will go down with your man,” said Jordison, “and loose the chain, in the meantime 1 want a word with you, Air. Holme. If you will come inside the harness room, and excuse my rough hospitality, 1 will give you a glass of good whisky, and a really passable cigar.” “1 have no wish to talk to you,” Holme replied. “I want to get under weigh at once.”

“Aou have lost the tide now. You cannot clear the East Wick Salterns. You will have to wait at least five hours. I have something important to say to you, and if you refuse to come with me, well, you certainly won’t get past the chain unless you bring some more men to help you.” Holme shrugged his shoulders. A few minutes conversation was of no importance one way or the other. He particularly wished to make the sea by daybreak.

“I’ll come,” he said abruptly, and went inside with Jordison.

The other three men disappeared round the corner of the house. Jordison poured out two glasses of whisky, and offering a cigar to his guest, lit one himself. “Now, then, Air. Holme,” he said, looking the young man straight in the face, “I am going to ask you a question. I asked it you before, and you departed somewhat unceremoniously without answering it. This time it will take a more precise form. Tell me what you know of the death of Richard Behag. Holme was silent. He had expected this question, and had already resolved to give no answer. But he did not expect what was to follow. “Tell me what you know of the death of Richard Behag,” Jordison repeated slowly, “and tell me whether you know anything of Arthur Sterious, who is said to have killed him.” Holme half rose from his chair, and his face grew white. But he recovered himself. “Y'ou seem to know all about it, Air. Jordison,” he replied. “I can’t tell you more than what is common gossip in Valparaiso. Why are you so interested in the story?” Jordison looked at the speaker from under his shaggy eyebrows. “I was a great friend of Sterious’ father,” he said. “He has written to me, and asked me to search for his son in England. Aew facts have come to light which have proved Sterious to be innocent. Can you tell me anything about him ?” Holme smiled; the story was a trifle weak. “Why should I know anything?” “Arthur Sterious is in this neighbourhood,” Jordison answered, and watched the effect of this well-aimed shot. “Really! I don’t know the gentleman.” For answer Jordison pulled out a gold watch and flung it on the table. Holme glanced at it, and rose to his feet. But he controlled his agitation. “Very interesting,” he said. “May I ask where you found it?” “In one of the gulleys in the marshes.

Now do you know anything of Arthur Sterious?” Holme was silent. “You refuse to give me the infonua tion ?”

“I do refuse.” “I must have it.” Holme laughed. “How do you propose to get it?” he asked. Jordison took the revolver from his poeket, and looking at it, glanced at Holme and smiled. "Do you intend to shoot me?” the young man asked. “Not I. Dead men cannot speak, and I want you to speak. But you do not leave here until you tell me what I want to know.” “1 can tell you nothing.” Jordison went to the door, and taking a whistle from his pocket, blew three shrill calls upon it. A few seconds later Holme heard cries, and the splashing of water. Then there was a wild shriek for help and then silence. He sprang at Jordison, who blocked up the doorway, but the latter moved aside. Holme tripped and came with a crash to the ground. The next moment the two men were locked in each other’s arms. In a minute Lipp and Jermy- came running up, and the three soon overpowered Holme. He was gagged, bound hand and foot, and carried to the Red House. Lipp was set to watch by him till the morning. “I think you will speak, Mr. Holme, before 1 have done with you.” said Jordison. as he left the room. CHAPTER XVII. THE COUNTESS OF HEATHERSTONE. One winter’s evening, a few weeks after the events narrated in the last chapter, two women sat in the Countess of Heatherstone’s boudoir. The room was on the first floor and looked over the marshes to the sea. A door opened from it into another apartment, which was used as a dining-room. Another door opened from this into a bedroom, the same room where Jordison had tried his prentice hand at burglary. For two years the whole world, to the Countess of Heatherstone, had consisted of these three rooms and the semicircle of country which she could see from her windows, and the latter was but a fairyland, untTod, unvisited, and no more real than the scenes portrayed in books and pictured. She never descended from her apartments to the whirl of society that moved through the palatial reception rooms beneath her. She had no part in her husband’s life. She received no visitors save those of her own family. Strangers coming to the house for the first time scarcely knew of her existence. For all practical purposes she might have been dead. Mistress of the most magnificent establishment in the east of England, she saw none of its glories and held converse with none of the great leaders of men that came to stay under its roof. Her husband, kind and sympathetic, came to see her three times a day. The hours were marked out and observed with strict regularity. He came to the minute, stayed exactly half an hour, and departed. Her stepdaughter came in and out at all times. Her presence was a ray of sunshine, but the sick woman was not sorry to be left to her own darkness. The fair and beautiful girl serVed only to remind her of what she herself had been. Her son, the only thing she loved on earth, was dead. Lady Heatherstone was a comparatively healthy woman, and the doctor promised her long years of life. But two years previously a terrible and loathsome disease had attacked her, and left such frightful ravages on her face that she woffld not even let her husband look upon it. For two years no living soul had seen beneath the black silk hood that veiled it from the crown of her hair to her shoulders. Lady Heatherstone never unveiled, save when she was alone. It was noticeable that there was only one looking-glass in any of the three rooms, and that this was covered with a thick piece of black velvet.

In this manner she had resolved to live until death released her. It was a living death, but she had not the strength to face the world again. In years gone by she had been the most beautiful woman in the county. Now the veriest scarecrow among women

could thank God that she had not the face of the great Countess of Heatherstone.

On this particular evening Lady Agnes Cliffe had looked in to chat with her stepmother for a few minutes before going to bed. The Countess sat at a large rosewood and ormolu table, arranging a pile of russia and morocco leather cases in front of her. In one hand she held a pencil, and opening one ease after another, she ticked off the various items on a piece ot paper. Lady Agnes sat a couple of yards away, and watched her stepmother listlessly. Her face was very white and tired. All the brightness seemed to have d : ed out of it. Life had begun to deal hardly with this young girl, who had hitherto known so little of sorrow. The first blow fell when Lord Overcliffe was killed, the second when Arthur Holme said “Good-bye” to her for ever. The third a thousand times more terrible, more certain and more irrevocable, when she heard that his yaeht had been found drifting off the Essex coast, and that the dead body of Outen had been picked up near the mouth of the Long Haven Creek. It was quite clear to her that he was dead, though the inquest on Outen gave no clue to the mystery of the death oT either men. There was no doubt that the sailor had been drowned, and the Coroner’s jury expressed no further opinion on the matter. The Rover had certainly not foundered, and it seemed inexplicable that her two occupants, both experienced sailors, should have come to grief in fair weather. The mystery was intensified by the faet that the boat was found drifting with all her sails stowed, and her anchor on board.

Lady Agnes had read every word of the evidence, and though it told her nothing, it seemed to leave no room for any hope. Undoubtedly Arthur Holme was dead, and one day the sea would give up the body to the shore. The Countess of Heatherstone knew her step-daughter’s story, and was not ill-pleased with the termination of so unpromising a love affair. She cared verylittle for the girl’s future happiness, but the traditions of the great Heatherstone family had been ground into her soul, and she had no sympathy with a mesalliance. She was not altogether sorry that a cloud was blotting out some of the sunshine of a fair young life. The clouds were verydark above her own head, and the thought of another woman’s happiness was gall to her.

This evening, however, she had no thought for anything but the blue, crimson and green leather cases in front of her. They were of all shapes and sizes, but each one was stamped with the Heatherstone crest and coronet. A few more faded than the others, and relics of a more ostentatious period, were impressed with the full armorial bearings of the family—coat of arms, crest, coronet, sup porters, and motto.

Every- one of these cases, and there were one hundred and fifteen in all, contained jewels. Specimens of nearly every gem of the earth were hidden in these little leather shrines. Rings, brooches, bracelets and tiaras flashed one by one into view as the Countess raised the covers and checked the contents on her piece of paper. She looked at each one lovingly, though the sight of them was not untinged with sorrow. As wife of the Earl of Heatherstone she had dazzled many a jealous eye with their splendour, and moved through many a stately room encrusted with their rainbow fire. Now they were for her eyes alone. She idly remembered how one newspaper in the days of her beauty had spoken of her as “Venus, masquerading as the Queen of Sheba.” Lady Agnes watched her stepmother in silence. Like most women, she loved jewels, but her thoughts were far away, and she scarcely noticed the flash of emeralds, diamonds and rubies, as case after case was opened and closed. Once, however, her attention was forced by some remark of her stepmother’s about the famous pearl necklace. Then for a moment she grasped the whole scene and shuddered. She saw nothing of the lustrous beauty of the pearls, but only the grostesque horror of the masked face glaring at the splendid ornament which would probably rest in its case till the owner was dead. At last the Countess finished her task, and. folding up the piece of paper, she went to an escritoire, and placed it in one bf the drawers.

“They’re all here. Agnes,” she said. “They go to the bank to-morrow. Your father insists upon it.”

“He is probably right,” Lady Agnes replied. "After what has happened it would be unsafe to leave them here.” "Yes, it would certainly be unsafe. They will come again for them.” "Of course, it is better to put them in the bank," said Lady Agnes quietly, "they are determined to have them, and they will take your life if it stands in their way.” The Countess opened one of the drawers of the escritoire and pulled out something that glittered. It was a large nickel plated revolver, no toy, but a serviceable weapon. "1 keep this for them,” she said; “it is loaded, and lies under my pillow at night. ' 1 pray for them to come. 1 do not want the jewels removed to a place of safety. They will not come if the bait is taken away. And Overcliffe has yet to be avenged.” A look of fear crossed Lady Agnes’ face. She wondered how her stepmother would fare in a contest with a desperate man, who would be, in all probability, lully armed. "1 am glad the jewels are going,” she said. “The law will avenge poor Overcliffe. It is not a woman’s work. It is beyond her power.” •‘lf they come, 1 will kill them,” the Countess replied. “1 will hide and shoot them from my hiding place. I can shoot, Agnes, and this is no toy. You know I can shoot.” Lady Agnes nodded her head. She had seen her step-mother some years ago put five shots running into a playing card at a distance of twenty paces. “I will kill them, kill them, kill them, muttered the Countess. “I pray every night that they- will come. By a wretched chance 1 was in here asleep the last time they came. But 1 will not be found asleep again.” Lady Agnes rose to her feet, and crossing over to her stepmother’s side, took her hand. “Good night,” she said tenderly; “and please let me take that revolver. 1 am so afraid.” "Tush, child,” the Countess answered. “1 can take care of myself, and if I get killed that does not matter to anyone. It certainly does not matter to me.” Lady Agnes stooped down and kissed her rtep-mother’s hand. This was the nearest approach to an embrace that was ever offered to Lady Heatherstone. The black hood hung like a barriei against any more affectionate demonstration. Lady Heatherstone patted the girl's cheek, and then putting it between her two hands, looked earnestly at the beau tiful faee. "Good night, Agnes,” she said. “We all of us have our troubles. Some of us deserve them, and some do not.” Lady- Agnes burst into tears and went hurriedly from the room. Lady Heather stone was left to her own reflections. She replaced the revolver in the drawer and rang the bell. In a few seconds her maid entered. She slept and lived a few yards down the corridor. The bell rang in her room and was placed over her bed. “You can go to bed. Brown,” LadyHeat herstone said. “I will undress myself to-night.” The maid disappeared. It was after eleven o’clock, and she was glad to be released from her duties. Lady Heatherstone went over to the

table, which was covered with the jewel eases. A massive steel door stood wide open in the wall, and she glanced at it. Then, taking up the largest case, the one that contained the luinous emerald tiara, she carried it across the room and placed it in a corner ot the safe, ineu suddenly an idea seemed to strike her. She took the ease out again, and returning to the table drew out the tiara from its velvet nest and placed it on her head. It looked grotesque and horrible on the top ot tbe black iiuod. Then she began to open the eases one by one and transferred their contents to her own person. When she had finished she glittered like a column of rainbow coloured lire. Every linger was ct ammed with rings, her arms were ended almost to the elbows with bracelets, every available inch ol her dress was encrusted with stars and crescents and suns of flaming gems. Round her throat—round the neck of the hood—were a dozen necklaces, drooping down in sparkling masses of light, bne had to oe satisfied with a single tiara. It glowed on her head like sunlight through the greenery of a great forest in early spring. She crossed over to the square of black velvet on the wall, and seizing it m one hand, drew it back with a crash and rattle of brazen rings. A cluster ot light shone above her head, and she saw Herself full length m the glass. From head to foot she sparkled like a galaxy- of white and coloured stars, vv ith every movement of her body ripples ot tire ran over her, and every point of flame burst out in glittering splendour. The head alone, which should have been the crowning glory of tbe whole magnificent spectacle, was a mere patch ot inky darkness. For ten minutes she stood before the glass, swaying from side to side, moving backwards and forwards, now bowing low to the ground, now leaning baek with hands thrown over her head. Posing in every attitude, but alway-s moving and never still, and with points of flame continuously flashing and rippling over her from head to foot. Then she suddenly stopped, laughed bitterly, and drew the curtain back with a crash. The play was over. One by one she replaced the jewels in their cases, and carefully deposited each case in the safe. Then she turned the two keys in the lock, threw one into a china vase on the mantelpiece, and placed the other in her pocket. Then she took the revolver from the drawer of the escritoire, and turning out the lights, made her way to her bedroom. (To be continued.)