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r[AxL RIGHTS RBSBRVtD. ] W) t [TH"ËuuMAN HUNT. (n) By TOM GALLON, 101 XX Author of "Tatterley," "The Great Gay Road," &c. A\ CHAPTER IV (Continued.) THE SUBSTITUTE. 1 Boyd Litchfield, though with trepidation, announced his intention of going at once; and within a little time the two men set out. And it has to be noted here that there was a curious, subtle change in their attitudes towards each other — a difference that had not been noticeable before. Hitherto, Murdoch Slade had come to the house as a chance visitor, and had been re- ceived as such. Indeed, Boyd Litchfield had patronised him, in a way, or had appeared to do so, ft-r a long time past. But now Mr. Boyd Litchfield appeared almost to fawn upon his friend, and to be ready and anxious to take his advice. It might almost have been thought that Boyd Litchfield went a little in* fear of the other man. And, in- deed, this feeling was voiced when presently they sat in an empty first-class compart- ment, speeding on their way to Charnlcy Weir. Murdoch Slade leaned forward, with a hand on each knee, and looked into the face of his companion, "If it turns out to be true," he said, "we shall have waited a long time." A very long time," returned Litchfield, with a nod. "And you will have played your cards very well, my dear boy." Slade shrugged his shoulders, and sat up, and folded his arms. I always play my cards well," he said. I've played for a big stake in this case-for a girl and for a fortune." And when both girl and fortune are yours, Slade, you won't forget a poor old friend, eh ?" suggested Boyd Litchfield, with that anxious look creeping into his eyes again. Things have not gone well with me, my dear fellow; I may be said almost to be standing on the edge of a volcano. If the crust should crack, and let me throuoh-" I might be disposed to stretch out a hand and pull you back at the last mo- ment," broke in Murdoch Slade a little im- patiently. You'll have to leave things to me; I make no promises." Mr. Boyd Litchfield closed his eyes, and appeared almost for a moment to shiver; his face, as he sat there with his eyes shut, had a curiously drawn and haggard look. The rest of the journey was pursued in silence, until at last the little railway station was reached, and the two men alighted. As if by common consent they made straight for the river. It was a miserable, drizzling day, and Charnley Weir at its best was a quiet place; in this particular instance there did not seem to be anyone about. Perhaps both Litchfield and Slade had felt that with their coming upon the scene something dramatic was to happen—something immediately fol- lowing on the letter. So that, to find them- selves standing on the river bank, within twenty yards of the ruined bungalow, with the vague expectation that something was going to liapnen, caused each man to look at the other somewhat sheepishly, and as though the expected was not by any means going to happen after all. And then suddenly Murdoch Slade laid his hand upon the arm of the other man, pointed straight into the gloomy mist that overhung the river, and asked a question sharply in a whisper. "What's that?" "That" was a boat propelled by a single rower. There was nothing remarkable about the boat itself, coming silently towards them; but a long wake was left in the water, not from the boat, but from some- thing that was being dragged dreadfully be- hind it. The two men on the bank watched the boat coming, and for a reason that both knew, held their breath while they watched. Another man saw the boat coming, and that man was Rodney Manners. He peert-i from an upper window in the ruined bunga- low-a window that reached almost to the floor of the room in which he had been sleep- ing. That for which he had been waiting had happened at last; the shabby figure, lying prone upon his face, with his chin on a level with the window ledge within a few inches of the floor, watched the little pano- rama stretched out before him. And then siiddenly- he sat up, alert, watch- ing. Another figure had come into the landscape a figure so strange that for a moment he fixed his eyes upon it to the ex- clusion of everything else. For this was a figure that hid and dodged, and ran from cover to cover, and watched the men upon the bank; and it was a woman. She crouched along the ground, and ran from one point to the other, until at last she was quite close to Slade and the other man, and was able to watch what was happeuing. Manners puzzled his brains to know who this other figure could be. That which had been towing behind the boat was at last brought up upon the bank and now the girl and the two men were peering nearer to see the thing, wet and awful, that lay there. Manners saw the two men bending over it, and whispering together; he could see that Boyd Litchfield drew away fearfully, while the other more callously went nearer, and dropped on one knee on the wet earth, and appeared to be searching in the pockets. Manners, watch- ing, could see him take out various things -and hold them up for Litchfield to see. And in the meantime the boatman had gone off in haste in the direction of the village.. Wlot Murdoch Slade was saying was that this battered, swollen, broken thing from the river was undoubtedly. the missing Rodney Manners; scarcely any need to examine the features closely for that. The hideous thing had been washing about in the river for some four or five days, and had been bat- tered against the weir and against piles and boats in the river; the face was not a thing to look upon without shuddering. But this was a man something of the build of Rodney Manners, and he had the clothes in which Manners had been dressed. Obviously the man had carried out his threat. Presently the poor burden was picked up by some men, and carried slowly towards the village; Slade and Litchfield walked be- hind. And then the girl came out from her hiding-place, and, to the utter amaze- ment of Manners, lying prone in that upper room, came stumbling along through the trees, wjth her face hidden in her hands, and making straight for the bungalow. And as she drew nearer the man with the shaven face knew who it was, and lay propped upon his hands staring down at her. He had started to go down into the lower room, and was actually on the stairs, when she lifted the latelt of the bungalow and staggered in. Whether with the purpose of hiding or not it is impossible to say; suffice it that she came face to face with that clean-shaven man standing in the shadow of the staircase. She took a step forward, and aied out something incoherent. Manners sprang forward, placed a hand upon her lips, and spoke her name. "Hester-little Hester Wake She clung to him; then, after that first startled moment,, sobbing hysterically, and holding him as thowgh elie would never let him go. And in that supreme moment of his life, when he felt that lie was indeed fthut off from the world of men, it seemed to him that a new joy was stealing through his veins, as he held her close and kissed the tears from her eyes and from her cheeks. "Thank God!" murmured Hester, "tha^ic God! Not dead, as I feared, but alive and well! My love my dear my dear!" CHAPTER V. THE MAN WITH THE NEW NAME. After that first startling encounter it natu- rally took some little time for Manners and the girl to compose themselves. Indeed, the I man found himself holding her in his arms, and soothing her, and saying pretty, foolish things to her almost unconsciously; although surely he had need at that time to cling to something or someone. "There—there—it's all right," he assured her. "Didn't I tell you before that it would be all right—Hetty. Was I so much to you that you could come down here, and coulct weep over me when you thought that I was dead? Don't mind saying what's in your heart now, because there is so much iu my own heart that only you have discovered I never knew before how much I loved you- how much you were to me." The rain was flung in angry gusts upon the windows; the place was cheerless and de- serted and falling to decay yet it is pro- bable that both were happier than they had ever been in their lives before. And yet Rodney Manners hadn't a shilling in the world; the forlorn clothes he wore had be- longed to a tramp; he did not even possess a name. "I never meant to tell you, of course," said Hetty. "You were ever so far above me, find I had to be content just to see you now and then, and get a nod or a smile from you, and know that you were in love with another woman. He heaved a quick little sigh, and then laughed. "I was never in love with her, my I dear, at all," he said. "I was in love with her position and all that she represented to me—all that I had dreamed about. Now I seem to have awakened from that dream, and to find myself the natural, human man again —beginning the world. And I am begin- ning it with a vengeance," he added rue- fully. She crept nearer to him timidly. "You'll have me; I will love you and help you and work for you-" "No—no—that's not to be thought of for a moment," he said hastily. "I can't drag you down like that; it would be the act of a coward. I'm dead—disgraced Rodney Man- ners will be buried away in the earth, and very properly forgotten." "It is you I love, dear," she pleaded, "and not your name. You don't understand what a. woman such as I am can feel; love comes to her once, and once only; and she never changes. There must be a way out for you —for both of us. You have done no wrong that should be punished in such a way as this." "No—I've done no wrong," he answered, after a moment's pause. "I was plotted against—all my schemes undermined. Secret operations were worked against me, so that everything I tried to do was brought to noth- ing. And to think I did not even have time to find out who my enemy was!" he added bitterly. "It doesn't matter now but I feel that I would give something to know who it was that schemed and plotted against me, and how it was that they secured the infor- mation they did concerning my business." Hester Wake closed her eyes for a moment, and leaned against the table; Manners thought she was going to faint. He put an arm about her, and spoke quickly "My dear girl—you are ill and over- wrought you have had a shock, and I am brute enough to stand here talking about my own troubles and forgetting yours." "I'm all right," she said, opening her eyes, and striving to smile. "Suppose—suppose you ever found out who it was that had plotted against you, and—and ruined YOU- what would you do?" • "I don't suppose I should be able to do anything, he answered shrugging his shoul- ders. "Because, you see, in the first place, this supposed death of mine, if I ever tried to come back, would look like a trick—just to enable me to get out of the way. Whereas it was quite an accident." I And then he told her of all that had hap- pened in that very place, what time a certain tramp seized an opportunity to secure a good suit of clothes, and paid for that theft with his life. She listened attentively to every- thing and told him in turn about the letter which had been kept back so many days, and I only found by herself. And white she talked he watched her' attentively, until something in her appearance caused him to make a re- mark. "Why, Hetty—you're all in black," ho said. "What has happened? "I—I always wear dark clothes," she fal- tered, with that frightened look coming again into her eyes. "But not mourning," he answered slowly. "I have lost—lost a friend," she answered, without looking at him. And like a drop of cold suspicion there filtered through the mind of Manners the remembrance of where he had found her, on the night of the murder of Arthur Bradshaw, and of how the police were searching for a girl friend of the dead boy who had been seen in the neighbourhood on that night. Here was another mystery, about which he would not question her at this time; for, strangely enough, despitfe his suspicions, that love for her that had grown out of his pity for her was a stronger thing than he knew, and overshadowed all else. If she knew more concerning the death of the boy than she had yet said, Manners believed that she was involved in it innocently. They began presently to talk of future Slans—if a man in the position of Rodney Manners could be said to have plans at all. How would he live, and where would he live above all, where and how were they to meet? For she assured him, with her plead- ing hands upon the breast of his shabby coat, and her pleading eyes looking into his, that they must meet—soon and often. "I can help you," she assured him. "Out of my great love for you I can smooth away 'difficulties; I can make a new world for you. Now that I know you love me, it will be so easy for us to make a little home together somewhere—perhaps in another country, and under another name. Only I shall know the truth, and no one else." "I can't do that-yet," he answered her solemnly. "There is so much to be found out; there are eo many mysteries which have to be discovered before I can take my place, if indeed I ever do, among men again. Only one hope is there for me out of this tragic business: that, unknown and unsus- pected, I can watch, aa it were from fhe grave itself, and see what is happening. Don't look so frightened," he added lightly, taking her face between his hands and kiss- ing her. "I have told you that it will all come right, and in my heart of hearts I know that it will. If it is any comfort to you to know that a poor waif, belonging nowhere, and having no name nor position, loves you, believe it. "I do believe it! And it is the most won- derful thing that has ever happened to mo in all my life," she answered. And so, in that strange way and in that strange place, they solemnly plighted their troth. To avoid suspicion she must get back to London, and must keep her great secret to herself. Therefore, presently he saw her go through the little neglected garden, on li?, way to the railway station; saw her wave her hand to him at the turn of the path, and so disappear. For himself, he had a duty to perform, and he meant to carry it out. The only difficulty, he thought ruefully enough as he turned back to the bungalow, was that great difficulty of money. For even a man with no name must be fed. Hetty Wake had fluttered about the little house, deeply interested in it and' in all that concerned him; she had lured him on to talk about old days, when he had come to the place in order to get away from business worries that threatened to crush him. Yet he did not connect the thought of that with a discovery he made that night when he went up to the room he had used as a sleep- ing apartment. That discovery was one of money. On the dusty dressing-table that had once been covered neatly with a pretty cloth, and that now was bare, and had a stained, smeared glass above it, he saw a few coins lying. He stood for a moment or two staring at them stupidly; there was a sovereign and some silver .coins as well. He went over in his mind the events of the past few days, and finally concluded that 'he must, after all, have been mistaken in supposing that the tramp had got away with all the money in Rodney • Manners' possession. In some moment of forgetfulness, Manners felt he must have taken the money out of his Docket and dropped it cn the dressing-table. And yet he felt that, somehow or other, he would I have had more than this sum in his pocket. He was not to know until long afterwards that Hester Wake, on that quick journey round the place, had emptied her purse of all it contained, save sufficient to take her back to London; and he wae to know it long afterwards in a strange fashion. The finding of the money put hope into the man; he could go on now for a time, and watch events. With that /purpose in view he drifted into the village, under cover of the darkness, and purchased some food, hearing incidentally a little awed gossip concerning the London gentleman who had troubled himself to be drowned in the river at their very doors. EhlCh an event was wonderful in that quiet place. Manners heard a great deal about the coming inquest and the people who were to give evidence. He came out of the little shop with his purchases bulging his pockets, and looked about him. The place was very quiet; only a low murmur came through the open win- dows of the inn in the tiny High Street. Some new feeling of peace had stolen over the man, some brighter hope for the future than any he had yet had. He had been wounded and betrayed; now, for the first time, he had come in contact with love at its best and its finest-love that meant abso- lute self-sacrifice on the part of a woman. He stood there in the darkness, thinking of that and listening to the low murmur of voices from the inn, glad of even that com- pany before going back to the bungalow. Suddenly, the door of the inn was thrust open, and two men came out. The one, a big burly fellow, with head thrust forward between massive shoulders; the other, thinner and older, with grey hair, and a moustache that was always being pulled by restless fingers. Manners recognised them in a moment as Murdoch Slade and Boyd Litchfield. He could not understand what they were Soing there, nor why they had not returned to London. He leaned back in a doorway and watched them. They were obviously bent upon some errand, an d that errand a secret one. As they turned the corner of the little street arid made towards the river Manners darted after them, and from that time kept them in view. They headed straight for the bungalow, and, knowing that they were bound for that place, Manners began to have a dreadful fear that he might have left something there that would give away his secret. He fol- lowed them stealthily—a mere shadow among shadows-until they came out near to the river bank, and went on side by side towards the bungalow. And now, taking advantage of his knowledge of the place, Manners made a detour and slipped into the little garden, and drew himself up under the window of the room into which he knew they must presently come. He had left the door swinging, and the way was easy for the visitors. Peering in through the window, Manners saw a light struck, and saw the two anxious faces bend- ing over a candle; then they looked about them. Through a broken pane of glass the watching man could hear &11 that was said. "He's been living here—for a night or so at least," said Slade. See—the remains of food, and a glass that's been used." "It's an uncanny spot," said Litchfield, with a shiver. "One feels almost sorry for' the poor devil, sleeping in such a place as this, and then going down to the river and lending it all. What do you expect to find here? "I don't expect to find anything, but I'm not going to take chances," retorted Slade. "A man like that sometimes discovers things at the last moment, and he was the type of man to carry out his purpose, and yet leave behind him some scrap of paper that might make bad reading for us if it were dis- covered. Do you understand?" "I've left all these things in your hands, my dear boy; I know nothing of business," pleaded Litchfield. I "You know something of robberv-and spying—and sharing of plunder—don't you?" demanded Slade testily. "You haven't had your share exactly yet, but you'll get it in I good time. Now, just bustle, and look about, and find what there is to be found." The two men began to search the house; I Litchfield in a perfunctory manner, and Murdoch Slade with some thoroughness. But they found nothing, and presently extin- guished the light, and came out into ths darkness. "We're flafe as houses; I saw to it that here was nothing compromising in Iris pockets when they fished him out of the riySr," said Slade, walking with his com- panion on the other side of the fence, within a couple of yards of the spot where Manners crouched. "We shall get his keys after the inquest, and I can go through everything myself." Manners stood there after they had dis- appeared, in a state of utter bewilderment. He had never trusted Murdoch Slade, chiefly for the reason that he did not like the man; but he had never regarded him as one who would plot against him; and to find Boyd Litchfield, the prosperous fat'her of the girl to whom h" had been engaged, joined in that plot seemed incredible. Was it possible, he thought with bitterness, that even Grace Litchfield had been involved in the hideous thing? Knowing well that they would not return to the bungalow after their fruitless search, Manners went inside, and had some food, and presently retired to rest. The next day- he spent lounging about in the woods and fields, and making casual inquiries in the village concerning the dead man and the time of the inquest. And a couple of days later, when a little knot of idlers had col- lected about the door of the inn at which the inquest was to be held, a man with a clean- shaven face shouldered his way amongst them and lounged in with them. The little upstairs room was packed to* suffocation with jury and witnesses and those of the general public who had come out of idle curiosity, together with quite a number of reporters from various newspapers. For this suicide, from the point of view of the public, was a verv important one. d (To be Continued.)

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