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CHAPTER XVIII. I

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CHAPTER XVIII. I It was not quite dark at hall-past eleven, j when Barnham, according to his invariable custom, went his round to see that all the lower windows were secure for the night. The large middle window of the library stood wide open, the coloured lozenge bearing the Richmond arms and crest showing faintly against the gleam even yet lingering in the west. Barnham went over to shut it, breathing indignation on the way. Wilson all over he muttered. Can't trust him further than I could throw him. Three nights he does his duty-and the fourth he forgets that such a thing exists. It'll be Rhoda that's upset him to-night, though Never mind the window, Barnham, I'll see to that. I told Wilson to leave it," said a quiet voice out of the dimness. I Barnham started. It was Miss Nora's hus- band. "Of course, thank you, sir," he said quickly, and then his tongue tripped and fell silent and he stood staring stupidly in his surprise. You can go to bed, you know," said Ken- neth presently with a touch of decision as Barnham still hesitated. I would rather you did. I'll see to the window. ] Yes, sir," said Barnham and went. But not far He closed the door with a noise- less hand and then he looked about him, his dark eyes keen and alert for all his sixty-five years. In the hall stood a porter's chair with a hood. Barnham went noiselessly across the tiled door and sat down in it. He was old and spare and the depths of the chair swallovwed him. No one passing behind would have known he was there. It struck twelve and Barnham never moved, one, and still he sat on. When the great clock over the stables clanged two Barnham rose- and went back to the library. He was a per- fectly trained servant, yet he entered without knocking. Tojspeakto his superiors on any sub- ject outside his duty without a distinct invita- tion from them would have been the last thing he would have dreamt of—in the daytime. But now in the silence and solemnity of the hushed night artificial distinctions were forgotten, superficial and unreal differences fell away. As Barnham walked across the stretch of thick soft carpet towards that quiet figure sitting against the still-open window the set of his shoulders, the poise of his head,the very sound of his footitti was changed. In the daytime they might be servant and employer. In the honest hours of the night they were man and man. Mr McLeod, sir, please, I would like a word with you." ( yes, Barnbam Kenneth sat up, bringing himself with diffi- culty out of a maze of misery. Every nerve throbbed, his brain felt bruised with the stress of the hours he had just lived through. So en- tirely detached was he from the happenings of the moment that there seemed nothing un- usual in the butler's asking the favour of a few minutes at two o'cbck, in the morning. Yes, Bamham, c<tt*mly I" he said again, as though it were a request altogether ordinary and everyday. Barnham's next words, how- ever, did surprise him. And I'd as lief, sir, you'd give me what you've got in your pocket." For a moment Kenneth only stared. How did Barnham know what he had got in his pocket. Then he laughed, a rather dreary laugh. I'm not going to use it, Barnham, he said mildly. If I'd meant—that, I should have done it, before now." Yes, sir, I know. And I ought to have in- terfered before now, for I've been fearing it. bnly God knows how I've been fearing it. But I was-too cowardly, sir, too cowardly, I mean, to step over barriers I've been taught all my life to respect, sir. But at last it got-that there didn't seem to be any barriers, that it was just a young man in trouble and an old one that had learned patience in the hard school of life and might be able to help him through. For I understand what you did to- day and what made you do it, sir, better than most folks would." "Thank you, Barnham," said Kenneth steadily. He was so crushed by his trouble that the full sense of the old man's words hardly conveyed itself to him, but he was dimly aware that he had found a friend :tnd that in an unexpected quarter. A warm little glow of gratitude to the man who could understand lit up for a moment in his soul. It's a grievous and an awful thing, Mr McLeod, sir." Kenneth sighed a little wearily. That was surely a sutllciently established truth. And a horror was over him of it, of his misery, of his loneliness. He clung almost desperately to the kindly human presence, to the sympathetic human voice in the dimness, even though it were only that of his own butler. Won't you sit down, Barnham ?" Barnham complied, drawing another big leather reading chair forward to face his new master. There was no awkwardness, but con- siderable dignity in the old man's manner, but Kenneth, brought up to regard a man as a man, and not as a menial, was not surprised at that either. Barnham's next words, however, sharply arrested his attention. I'm glad you asked me that, Sir, very glad. I shall always remember that you aaked me now and not after you heard what I'm going to say. For I've something to tell you, sir, some- thing that may explain a little things that to a stranger may have seemed a bit odd. Has it ever struck you, sir, that I take a rather different position in this house from what a butler generally takes ?" Kenneth sat up, shaken for the moment even out of the contemplation of his own misery. I've thought, sometimes," he said slowly, that—your young mistresses—treated you with—with a familiarity, an affection which, well, which one who did not know what you have been to Sir Francis all these years might not quite expect. The relations which exist between you and your young mistresses are not quite what an outsider-like myself-has been led to—to look for. Of course, to anyone know- ing everything, the long years of devotion on your part explain- a Yes, but it's deeper than thft, sir. Miss Nora and Miss Ailie, bless them, they don't know it, but the thing's deeper than that. I'm just to them old Barnham, and they never knew and never shall know just why it was so natural for them to run to me with all their little childish hurts and happinesses. They had no father, so to speak, and it seemed natural to them., I dare say, that I should take his place. And so it was far more natural than ever they suspected. Did you notice anything c that struck you any way as-well,as a little odd, sir, the day Miss Nora brought you in to see Sir Francis the first time, the day you first saw Sir Francis and me together ?" Now you mention it, it did strike me-that you were very much alike," said Kenneth slowly. But I imagine that it was the result, perhaps, of close personal companionship for so many years. Husbands and wives grow alike, you know, not only in disposition but in feature." Yes, sir, they do, but it's deeper than that as I said before. There's a better reason than anyone in the world shall ever know but you, sir, and but for what happened to-day I'd never have told you either. But I thought if you knew you'd feel different towards me. You'd know why I understand, sir, better than most fo)ks would, and how I'm likely to feel towards you, sir, and you'd let me help you perhaps to—to manage things and keep calamity away from a house that's heavily enough burdened already." If I knew what ?" asked Kenneth, check- ing the old man's hurrying sentences. Barnham hesitated. Then he told the blunt truth. I'm not the bearer of his title, that couldn't be, but I'm old Sir Francis Richmond's oldest Bon for all that," he said. Kenneth sat silent for some little time, digesting that totally unexpected information. When he spoke his words were few, but a quick, indignant sympathy rang in his voice that was worth more to Barnham than pages of perfunctory condolence. Tell me about it," he said. It's a common enough story, sir," the old man began. My mother was a Devon girl, and as good a one as ever stepped, and old Sir Francis, that's my father, played the rogue, as young men sometimes will. He was married already, but he never told her so. He never told her rightly who he was either. He coaxed, her up to London and tricked her into believing she was his wife, and when she found out the truth it killed her. I believe he would have done the right thing by me, but the old folks took me when my mother died, and they wouldn't look at a penny of his money. They brought me up in the way my mother had been brought up before me. I was educated in the village school, and when I was old enough I went as page to my Lord Escombe. When I was a young fellow twenty-two I heard a foot- man was wanted here, and I got a sort of a fancy to see the place that might have been mine if all had been as it should 'a been. Old Sir Francis was dead then. or 1 wouldn't 'a come anigh the place. Blood's a wonderful thing, Mr McLcod, sir, and the young baronet he took to me, took wunnerful, he did from the first, though he little knew why. I was a fair sportsman, sir, could throw a lly with the best of 'em and handy with a gun, too, and the young master, my half-brother, sir, if he d only known it, made me his chosen companion. There were times when it hurt a bit—but on the whole I was contented even then. He roar ried late, he was nigh on forty, and after that I saw less of him, but he always treated me well. Then the little lasses came, and after that I was happy, very happy. For they loved me same as their father had done. and I've never wanted more of life than that. sir. Is it any wonder, Sir, then, that I come to you and say Don't try to handle this that's happened to- day alone.' Let me help you. Who's So likely to help you, sir, as me ?" For a moment, Kenneth sat silent, more touched than he willing to betray. Then he held out a hand that shook a little. "You're a good man, Barnham," he said quietly as the two hands met. CHAPTER XIX. There's Miss Nora to think of, sir." Kenneth groaned. Had not the time for taking thought gone by ? How by taking thought ever so, could he shield her from the I dread results of actions already done ? And he had iJworn to shield her. Do you think I forget it," he said almost roughly. Do you suppose I'm not always thinking of her." And I wanted to-night—it'll be the best opportunity we'll ever have, str-to calculate chances, to see just what we had better do." Kenneth was silent. Barnham had wanted more than that, and he knew it. There's—this inquest coming on,sir," Barn- ham went on presently, as Kenneth did not speak. "I though it would be as well if I knew beforehand just what you were going to say." I shall say the same as I said this morning, neither more nor less." Then—I'd better know what it was you did say. Sir, this morning. For your tale and mine, well, they've got to hang together." Kenneth leant forward. It will be perjury, Barnham." Barnham shrugged his spare shoulders ever so slightly. Dawn was breaking now, and Kenneth saw the movement, full of a sort of dignified resignation, and the accompanying shake of his fine old head. It's for the family, sir, I can't say more than that. I've been a truthful man all my life, and it'll go hard with me to have to stand before my Maker and lie in His face. But if I can t get round what they are certain to ask me any other way I'll do it, sir, and trust the good Lord to understand. There's Miss Nora to think of, sir, as I said before, let alone the tittle *un. Do you think I'd bring suchtrouble upon Miss Nora. No, not to save my miserable soul fifty times over. So if I'm asked, sir, you know what I shall say." For some few moments Kenneth sat and pon- dered the situation. Then he spoke vehemently, almost violently. It isn't fair. No one has any right to ask it of you. You shall not do it," he said. I must, sir. I can't leave the house with the master lyiog as he does, andi depending on me for every breath he draws, for he depends on me more than he does on Mrs Gabriel,"— with an odd touch of pride. And if I did go they'd follow me. It'd be the very thing to make them follow me." 44 Yes, I see that, of course. But you mustn't attend the inquest for all that. You may, of course, never be wanted. But if you are-you shall not perjure yourself." I don't see what else I'm going to do, sir." Neither do I-at present," confessed Ken- neth unwillingly, but you shan't do that. Not for me, nor for anyone." A bell rang faintly in the distance, so faintly that but for the hush of the dawn it could not have been heard at all. Barnham rose. You'll excuse me, sir, but that's my master's bell," he said. Mrs Gabriel wants me. Dear Lord, grant there's nothing else gone wrong." Kenneth heard the muttered petition as the old man hurried away, and it touched him pro- foundly. Cheated before ever he was born of every right that should have been his, and that by his own father, he had found satisfaction and happiness in a life-long devotion to those who had ousted him from his own. A smaller mind and a meaner soul would have hated them, even though they had all unconsciously and quite innocently supplanted him. It means something after all," Kenneth told himself, to have gentle blood in one's veins." The dawn burgeoned towards the day, and Kenneth sat and watched it. The new day, the first day of his new life, the life that had pro- mised so much, and had failed of everything even at its outset. The ache of his desolation was still with him, but Barnham had done him good, he had recovered his courage. He felt the dark colour rise in his cheeks as he walked across the room and slipped something he took from his coat pocket, something that gleamed quietly in his hand, back into a little case of embossed Spanish leather. For the first time in his life he was arraigned before the bar of his own conscience for cowardice—and convicted. The house was waking up. Kenneth started. He must not be found by any early housemaid keeping vigil in: the library. He went noise- lessly dp the great shadowy staircase to his dressing-room. It contained a light iron bed- stead—and a locked door. When Nora came into the breakfast room Kenneth was there before her. She stood a moment in pitiful embarrassment. How should she greet him, he, her husband, for whom no greeting should have been necessary ? Kenneth did not help her, only stood, his back to the open window, his face in shadow, sombrely watching her as she glanced, in mute distress, first at him and then away. For suddenly and quite unexpectedly a very storm of mingled grief, indignation, and anger against Nora had surged up in his heart. If it had been Nora who had stood before him as a convicted criminal how differently, ah, how differently would he have received her. His hand, to Nora's thinking, had blood upon it. He would not offer it. Nora, standing hesitating, fight- ing hard to steady the quiver of her lips, to still the tremor in her voice, read his refusal-and inevitahly read it wrong. It shrivelled up her shy advance towards what. was still possible between them like flame. She spoke hur- riedly, almost lightly, choosing in her agitation the first topic that presented itself. I am sorry to be late, Kenneth, but really I coifldn't help it. Rhoda never came to dress me, though I rang over and over again, and at last Vyner, the upper housemaid, had to come and do her best. I hope I don't look as horrid a sight as I feel." Kenneth studied her gravely. If he never saw a more horrid sight than Nora looked at that moment, he reflected, the world was not likely to lack beauty. But he did not say so. She had indicated exactly the plane upon which their intercourse must rest. She had given him his lead. There was nothing for him to do but to follow it with what success he might. Why couldn't Rhoda come ? Is she ill ?" Oh, I don't know quite what is the matter." Nora turned away ahnost petulantly. It is— a love affair-of some sort." She checked her- self, her sweet eyes widening woefully. Did love always imply tragedy in one form or an- other in this most disappointing world ? Ken- neth was silent a moment. What had Barnham said as he came to close the window ? Is Wilson at the bottom of it ?" he asked. Nora laughed, a little shaken laugh sadder than tears.. Fancy your having penetrated our domestic politics as far as that already," she said with a tremuluous attempt at lightness of tone that jarred horribly with realities. No, I don't think Wilson is responsible for this. He wor- ships Rhoda—but Rhoda won't look at him. She is sucb a pretty little thing, and so clever. I have had her ever since she was sixteen, and taken such immense pains with her training. What I am going to do without her- Why Is she leaving you 1" asked Ken- neth, more for the sake of saying something than from any curiosity as to pretty Rhoda's plans. Yes, she says she must go home to-day. I don't think any of us are responsible for her decision. Something has gone wrong some- where. probably at home." But if Rhoda goes what will poor Wilson do ?" asked Kenneth. I don't know. He will have to win through I suppose, like the rest of us." Kenneth sat slowly back in his chair and put down his cup, for his hand trembled so that ha could no longer hold it. The impulsive unin- tentional half-allusion, the bitter note of heart- break behind it, had shaken him to the core. Nora," he said hoarsely, his hands closing hard on the edge of the pretty breakfast table, would you like me to go ?" And leave me altogether The eyes, bright with distress and filling slowly with heavy tears, the lips, parted to let the panting breath come through, paling swiftly with the pang of his words, were elo- quent indeed. A warm little glow lit up in Kenneth's heart. To have him here was bad. but to lose him was worse. It was the first crumb of real comfort a niggardly destiny had doled out to Rim. Nora proceeded promptly to demolish it.. Besides," she said, leaning across the little table that he might catch the hardly breathed words, you mustn't go, you can t go. for your own sake. It would be the most dangerous thing you could possibly do. No. there is no- thing we can do but bear it. Kenneth," Kenneth listened sombrely. He looked across at his wife again, bis wife that was yet no wife. N lira was crying now quietly and with a sort of hopeless resignation that seemed to turn his heart, to water. "Dont cry, Nora," hs said with a mans helpless sympathy. But Nora having on~e broken down had broken down utterly. With a little sign to him that he should not follow her she roso and left him. He sat looking after her. his untasted breakfast before him. This was their first meal j together. GWynne had sworn to sep rate them, and truly and indeed he had done it. He had vowed to come back from his grave if need be to hold them apart, and no living hand could have sundered theja as utterly as did this dead one. I wonder," said Kenneth slowly to himself, I wonder if he knows," CHAPTER XX. It was the day of the inquest. All those who, in the opinion of the law, were l'kely to be able to throw any light upon the tragedy they had come together to investigate, were gathered in Gwynne Gaythorne's own dining.-room at the Hall, the long low dining-room lined with old oak panelling, picked out in crimson and gold. Kenneth had been the first witness called, and his examination had been long and severe. But for the story he had told on the day of the tragedy the coroner had found it impossible to move him. He had gone down the garden to look for his wife* who had left her guests for a moment. He might or might not have heard the report of the shot which killed Gwynne Gaythorne A man was scaring birds with a rifle in a cherry orchard naar and if he did hear the shot he had taken no notice of it. He had not spoken to Mr Gaythorne nor seen him at all until he saw him lying face down- ward on the grass by the tiny fountain. His wife had seen him (Kenneth) from another part of the garden and had followed him. He had tried to prevent her noticing-what lay on the grass, but had been too late. The shock had been too much for her, Mr Gaythorne being one of her oldest friends, and she had fainted. He had carried her up the garden and at once told his guests what had happened. Was Mr Gaythorne a friend of yours also?" aeked the coroner. I cannot say that," answered Kenneth steadily. I had only sesn him once before." And that is .positively all you know about it?" Kenneth raised his head. I am on my oath," he said quietly, and I affirm positively that I know nothing more than I have told you. Thank yon. You can stand down. Mrs McLaod, please." Slowly, reluctantly Nora came forward. Her face was as colourless as her simple muslin dress, and she trembled exceedingly, Someone gave her a chair and cleared a space about her with an authoritative hand. It was Dr Melville. And I'd as lief, sir, you'd give me what you've got in your pocket. •« She won't go through it," he muttered to himself. She'll never go through it." Per- haps the coroner thought so, too, but Nora took the oath with more composure than they expected, and faced her questoner, her eyes bright with a kind of desperate courage. Will you tell us," asked the coroner as gently as though he had been speaking to a child, just what happened between half-past* two and four o'clock on June 23rd last ?" It was my wedding-day. We were sitting on the lawn, Mr and Mrs Tracy, Dr. Melville, my aunt, Lady Mabel Breydon, my husband, and myself. Wilson and Carvey were handing round tea. It was nearly four o'clock." She paused. "And then T" said the coroner encourag- ingly. I got up—and left the others-" The coroner checked her. What made you leave your guests ?" he Nora hesitated. Then she looked up. "Ajn I obliged to answer questions? she asked. You are not obliged, but I should advise you to." „ What will happen if I don t ? The coroner studied his witness, a sudden alertness in his eyes. He was a man of much experience, and he felt instantly under his fingers the little knot that was the nucleus of the tangle it was his business to unravel. But he was careful not to betray the fact. Nothing definite at present, but people may draw inferences from your silence that you j would rather they didn't. I should advise you 1 to answer, Mrs McLeod." I can't," said Nora breathlessly, not that one." A little breath seemed to pass round the room and its occupants. Nora sat with wide- I open eyes staring straight in front of her, aware not so much of the significance of her j own words as of a horrid sense of incongruity between her present position and her surround- j ings. This was the very same dining-table at which she and Ailie and poor old Powlett had i dined so often with Gwynne, handsome and debonair, as host at the head of it. And Gwynne was dead, and because of it peril,peril I at which she dared hardly glance, brooded over her. It was—for a perfectly understandable, per- fectly innocent reason that I went," she said presently. It had nothing whatever to do-" She broke off, frozen into quiet. Nothing to do with what had happened afterwards ? It had everything to do with it. Kenneth moved uneasily. Will nothing teach a woman to say too little rather than too much ? j If you will not say what made you go to the rosery," said the coroner quietly, tell me I what you saw when you got there." I For a moment Nora sat very still. Then she j spoke, her voice low and toneless. j I saw—my husband, he was just in front of I me. He said 'Keep back,' and waved me I away—but I wouldn't go back. And then I saw Gwynne-Mr Gaythorne——" Her voice failed her. She dropped her face I in her two hands, shuddering violently. One question more," said the coroner, with very evident sympathy. Can vou tell me, on your oath, that you saw no one, spoke to no one, in the garden between the moment when you left your guests and the moment you came upon your husband and saw the body lying on the grass in the rosery ?" Nora raised her head and dropped her hands, twisted hard together, on her lap. She was silent a long, long-time. When she spoke she said one word only, "No." The coroner leant forward. What does that mean ?" he asked. That you saw no one—or that you cannot answer my question ?" That I cannot answer your question.' Once again that little breath of intense interest ran over the dead anxiety of the room. The coroner studied his recalcitrant witness with a sort of grieved perplexity that verged on acute vexation. Mrs McLeod, I must ask you to re-consider your attitude," he said. Your extreme reluc- tance to give me any aid at all in this matter can only point one way. You have some very strong reason for doing your best to pre- vent my arriving at the truth. I need hardly remind you that it is my duty to do my best to find out what that reason is." f For a moment N ora sat stunned and white. Then she looked up, a dull crimson spot on each cheek and her eyes were the eyes of a helpless wild thing caught in a cruel trap. I--don't know what you mean," she said, desperately. I have—no reason-" But the lie was too much for her. She threw her arms out over the table, dropped her head on them and burst into bitter weeping. Win- dows were opened wider, water was fetched, the coroner waited gravely, but Nora lay shaken in a perfect tempest of grief. By and by Dr. Melville made his way round the table to the back of the coroner's chair. Look here," he said sharply, can't you put a stop to this painful scene. It isn't that the child won't., she can't go on." I must have Mrs McLeod's evidence." My dear fellow, you can't, not to-day, she isn't fit to give it. Vou can sea for yourself." Then I must postpone the inquiry till she is." Bufc you can'thave it then, either," insisted Dr. Melville, dropping his voice,' •' because as "Hut you can'thave it then. either," insisted Dr. Melville, dropping his voice,' because as i a. matter of f: t the whole thing is illegal. You can hold an inquiry, and you can make her be present, but you can't make her speak. It's not only inhuman, it's illegal." For a moment the coroner gravely regarded his old friend. I can't help understanding what, you say, of course," he said presently, and stopped. And-what will you do ? Arrest him ?" Not till there is further evidence. The police have nothing to go on-yet. He'll lie watched, of course. I'm calling you next. Mel- ville." I All right," said Dr. Melville, resignedly only let that poor child go. It isn't any use pushing things when a woman's hysterical. You oueht to know that." Dr. Melville's evidence was terse and brief. He confirmed Kenneth McLeod's account of his telling of the accident to his guests, and des- scribed how be found Gwynne Gaythorne lying dead upon his face in the rosery. He had been killed undoubtedly by a dicharge from his own shotgun fired at close quarters. How long had he been dead when you saw him ?" enquired the coroner. Not long, not many minutes. He was still warm." Did you hear the shot which killed him ?" I can't be sure. Probably I did. But a man had been shooting at intervals all the afternoon as Mr McLeod described, and it is impossible to tell one shot from another." And you saw no one in the garden except your host and hostess and your fellow-guests?" No one." Thank you-that will do. Miss Aileen Rich- mond." Dr. Melville turned and came back to the table. Miss Aileen Richmond is not present this afternoon." he said. She is too ill to leave her room." A little ripple of sympathy pa ssed over the listening room. A hint of Ailie's relationship to the dead man had crept out and given the tragedy just that touch of romance the whole world loves. The coroner looked down at his list with a vexed sigh. This promised to be a most un- satisfastory inquiry. Of course, if you certify her as unfit," he said, resignedly. Joseph Barnham." ffo one answered. Nothing moved. The poKceman at the Uining-room door opened it wide. Joseph Barnham," he repeated. His sonorous voice echoed across the hall and down the corridor, but no one replied. Kenneth had risen from his seat ani made his way to the i table. Joseph Barnham is not here, either," he said, quietly. A relative telegraphed for him to go down to Devon. It was a matter of life and death, he told me, and he went away yesterday." The coroner's look clmided into anger. This was not only an unsatisfactory, it was an abor- tive inquiry. He was duly subpoenaed, wasn't he ?" "Yes; but he/lid not regard his evidence as of any very great importance." I am the best judge as to the importance of his evidence, Mr M :Leod," interrupted the coroner a little stiffly. He was summoned, and he should have been here. We cannot ?retend to regard to-day's proceeding as final. shall adjourn.the inquiry until this day fort- night, and on that day I shall expect him to present himself before me. You will please convey to him the fact, Mr McLeod, that a failure on this part to answer to his subpoena will result in a warrant for his arrest." (To be continued.)

-'BURGLARIES AT SWANSEA.

"WALKING BAND OF MUSIC."

\ GLYNDWR MALE VOICE PARTY.

..----CADOXTON 8T ATION-BREAKERS

The Strayed Bishcp.I .

WIVES IN TWO HEMISPHERES,j

AN OLD TRICK.

COMPLAINED OF STRAIN.

LLANPUMPSAINT FESTIVAL

AT POINT OF THE REVOLVE*

BANK CLERK STABBED.

MR MILNER JONES.

DAFYDD WILLIAM MEMORIAL-

\\ JUDGE AND HANDWRITING-

WARNING TO OFFICERS.

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