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HT, -0% THE Ci r VI all of Silence ? A STORY OF CARDIFF, I $peCíaH Mritten for tbe "Svcnm? ?yprc?" I By SIDNEY WARWICK, t T AUTHOR OF I « The Angel of Trouble," Through a Woman's Heart," No Past is Dead," I Cat's Eyes: A Mystery," "Shadows of London," &c., N SYNOPSIS OF PSEVIOUS CHAPTERS. I The principal characters in the story are Jim Meredith, heir t? his uncle, who has cut out of me will his adopted daughter, Oli^. ijiucl^ay. because she was convicted of: stealing pearls; Percival Detmold, one of I tbe witn-3 against Olive in th? Black Pearl ca?e, who is fcund in his hous? at i Liaaida,:? shot through the heart, and whom a woman i-s suspected of murdering; Eva j Kennedy, whom Jllli finds on the road near | Detmold's house on the night of the murder. and, at her request, conveys in his motor i to Radyr Station; Ethel Bestarrick. young; widow, formerly Jim's sweetheart, and a. jealous woman, who hears of the last- named incident and suspects; Owen Hughes, who is accented by Elsie if nix, and, when leaving the Muirs' houee at Teuarth, meets John Sarrol, whom he accuses of having been in league with Dermoid to rob bun (Hughes) of his righ ts in a certv* n inven- tion. Heated words follow. Sarroi strikes at Hughes, the latter is about to strike back ween Stephen Muir appears and separates them. Sarroi turns to Hughes and wmspera something which makes him recoil as irom a blow. Hughes and Sarroi adjourn to tne library, where the whisper, whicn is an accusation that Hushes murdered Percival Betmo-ld, is repeated. Hughee denies tms, and declares Detmold threatened him with a revolver, which, ITl the strugg.o with Hhæ. wnt oS niadT?rtently and k!lle1-! i D?tmold. Sarroi tlout this and shows Hu.gh a ?tt?r he is going- to wnd den?uncm? h?n. Then tells hm to cue back at Bm? o'clock, when he (Sarr?l) wiU j tell him what he intends to do. ••The shadow of something coming- broods ovipr more than one member of tbe Muir dinner pa.rty that night, a.nd later E-catriee Sarroi and Philip Muir, who were formerly in love with each other, saunter th'^uarh the ground*. in earnest conversation. SaCTol surpnees them in a close embrace. | C CHAPTER XVII. (continued.) THE MA-X AND THE I And then his voioe t harshly through the I fum-- night, and the man and the woman. At her feet lay her husband. flight by their passion as in a swirling eddy r of a tideway, were broug-ht back with a 4) f a tideway, wera b. start to the realities. No outburst,of ungovernable fury at first; outwardly calm, cold as ice; his face grey white. only the eyes like gleaming steel- points revealing- the pent-up, seething passions within him, as he stepped a paoe or two forward. His voice calm, too, as he spoke, though it shook a little despite his I r iron control, coldly ironical: I always knew I'd let myself in for a damned bad bargain when I gave you my npme, but until now I thought at least yon had some rags of decency left," John Sarrol said. Beatrice's face might have been out in marble; every drop of blood seemed to have left it. with fear's imprint frozen there. Pnilip etood looking at John Sarroi, too startled and disconcerted in that ftrsft Ztoment to find words. It eeems 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 story of your wrongs, of your husband's lemelties. in another man's cars, giving your- self to this philanderer's arm.s There"s only one word for women like you." And etill in the low, res.trained voice he flung the •vile word at 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 say, 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 words and blows, but a man!" Philip said. You've been listening, and 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 wander 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 pa sc ion flaming out beyond control, aimed a blind blow at the younger max.-a blow that would have felled Philip had he not moved quickly to avoid it; it merely grazed his cheek. Instantly Philip retaliated. His hand shot out, struck Sa,r- rol ia the face, who reeled back staggeriug 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 cf -vindictive fury, to the lust for reprisals, lie clotsed with the younger man. He was of immense natural strength; in spite of his bulk, in spite of his habits of living, his muscles—now, at any rate, in thia 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 womaTl stood, as if struck powerless to move or cry out, one hand pressed to her heart, in the deep shadow cast by the verandah. Philip Muir was a strong man, too. but the older man'a grip was like a vice against which he struggled in vain; Sarrol a face a.nd gleaming eyes, close to his, vindictive and sinister, were alight with a sudden murderous glint, as they swayod in their silent struggle by the dark opening of the long window. Suddenly exerting all his brute strength, Sa.rrol flung the other man j off, hurled Philip away from him savagely into the unlighted room; and the younger ¡ pan went down with a thud, the sound deadened by the heavy Turkey carpet, his cheek striking against the leg of the oak writing table. I'll mark you. you philanderer, you thief of a. man's- honour!" broke from Sarroi following his fallen antagonist into the room, the darkness of which suddenly swallowed the two men up from Beatrice's  I ternfied eyes. It was darker to her eyes than it was to the two men within the room, each swayed I now by that one blind, savage, primitive instinct of passion to kill; less dark to them because of the moonlight in tne 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 tbe men fell on something lying on the table; something hard and heavy on which his fingers tightened. A blackthorn stick that Owen 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, liD epite, of her desperate eagerness to know, the woman out on the verandah had no jower over her limbs; she might have been turned, to atone; all her senses seemed absorbed in the one faculty of hearing. She stood listening. What was happening 1n the room hidden from her eye-a 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 carpet seemed to absorb. Then silence utter and absolute. The spell of dreadful inertia that had paralysed her seemed suddenly to snap. Instinctively Beatrice Sarroi 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 and sinister, like a grave!" 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 as she entered, someone whom she could not see. Which man—which man? To Beatrice Sarrol's overstrung nerves, that played strange tricks with her semses, the room with its darkness and stillness and the tragic secret it held seemed sud- denly to fill with innumerable whisperings. Mie 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- sciously. Her fumbling, impatient fingers telt for the little silver box, found it. Which man had given th-a -t horrible cry? Beatrice Sarrol struck a match; the scratching sound of the match head on the box rasped 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 waves, into the eea of darkness beyond Which, man? Standing by the table, his passion burnt out, shaking in every limb, evidently making a desperate fight to master the mad impulse to give way to blind terror, afraid ) even to speak 1-est, his voice should run out of his control to panic, was Philip Muir; and at her feet lay her husband, one arm Lent under him, a terrible discoloured bruise, almost a pulp, on the left temple, r; here the heavy blackthorn stick had descended in a crashing blow, the dead eyea storing up at her. The match died out between her fingers. How she succeeded in strangling the cry that rose in her throat Beatrice never knew. "Philil)--Philip, 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; felt the puise, 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 he'll come round prosontly-he can't be dead! He was 6tronger than I more like a madman and he meantI midchief- I believe he meant to kill me a.nd I had to defend myself. But he can't be de-&d-I won't believe that he's I dead!" The breathlessly rapid, s.taccato words,! hardly articulate, were quite unlike Philip Muir's voice. "Hush! Don't speak, Philip I" came the woman's insfotemt, agonised whisper of caution through the darkness. Pity was in her voice: pity for the living, and perhaps a sudden, jjeep, remorseful pity for the dead whom in that moment ot weakness and temptation she had WTonged —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 xemaina now is to save you from the consequences I Listen!" Through the deep shadow of the room Boatrice Sarroi stole across to the door; ytood list,ening feverishly. [TO BE CONTINUED TO-MOEROW.]

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