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■COPVRtGHT. * THE ^| W all…

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■ COPVRtGHT. THE | W all of Silence I  A STORY OF CARDIFF, I I $pecíaU ?nttcu for the ?cutn? Cypress 1 I By SIDNEY WARWICK, I AUTHOR OF I I The Angel of Trouble," Through a Woman's Heart," No Past is Dead," I W Cat's Eyes: A Mystery," Shadows of London," &c., Ac. ■ SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOûS CHAPTERS. The principal characters in the story are Jim Meredith. heir to his uncle, who has cut out of his will his adopted daughter. Olive Lindsay, because she was convicted of; stealing pearls; Percivai Detaiold, one of the witnesses against Olive in the Black Pearl ca-se, who is found in his house at Llandaff ehot through the heart, and whom a woman is suspected of murdering; Sva Kennedy, whom Jim finds on the road near Deunold's house on the night of the murder, and. at her request, convoys in his motor, to Radyr Station; Ethei Resstarriok, ayoun?1 widow, formerly Jim's sweetheart, and ,a.j jealous woman, who hears of the laet- named incident and suspects Owen Hughes, I who is accepted by Elsie Muir, a.nd. when; leavm? the Muirs' hoiuse at Penarth, meets John Sarrol, whom he accuses of having been in leagne with Detmold to rob him (ughes) of his rights iu a œrtain inven- tion Heated words ronow, Sarrol si?rik. at Eug?s. the latter ? about to strike back when Stephen Muir appears and separatee them. Sarroi turna to Hughes and whispers something which makes him recoil as from a blow. Hughes and Sarrol adjourn to the library, where the whisper, which is an accusation that Hughes murdered Peroival Detmold, is re]>aated. Hughes denies this, and declares BetmoAd threatened him with a revolver, which, in the struggle with Hughes, went off inadvertently and killed Detmold. Sarrol flouts thia. and shows Hughes a letter he is going- to send Renouncing1 him. Then tells him to come back at nine o'clock, when he (Sarrol) will tell him whatf he intends to dQ, "The shadow M something coming" broods over more than one member of the Muir dinner party that nieht, and later Beatrice Sa-nol and Philip Muir, who were formerly 1 in love with each other, sraiinter through the grcandp, in earnest- ccnYereotion. fiaaroi arorp'rises them in a close, embrace. CHAPTER XVII. (continued.) THE MAN AND THE WOM-k-N. And then his voice out harshly through the iarmner night, and the man and the woman. At her feet lay her husband. caught by their passion as in a swirling eddy ,ht beck with a of a tideway, were brought back with a start to the realities. No outburst of ungovernable fury at first; outwardly calm, cold as ioe; his face grey white, only the eyes like gleaming steel- points revealing the pent-up, seething passions within him, ais he stepped a paoo i or two forward. His voice oalm, too, as he spoke, though it shook a little despite his iron control, coldly ironical: "I always knew I'd let myself in for a aamned had bargain when I gave you my Tifme, .but until now I thought at least you had oome rags of decency left," John Sarrol said. Beatrice's face might have been cut in marble; every drop of blood seemed to have left it, with fear's imprint frozen there. Philip stood looking at John Sarrol, too startled and disconcerted in that first it-omeut to find words. It seems an interesting tete-a-tete that I have been so tactless as to interrupt," went on Sarrol, finding the effort of repression increasingly difficult-" pouring out the etory of your wrongs, of your husband's crueUies. in another man's ears, giving your- self to thi» philanderer'a %rms! There'a cnly one ?ord for women like yon." And still in the low, restrained voice he flung the -vile word ao her, like a handful of mud in her face.. The word was like a goad to Philip Muir. He strode forward passionately, his eyes gleaming, his hands clenched-up to the other man. "Don't dare to say another word to her! Don't dare, I eay, or I won't answer for the consequences. You may say what you like about me—but be very careful for your own sake how you speak again to her! You have no longer a weak, helpless woman to bully with your wards and blows, but a main!" Philip said. "You've been listening, end for once a listener has heard the truth about himself pleasant or not-the truth!" The suppressed fury broke out at last in John Sarrol. I wonder you dare speak to me, you philanderer and thief of a man's honour!" And almost before the words had left his lips, Sarrol, his paseion flaming out beyond control, aimed a blind blow at the younger man—a blow that would have felled Philip had he not moved quickly to avoid it; it merely grazed his cheek. Instantly Philip retaliated. Hia hand shot out, struck Sar- rol in the face, who reeled back staggering under the force of the blow almost to the threshold- of the library window; then, all the sleeping devil in him roused to a pitoh of vindictive fury, to the lust for reprisals, he closed with the younger man. lie was of immense natural strength; in spite of his bulk, in spite of his habits of living, his muscles—now, at any rate, in this madness of passion—were steel. The two men swayed for an instant by the French window, struggling blindly, sav- agely, like primeval men, whilst the woman stood, as if struck powerless to move or cry out, one hand preaoed to her heart, in the deep shadow cast by the verandah. Philip Muir was a strong man. too, but the older man's grip was like a vice against which he struggled in vain; Sarrol's face and gleaming eyes, close to his, Vindictive and sinister, were alight with a cudden murderous glint, as they swayed in their 6ilent struggle by the dark opening of the long window. Suddenly exerting all his brute strength, Sarrol flung the other man cif, hurled Philip away from him savagely into the nnlighted room; and the younger P,aii went down with a thud. the sound deadened by the heavy Turkey carpet, his cheek striking against the leg of the oak writing table. l' U mark You, you philanderer, you thief of a man's honour!" broke from Sarrol following his fallen antagonist into the room, the darkness of which suddenly swallowed the two men up from Beatrice's terrified eyes. j It was darker to her eyes than it was to the two men within the room., each swayed now by that one blind., savage, primitive instinct of passion to kill; less dark to them because of the moonlight in the gar- den beyond the verandah, against which objects in the room stood out dimly. blurred and black. Only it was more by instinct than by sight that the hand of one of the men fell on something lying on the table; something hard and heavy on which his fingers tightened. A blackthorn stick that Ov.,en Hughes had left behind him inadver- tently after his interview here with John Sarrol an hour and a half ago. What was happening in the room? In spite of her appalled horror and fear, in spite of her desperate eagerness to know. r the woman out on the verandah had no power over her limbs; she might have been turned to stone; all her senses seemed absorbed in the one faculty of bearing, She stood listening. What was happening in the room hidden from her eyea by that veil of impenetrable darkness? She could hear the heavy breathing, a low, muttered word or eo. the sound of movements, but the antagonists were strangely and grimly silent And then- Out of the darkness a sharp, strangled cry that was hardly human, that died away almost instantly, simultaneously with a dull, heavy fall, most of the sound of which the thick cacrpet seemed to absorb. Then silence utter and absolute. The spell of dreadful inertia that had paralysed her seemed suddenly to snap. Instinctively Beatrice Sarrol know that the struggle had become tragedy. Which man had given that cry? She ran forward to the window; her own words spoken earlier that evening: dark a.nd sinister, like a gTive!" and those vague, oppressive fancies of coming ill swept back upon her now. In the room someone was breathing heavily—someone who did not speak 8rS she entered, someone whom she could not see. Which man-which man? To Beatrice Sarrol's overstrung nerves, that played strange tricks with her senses, the room with its darkness and stilliiees and the tragic secret it held seemed sud- denly to fill with innumerable whisperings, She felt her way to the table blindly, filled with an almost irresistible, hysterical desire to scream, her skirts touching something on the floor as she passed. On the library table, near the silver can- dlestick and tray for sealing-wax, was a box of matches; the fact must have impressed itself on her mind quite uncon- ecious'y. Her fumbling, impatient fingera felt for the little silver box, found it. Which man had given that horrible cry? Beatrice Sarrol struck a match; the scratching sound of the match head on the box rapped jarringly on her nerves; the match flared up, throwing a little, wavering tongue of light in the great room, before which the shadows fell back, like shifting wafes, into the sea of darkness beyond Which man? Standing by the table, his passion burnt out, shaking in every limb, evidently making a desperate flgtht to master the mad impulse to give way to blind terror, afraid even to speak l«j?t his To-ice should run out of his control to panic, was Philip Muir; and at ker feet lay her husband, one arm Lent under him, a terrible discoloured bruise, almost a pulp, on the left temple, where the heavy blackthorn stick had descended in a cruiahing blow, the dead eyes staring up at her. The match died out between her ftngers. How she succeeded in strangling the ory that rose in her throat Beatrice never knew. "Philip—Phi'lips he's dead!" she said at last in a shaking whisper in the darkness. In spite of her horror, the woman forced herself to an unnatural calm; she bent and folt the pulse, laid her hand on the heart of the figure on the floor. "Philip, you've killed him!" Oh, that can't be—I tell you it's impos- sible; hell come round presently—he can't be dead! He was stronger than I more liko a madman and he meant mischief—I believe he meant to kill me .&nd I had to defend myself. But he can't be dead—I won't believe tha.t he's dead!" The breu-thleasly rapid, staccato words, harder articulate, were quite unlike Philip Muir voice. "Hush! Don't speak. Philip!" came the woman's insistent, agonised whisper of caution through the darkness. Pity was in her voice: pity for the living, and perhaps a. sudden, deep, remorseful pity for the dead whym in that moment of weakness and temptation she had wronged —with a wrong of which this was the evil fruit. Philip, now if ever in all your life it is imperative you must keep yourself in hand; you must not lose your head. We've got to face facts; it is useless to deceive ourselves. John Sarrol's dead—and what remains now is to save you from the consequences 1 Listen Through the deep shadow of the room Beatrice Sarrol stole across to the door; stood listening feverishly. [TO BE CONTINUED TO-MORBOWJ

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