Front matter (continued 3)

He spoke for forty-six minutes, and concluded a clever and eloquent defence with the following words:

"Gentlemen of the jury, were I not convinced myself of the innocence of the prisoner at the bar, I could not stand before you and ask you for a verdict that will place his own sweetheart in the position in which he now stands. But my learned friend who represents the Crown, heard the confession of Ruby Strode as it fell from her lips in the solicitors' office only last night. Had he listened as I did to her ready answers to every question asked—seen her evident sincerity and heard her straightforward account of the whole transaction, he would, I feel certain, never have allowed this case to go on. I only ask you for justice for an innocent man, and I leave him in your hands, gentlemen, confident that he will receive it."

There was a burst of applause as he sat down—instantly suppressed by the ushers—and then the Judge summed up.

He reviewed the evidence very shortly, and pointed out to the jury that it was for them to consider these statements and to say if they believed the affidavit put up for the defence. If they believed this, then it was their duty to acquit the prisoner. On the other hand, if they did not believe the confession therein to be true, if they believed the contention of the prosecution that it was made under the motive of affection for the prisoner, then they must, on the evidence before them, find the prisoner guilty.

On the point of law there was no difficulty. Fraud had been committed, and it was for them to say if it had been committed by the prisoner or not. He warned them against allowing their sympathies to interfere with their judgment, but at the same time he must remind them that if any uncertainty existed in their minds, they were bound to give the prisoner the benefit of any such doubt.

CHAPTER XII.

MARRIAGE IS IMPOSSIBLE.

Directly the Judge had finished his summing-up, the jury rose and left the Court to consider their verdict.

The general opinion was that they would not take much time before coming to a decision, and so quite half the people remained in their places. A subdued hum of conversation arose; women surreptitiously powdered their faces, others fanned themselves. In the corridors outside barristers discussed the case.

"Guilty, right enough!" the majority agreed. A few wiseacres shook their heads. They were not so sure. Certainly Rupert Dale's attitude had been that of a guilty man, so much so that to those who had had a wide experience of criminals he seemed innocent.

It's the guilty man who invariably assumes the mask of innocence to perfection.

It was in vain that both counsel and solicitors tried to persuade Ruby Strode to leave the Court. She was as white as death and looked as if at any moment she might faint. Her friend Iris Colyer sat by her side and did her best to comfort and console her. But Ruby seemed scarcely conscious of her surroundings. Feeling had almost deserted her.

She was possessed by just one thought. She had failed to save her lover. Twice she had tried to save him. And each time she had failed.

Now she had been prepared to take his place in the dock—to suffer for the crime she had committed. And they would not believe her. The fools would not believe her when she confessed she was guilty. In her own mind she had proved her guilt. She sat huddled up, her hands clasped between her knees, her eyes fixed on the door through which the jury had disappeared. But ever and again she muttered to herself, and those sitting near her caught fragments of what she said:

"I alone am guilty. I did it."

Once Robert Despard strolled across to her side, and the solicitors made way for him. He made a few conventional remarks in the usual strain. Ruby took no notice. But suddenly he said something which caused her to sit upright and look at him with flaming eyes, eyes in which contempt and hatred shone.

"You could have saved him!" she hissed under her breath. "I believe you know I am guilty. You came into his room that afternoon, and you saw the cheque in my hand. I felt then, for the moment, that you had some suspicion."

Despard smiled and laid his hand on hers. "I never suspected you. I never could!"

She snatched her hand away. "I believe you want him to go to prison because——"

She faltered, and for a moment her white cheeks grew scarlet. Despard knew what she was going to say, and he could not resist being brutal.

"Because I loved you?" He shrugged his shoulders. "Yes, I was very fond of you once, Ruby. But you rejected and snubbed me, remember. That's all over now, and I've found some one who will be kinder than you were. No, I shouldn't have much cared if you had gone to prison." He lowered his voice: "Though on the whole it will suit my book better if Rupert is found guilty. As a matter of fact, I suppose you're both in the same boat, and if justice were done, both of you would suffer."

"And you called yourself his friend!" she cried. "If Rupert goes to prison I swear you shall pay; for I know, if you had chosen to speak, you could have saved him, and helped to prove the truth of my confession."

Despard rose, and picking up his velour hat, brushed it carelessly.

"I shouldn't get so excited; if you raise your voice like that you'll be turned out of Court." He bowed mockingly. "In case we don't meet again, Miss Strode, good-bye."

"We shall meet again one day!" she said between her teeth.

Then her head sank forward; she clasped her hands together again between her knees and resumed her former attitude.

Half an hour passed; three-quarters. The tension became unbearable. She heard a man laugh in the corridor. Behind her a couple of barristers were telling a funny story under their breath. In the gallery a woman dropped her fan; and as she happened to be good-looking, there was quite a little commotion to recover it. And her lover's honour, his freedom, his very life, lay in the balance. She swept the Court fearlessly with her eyes; half of these people had come out of curiosity, as they would go to the theatre. Not one of them cared.

She knew what it was to hate, for she hated them now—heartless and selfish. An hour passed. A minute later there was a sudden commotion. People began to flock into the Court. The door on which Ruby's eyes had been fixed opened, and the jury slowly returned to their places. The usher shouted for order, and the Judge resumed his seat.

Silence came. A pin could have been heard fall. Then the Judge leaned slightly forward towards the Foreman of the Jury. The little formalities that took place now seemed needlessly cruel. Ruby scarcely heard what was said—she was waiting for one of two words: Guilty, or Not Guilty!

It seemed a long pause before the Foreman answered the final question addressed to him by the Judge. The answer was what every one expected:

"We find the prisoner guilty, my Lord."

Ruby Strode staggered to her feet; but the solicitors who had been watching her seized her arm and dragged her down. The Judge passed sentence: Five years' penal servitude.

The silence was broken, and straightway the Judge rose. A few people were surprised at the severity; others said that Dale thoroughly deserved it. For the public the excitement was over, the show was finished, and in the hurry to get outside into the fresh air, no one noticed Ruby Strode. She had risen to her feet and stretched out her arms imploringly to the retreating figure of the Judge.

"My Lord, I did it! I swear to God I did it!" Then she swayed, lost consciousness, would have fallen had not Mr. Marshall stepped forward and caught her.

"Poor girl!" he whispered, as with the assistance of one of the ushers he carried her off to another room. "Poor girl! how she must have loved him. By gad! they say women haven't as much pluck as men!"

* * * * *

The result was brought to John Dale in Charing Cross Hospital by Mr. Redway. The kindly solicitor broke the bad news as best he could. He knew it was no use beating about the bush or trying to deceive the old man. There was nothing he could do, nothing he could say to alleviate the blow. He could only tell him, and in a gentle pressure of the hand try to convey his deep sympathy—and then leave him.

Dale said nothing. He prepared himself for the worst, but the news for the moment was almost more than he could bear. He covered his face, so that none should see it.

Fate could deal him no more crushing blow. His son—his first-born—his only son!

He prayed that death would come and take him, since there was nothing left to live for.

It was so Sir Reginald Crichton a few hours later found him and obtained permission to sit by his side until late into the night. He knew words were useless; but the old man was alone in London, apparently without a friend, and he felt that he could not leave him alone in the great hospital.

"You—why are you here?" John Dale asked at last. "You whom we have wronged so grievously."

"I, too, am a father," Sir Reginald replied, bending over him. "I also have one son who is the apple of my eye. This thing might have happened to him, Mr. Dale—to my boy. That's why I am here. We have got to share this thing together."

Then for the first time tears shone in Dale's eyes and ran down his cheeks. He tried to speak, but the poor lips trembled and quivered.

"Your son—is a—gentleman. He could never do anything—mean, Sir Reginald."

"One never knows," Crichton replied. "Your boy must have been sorely tempted—if he did it."

Dale raised himself in his bed, and dashed the tears from his eyes. "He did it," he cried fiercely, "and he must suffer for his sin. It is just he should pay the penalty. I'm an old man; it won't be easy to hold up my head and face the world now; but I'll do it. I'll fight still!"

"That's right!" Sir Reginald said cheerily. "You still have something to fight for.... There's your daughter, Mr. Dale."

Dale started and dropped back on the pillows, hiding his face again. His daughter Marjorie. Sir Reginald's son loved her—and she loved him.

A great wave of hatred for his son swept over him. Not only had he ruined his father, but he would break his sister's heart and ruin her life.

"I shall have to leave town to-morrow," Sir Reginald said as he took his leave. "But I understand you will be fit to be moved in a few days' time. Mr. Despard wished to be remembered to you, and said he would look in and see you to-morrow; and when you're fit to travel he says he'll take you down to Devonshire himself. He made a proposal to me directly the trial was over which I must say does him great credit. I am not at liberty to say what this thing was, but I hope you will be able to accept it—if not for your own, then for your daughter's sake. We have got to consider her now, Mr. Dale, before ourselves. She is young, and life is still sweet to her."

Dale shook his head. "Nothing seems to matter now, Sir Reginald. I can't conceive what proposal Mr. Despard has to make. He is my son's friend, not mine. But as you justly say, I must consider Marjorie. For her I must live and fight in spite of the shame that has fallen upon me."

Sir Reginald nodded. "That's right. I think you will find Mr. Despard means well, and sincerely wishes to help you—for Rupert's sake."

He turned to go—then stopped. "Have you written or telegraphed to Marjorie—the result of the trial I mean?"

Dale shook his head: "She's alone. If she were to hear from the lips of strangers——"

Crichton nodded. "I tell you what I'll do; I'll wire to Jim the first thing to-morrow morning and tell him to go over and break the news. They're old friends and playmates. It will be better than if she sees it in the newspapers or gets it from the gossips——"

But Dale started up in his bed and stretched out his hands. "No, you mustn't do that, Sir Reginald. You mustn't do it. Your boy must never see my daughter again—never!"

"Why not?" Sir Reginald asked, laying his hand on the old man's shoulder.

Dale looked at him with haggard eyes. "Don't you know? Your son is in love with Marjorie. He wants to make her his wife!"

Sir Reginald Crichton started and turned away: "My God!" he said under his breath. "I never suspected that! You're right, Dale, I'm afraid they must never meet again. I'm sorry—but it's impossible. Any thought of marriage. Utterly impossible now!"

CHAPTER XIII.

THE IRONY OF FATE.

Rupert found that four weeks in prison was a lifetime.

His experience at Holloway before the trial helped him not at all; though he remembered now, that at the time, it had shocked and horrified him. Yet the cruelty and ugliness had all been on the surface. Looking back on it now, after four weeks of the real thing, with the eyes of a professional, he saw the humorous as well as the dramatic side of it.

If Holloway had been under the direction of the manager of a Drury Lane melodrama it could not have been run on lines better calculated to excite the common mind, and arouse the curiosity and the mirth of the vulgar. It had all been very cheap and dramatic. The great gates, barred and bolted in primeval fashion; the uniformed warders and wardresses, obviously chosen for their stature and their lack of humanity. The clanging of bells and the rattling of great bunches of keys. The herding together of guilty and innocent in pen-like places. The coming and going of numerous officials.

The real thing was very different. It had not got the glamour of Holloway, or its melodramatic atmosphere with a dash of pantomime. There was an atmosphere of "Abandon hope all ye who enter here," about Wormwood Scrubbs, though the interior of the prison was not so depressing as the exterior—the Scrubbs itself.

In about a week's time Rupert began to realise, not only where he was, but what he was. The warders, neither good, bad, nor indifferent, merely machines wrapped up in red tape, did their best to help him in this.

The first thing he realised was that he was no longer a man, but a cypher, number three hundred and eighty-one. He was glad he had not a name any longer. The only drawback was that, though unknown in the prisons, he would remain Rupert Dale to the world outside.

The next thing that dawned upon him was, that he was a criminal. A jury of his fellow-countrymen had found him guilty. There was nothing to grumble at in that!

The difficulty lay in behaving like a guilty man. He had a curious feeling when eventually he was exercised with a batch of other convicts and attended Divine Service, that they resented him. In spite of having his head shaved, in spite of wearing a costume—a cross between a clown's and one beloved by music-hall comedians—he knew he did not look guilty. He was hall-marked with the broad arrow, but it took more than four weeks for the iron of prison life to enter his soul and make him really feel like a criminal; at times wish to be a criminal—until a curious feeling eventually came to him that he really was one—that he only wanted to be free again to prove the fact and show himself in his real colours.

But for the first week or two he found himself without emotions, without feelings. Things had turned out as he wished them to. He was satisfied.

The woman he loved was free! Even though she had accused herself no one believed her. What his father thought or felt he did not know. He did not want to think—yet. Perhaps nature was kind, and caused the reaction of the excitement and strain of the trial to act as an anæsthetic to his brain.

At the periodical visits of his warders, when his food was brought him, when he had to clean out his cell or make his bed, or when he was taken out to exercise, he found himself quite unconsciously speaking to them, trying to enter into conversation. Silence was the first blow that struck him. After five days he began to wonder how he was going to manage five years of it. If it were enforced it would probably send him mad.

He tried talking to himself, but that frightened him, and the one-sided conversation soon became brainless. He welcomed the visits of the chaplain until he found that that official considered it his duty to do all the talking. And, moreover, he did not want to talk about anything but the salvation of Rupert's soul. And as the unfortunate man had for years been dodging in and out of prison cells like a ferret in and out of rabbit holes trying to catch souls that were not at home, he had lost all real interest in the game and had fallen back on quoting texts in an unconvincing tone of voice. Certainly he called Three-eighty-one his "dear brother," but Rupert did not believe he meant it, and told him so. And so the chaplain's visits were cut short. The doctor was the only cheery human being in the prison.

At first Rupert was exercised alone; as soon as he joined his gang he was slowly initiated into the conversation of eyes, lips, and gestures—the latter by far the most effective and subtle: a movement of a muscle of the face, the slightest elevation or depression of the shoulders, the crook of a finger, or even the pretence of stumbling as a man walked.

The desire to learn this conversation saved him at the critical moment of his incarceration. Hour after hour as he lay alone in his prison cell he thought it out, drew imaginary pictures or diagrams on the floor. Like a dumb man every sense became preternaturally sharpened. He learnt how to speak with his eyes as well as his lips. He learnt, too, how to hide his eyes when he was watched or wished to be dumb.

He took an interest in the most extraordinary or trivial things. A spider spun its web across two bars of the window in his cell. He took more interest in that spider's larder than probably did the spider itself; it was with mingled feelings of joy and horror that he saw the first fly caught—his feelings were so equally divided between the miserable captive and the other hungry insect. Once the spider dropped down with a silken thread right on his foot. Rupert held his breath, not daring to move a muscle, and he experienced the first thrill since he had been in prison when the tiny thing eventually crawled up his leg and ran across his hand!

A day later, when he cleaned out his cell, he was told to wipe away the spider's web. He nearly refused, and the tears actually swam in his eyes as he obeyed.

Under his breath he cursed the warder. Had the man no feelings; was he indeed a brute in human shape!

For forty-eight hours afterwards he waited for the return of the spider, waited for it to climb down on its silken thread and run across his hand again: but in vain.

One day as he exercised with his gang in the prison yard he noticed a man who once or twice before had been his leader in the dreary round—a young fellow with dark eyes, and protruding jaws that had evidently been broken in a fight. He noticed that he was talking to him. A spasmodic movement of his hands told Rupert that he wanted to say something.

As they turned Rupert caught his eye and signalled that he was ready to receive a message. He was not yet an adept in this new art of conversation, but his senses were alert and his instincts already preternaturally sharpened. He concentrated his whole mind on his fellow convict, and, perhaps unconsciously, he read his thoughts even before he understood the message which hand and foot, head and shoulders sent with lightning-like rapidity.

Translated, it meant that some of them were going to be removed from Wormwood Scrubbs prison.

"Good," Rupert signalled back. He found himself grinning until he read another signal of "Shut up!" from the blue-eyed convict.

The change might be for the worse, but that did not trouble Rupert. There was to be a change! Perhaps a journey somewhere. Outside the prison walls. The silence would be broken.

He wanted to shout aloud with joy. The silence would be broken! They would go out into the streets. The streets where there were cabs and omnibuses, and great drays with horses in them, and men and women hurrying to and fro; and children playing. They might even go a journey; in a train through fields and forests. They would see blue sky and perhaps sunshine.

He thought of nothing else for the rest of the day; he dreamed of it at night. Next morning hope alternately rose and fell in his heart, refusing to die throughout the day's routine. He continually built pictures of the journey he might take. So far, the effect of prison had been to make him like a child again. Time had ceased to exist; he took no count of days, but the news of the change made him wonder how long he had been at Wormwood Scrubbs. A week, a month, a year?——

It was curious how little he had thought of those he loved. At first, when he had been taken away from the Old Bailey, he had been temporarily overcome by remorse. The night after the trial he had suffered agonies. Yet curiously enough after that night, thoughts of the outside world and those he knew in it had not troubled him much. He had been a coward in so much as he had been afraid to think of his father or his sister—or Ruby.

For he could not speak of them. He could not speak of them to a living soul. He could not write to them. If a letter had been permitted it would have been read and censored. So, not daring to write, he dared not think. Nature had been kind, and for weeks his brain had been anæsthetised by the deadly routine, the bare walls of his prison, the sudden and terrible change of environment.

This happens to some natures. Thoughts are checked, memory sleeps, but there always comes a rude awakening. To other men it is the first few weeks of imprisonment that are the most terrible. A few never survive; their minds are wrecked, morally and spiritually they are ruined; then their suffering comes to an end.

Rupert's awakening came one grey morning when at daybreak he found himself with half a dozen of his fellow convicts paraded in the yard, and, after a breakfast more generous than usual, marched outside the walls of Wormwood Scrubbs and conveyed in a van to an unknown destination—which proved to be Waterloo Station.

The thrill of joy he experienced when he found himself standing on the platform surrounded by familiar sights, hearing familiar sounds, his nostrils inhaling familiar smells, was almost instantly followed by a sickening sense of fear. Fear of the unknown!

He glanced at the men by his side all wearing the convict dress—the badge of shame. It suddenly struck him how funny they looked. He wondered if he cut as ridiculous a figure. Perhaps there might be some one on the platform whom he knew, some one who would recognise him.

He stared with hungry eyes at the few people who passed. Forgetting what he was, he yearned to see a familiar face. And presently he realised that he and the other convicts were being stared at by men who were free.

One man made a ribald jest. Others laughed. A few men looked with dull curiosity. A woman shuddered and turned away.

Rupert bit his lip. It was not nice. Especially when he realised the handcuffs. He squared his shoulders and held up his head. He was not ashamed. There was nothing to be ashamed of.

A newspaper boy passed; on his tray the morning newspapers and the illustrated magazines. Half a dozen pairs of yearning eyes followed him. Probably each convict would have sold his soul for a copy of the Morning Post or the Daily Chronicle. Opposite to where they were lined up, the station wall was covered with posters and play bills and advertisements.

The first thing Rupert read was the "Ingenue Theatre," a poster staring at him in six-inch letters. His jaws dropped, and he blinked his eyes to drive away the mist that rose before them.

Then the train backed into the station. The warder in charge gave a sharp order. As Rupert swung round in obedience to the command he saw another poster facing him, the Financial Times, and beneath in huge letters one word—"RADIUM."

He started, a frown knitted his brows. For a moment he forgot what he was, where he was. That one word had conjured up the past, swept the fog from his brain.

"Now, 381, what are you about?"

He pulled himself together with an effort and rolled into a third-class compartment of the train with his fellow convicts.

Radium! The word seemed to be burning into his brain. He said it aloud and received a sharp reprimand from the warder seated on his left by the window.

There rose before his eyes a vision of Dartmoor, the disused tin-mine on his father's farm; Robert Despard and he groping in the semi-blackness up to their knees in water.... Their discovery of pitch-blende—and Despard's belief that, in that old worthless mine, there might lie hidden a fortune.

A fortune for his father and his sister. His father whom he had ruined and shamed. And his sister!

Again he blinked his eyes, driving away the mist before them. He found himself staring straight at the convict facing him. The man was talking to him. He saw the fingers of his handcuffed hands moving stealthily. He saw his half-closed eyes contracting and expanding. He answered:

"Yes?"

"Dartmoor! Princetown Prison," was the reply he received.

Rupert lay back and closed his eyes. He might have guessed. It was the irony of fate. They were taking him home, back to his own land, to Dartmoor.

To Princetown Prison. The great monument of granite that broods over the valley of the Dart, from whose barred windows, if a man could gaze, he would see Blackthorn Farm ... and the disused tin-mine with its hidden fortune waiting to be claimed.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE PARTING OF THE WAYS.

The words Sir Reginald had spoken to John Dale when he visited him at Charing Cross hospital after the trial, returned fairly frequently to his mind for many hours afterwards when he reached his own home on Dartmoor.

"This thing might have happened to my boy." He recalled, too, the old yeoman's reply when he reminded Sir Reginald that his son was a gentleman—and therefore could not do a mean thing.

The Dales came of old yeoman stock; they could trace their family back as far, probably further, than the Crichtons. Old Dale was a gentleman right enough, and Crichton knew it would be impossible for him to do anything mean, much less dishonourable. Indeed, he had been the first to warn Sir Reginald that his daughter must never meet the baronet's son again.

Sir Reginald did not find it easy to believe that Jim had fallen in love with Marjorie Dale. He had to presume, like all parents, that he had been blind. His boy had never been in the habit of keeping anything from him.

Since Jim had grown up and become a man, their relationship had been that of brothers or dear comrades rather than father and son. Jim had always bluntly confessed to the few scrapes and peccadilloes into which he had got, and his tendency had been to exaggerate rather than diminish the few mistakes he had made in life.

Probably he had not considered falling in love a mistake. But it is—a grievous one, to the elderly, or to those who have fallen in, been half-drowned, and crawled out again.

Even had this terrible tragedy of the altering of the cheque never occurred, Sir Reginald knew he would have found it very difficult to agree to any engagement between his son and the daughter of John Dale.

First of all, Jim was much too young to think of marriage. Secondly, when he did marry, it would be some one in his own cast, occupying the same rank in life or a higher one than he. For though Crichton kept his youth, he had already forgotten that he married for love, and, mirabile dictu, had been happy. Thirdly, Jim had apparently been wedded to his profession. He had already done excellent work in the Flying Corps, and his name was down for early promotion. He had received both public and official recognition for the services he had rendered to aerial navigation.

Sir Reginald had meant to tackle him at once on his return home and tell him, what he felt sure Jim would have already realised, that it would be impossible for him to see Marjorie again, and, in future, they could not even be friends, much less lovers. He thought the task would be quite an easy one. Of course, he would be sorry for the girl, but she was still young, and would easily find a suitable husband later on in her own class; for Crichton was old-fashioned enough to still believe that marriage was the only suitable profession for a respectable female.

But directly he saw Jim he realised that Rupert Dale's conviction had been a serious blow to him. As in duty bound, he walked across to Blackthorn Farm to sympathise with Marjorie, to give her the latest news of her father, and reassure her in case she should be feeling anxious as to his health. He knew as little about women as he did about the Bible. One had brought him into the world, and he believed the other kept him there; but he had never thought it necessary to go deeper into the subject. Both women and Bibles were necessary to the State. The place for both was the home and the church, and he had a good Protestant's profound distrust of the man who had too close an intimacy with, or quoted, either, except in the secret precincts of his own castle or the local cathedral.

So, to his surprise, Marjorie greeted him calmly, with a smile, and gave him a cool, steady hand. He said the conventional thing in a conventional tone of voice, but she showed no signs of hysteria, neither did tears once rise to her eyes.

"I expect your father will be back in two or three days at the latest," he said. "Mr. Despard—one of—er—your brother's friends, is going to bring him down."

He had nearly said one of your late brother's friends, but he checked himself in time. Of course, it would have been far better if Rupert had died, and Sir Reginald secretly hoped he would never live to come out of prison.

"Why is Mr. Despard bringing father home?" Marjorie asked. "Perhaps he was one of Rupert's friends, but he is practically a stranger to us both."

"He has been exceedingly kind," Sir Reginald explained. "He is the only man your father knows in London at present. And I may say that he has given practical proof of his kindness and sympathy. He has done something I should like to have done myself—I won't say anything more about it now, but I will only hint that as long as you choose to remain at Blackthorn Farm no one will disturb you.... The property is your own again—for the mortgage will be redeemed."

Marjorie said nothing, but Sir Reginald noticed that a frown puckered her forehead.

"I think Mr. Despard was very glad of the excuse your father's accident gave him to come down here again." He was trying to be tactful, and failing.

With a woman's quick instinct Marjorie divined the hidden meaning of what he said. "Mr. Despard is not a man whose acquaintance I care to continue. I don't think father was impressed with him, either."

"One can't always judge from appearances. When I first saw him I was certainly not prepossessed in his favour. But he is showing great solicitude for your father in his hour of trial. He is an exceedingly kind-hearted man, and—I know he is looking forward to seeing you again, Miss Dale."

It was a feeble effort, and Sir Reginald felt ashamed of it directly afterwards. He held out his hand.

"If I can be of any service to you please let me know. I'm afraid you may find your position here a little difficult—but I'm sure we shall do our best to help you to forget the—er—the sorrow that has fallen upon you."

Marjorie took his hand and held it. Then, raising her head, she looked straight into his eyes. "Tell me, please, do you believe my brother guilty?"

Sir Reginald cleared his throat. It was an extraordinary, a stupid question. Had he not felt so sorry for the girl, he would have been irritated.

"Naturally, you haven't read the newspapers—the evidence. I'm afraid his guilt was proved beyond doubt. Of course, he must have been sorely tempted. The jury would not have found him guilty, my dear young lady, if they had not been absolutely certain of the justice of their verdict."

"I'm not asking you what the jury thought. I want to know what you think. For I know that he's innocent. He did not do it."

Sir Reginald pressed her hand tightly. He did not know what to say. That was the worst of women, they were so illogical. Rupert Dale had been found guilty by a jury of his own countrymen, therefore, of course, he was guilty.

"Why do you say you know he's innocent? You can't have proof. If you had——"

A curious smile parted Marjorie's lips. She looked at Sir Reginald with sorrow in her eyes, almost pity.

"How strange men are! They only use their reason, never their instinct. Evidence has hanged many an innocent man, Sir Reginald, hasn't it? Instinct—which for some reason women have cultivated and men have neglected—tells me that my brother is innocent. I know. You will never know."

Sir Reginald shrugged his shoulders. It was impossible to say anything. Argument would be useless and unkind. He pressed her hand again and was turning away when she stopped him.

"I also know why you came over to see me to-day."

Sir Reginald flushed. "I came to——"

"To tell me that you will not allow an engagement between myself and Jim. He has told you, or you have found out, that we love one another."

Sir Reginald dropped her hand. His body stiffened. He looked at her sternly. "Your father told me. My boy has said nothing. This is the first time in his life he has ever had a secret from me. I suppose you wished it kept a secret?"

She shook her head.

"I haven't spoken to him yet," Sir Reginald continued, his voice hardening. "But, of course, as I hope you will realise, it's impossible, utterly impossible, that there can be any engagement between you. You must not see each other again. I'm very sorry, Miss Dale; but leaving this unfortunate affair of your brother's out of the question altogether, I should have looked with strong disapproval on any engagement of marriage, however remote. Jim is much too young——"

"To love?" she interjected quickly. "Surely youth is the time for love!" Then she gave a bitter laugh. "But, of course, you've forgotten."

"My boy has his future to consider, his profession. He has only just started in life. Surely you must see, Miss Dale, that any alliance between you would ruin his career for ever."

She bowed her head. "To be married to a girl whose brother is a convict. To marry the sister of the man who robbed her husband's father. Yes, I quite see it's impossible."

She looked at him proudly and there was defiance in her eyes. "I am sure my father would never permit it, Sir Reginald, and as I am his only daughter and not yet of age, I suppose I should have to obey him. Yet, surely, it's for Jim to say what he'll do. You haven't spoken to him yet?"

"Not yet. I haven't had an opportunity."

Sir Reginald was beginning to feel uncomfortable. "Has he said anything to you—since the result of the trial, I mean?"

"As to our future? Not a word," she replied. "But it's for him to decide. I shall not try to persuade him either way, though if I thought it would be better for him were we never to meet again, I might be persuaded to give way even in opposition to his wishes. I can't say yet. I haven't had time to think.... I've suffered, Sir Reginald. Rupert and I were more to each other than most brothers and sisters, perhaps. But Jim is more to me than father or mother. He's all the world to me."

"Yes, yes, of course. But——"

"It's for he and me to decide," Marjorie said again. "This blow that has fallen, this shame, which I suppose attaches to my name, affects only him and me. Not you nor my father, not you nor anyone else in the world. We two must settle it, no one else."

She bowed gravely, and Sir Reginald turned away without speaking again. There was nothing more to be said. He did not go straight home, he took a long walk. His wishes had never been opposed, and he had not expected opposition now.

What would his son say?

Directly after luncheon he broached the subject by asking when his leave was up.

"In about a week's time, guv'nor! Why, are you in a hurry to get rid of me?"

Sir Reginald stood with his back to the great oak fireplace in the large panel dining-room, and with fingers that were not quite steady lit a cigar.

"When I bid Dale good-bye at Charing Cross Hospital before leaving London he told me your secret, Jim. I was sorry to hear it from a stranger's lips. You've never kept anything from me before."

Jim nodded. "I'm sorry, sir. It was a secret I'll admit. Love is different—to other things, and I wanted to be sure of myself and sure of her."

"That's all right. But this unfortunate affair has, of course, altered everything. I saw Marjorie this morning. I went over to sympathise with her and see if we could do anything to help her. She broached the subject."

"About our marriage?"

Sir Reginald looked at the end of his cigar. "There can be no question of marriage now."

"Why not?"

"My boy!"

There was a long silence. Father and son looked into one another's eyes. The father was the first to lower his gaze.

"I love her, sir."

"Yes, of course." Sir Reginald coughed. "I'm sorry for you. But you're young. You—you don't know your own mind."

Again a short silence. "Has anything I ever did at school or after I left school, at Sandhurst or at home or since I joined the Flying Corps, suggested to you that I don't know my own mind? That I am fickle or changeable?"

"No." Sir Reginald was not used to being questioned by his son. He was off his guard.

"I've never shown myself a coward in any way, father?"

The old man started, came a step nearer to his boy and looked at him again. And his eyes lighted as he smiled. "Good heavens, Jim, you a coward! My dear boy!"

"I don't mean just physically," Jim continued. "No normal, healthy man's afraid, of course. I suppose it's the danger of my job that gives it a zest. I've never shown myself to be the other sort of coward, either, I hope?"

Sir Reginald just held out his hand.

"Wouldn't it be cowardly, then, to desert the woman I love just at the moment she most wants me? I don't mean that she just wants my love, but she wants my protection. The protection my name can give her. We have a clean record, we Crichtons, haven't we? I shall be smirching it if I desert the woman I promised to marry just because her brother's turned out a bad egg."

"A convict. A felon."

"Yes, yes, but it would make no difference had he been a murderer."

Sir Reginald turned away. His cigar fell into the grate, he leaned his arms on the mantelshelf and buried his face between his hands.

"What do you propose to do?" he asked eventually.

"To announce our engagement at once. Or, if that decision does not meet with her or your approval, to wait a little while and then announce it. I've given her my word, and I'm going to keep it. I'm sorry, father, if it hurts you, but you must see that I'm right."

"I don't see it!" Sir Reginald cried fiercely. Then, after a few moments' silence, "Do you know what it means if you persist in marrying her? It means your career will be ended. You will have to send in your papers."

"I don't think so."

Sir Reginald turned round. "There can be no question. Do you mean to say if you married a convict's sister you would be tolerated in any regiment, in any decent society?"

Jim sighed. "I don't know. Perhaps you're right. After all, aviation is not confined to the army. I can still do my job. The world's a big place, father."

He stood by Sir Reginald's side and laid his hand on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry if I've hurt you, dad. But, leaving my feelings out of the question, putting aside society, even love, I feel it's my duty to keep my word, my duty to protect the woman who loves me."

Sir Reginald nodded his head. He looked at his son through a mist. "Have you thought of your duty to me? Your duty to society, then—to the State?"

"The fact that I love will not prevent me doing all three. The woman I love is straight, clean, honourable. She has done nothing of which to be ashamed. If because of this woman you and society and the State refuse my services"—he shrugged his shoulders—"as I said, the world is large, father. I'm young, and I can fight."

The old man held out his arms. "You're young and you'll forget. She'll forget, too, Jim. My boy, you don't know what you're doing. Why, she's only a girl. Inside of a year, she'll forget it. There are lots of men——" He stopped, hesitated, and looked at his son again. "Why, that fellow, Mr. Despard, who was down here a little while ago, I know he's in love with her——"

Jim stopped him with a gesture. "Don't say any more, father. I don't think you quite understand. I've made up my mind. I've given my word and I'm going to keep it. I'll do everything in my power not to hurt you. But nothing, no one, will come between the woman I love and me."

Sir Reginald Crichton dropped into a chair and sat huddled up, staring across the room. Jim stood by his side and put his arm around his shoulder. A long time they waited, but neither of them spoke. Each knew there was nothing more to be said.

Youth and age had travelled side by side for a long time, until at last they had reached the inevitable barrier, the place where the road divided.

The parting of the ways. To try to go on together meant destruction, yet the old man would not believe it. The young man, whose sight was clearer and whose heart was bolder, knew.

CHAPTER XV.

ESCAPE.

The great convict prison of Princetown stands on the wildest part of Dartmoor, nearly fifteen hundred feet above the sea, surrounded by wild, rock-strewn tors, whose heather-covered slopes stretch for miles in every direction. Four main roads cross the moor from Plymouth to Moretonhampstead, and Tavistock to Ashburton. These unite at Two Bridges, where they cross the river Dart.

In the triangle formed by the Plymouth and Tavistock roads which divide at Two Bridges lie the prison farms. This land has been reclaimed from the moors with years of heavy toil by the convicts. Only those who by good behaviour have earned a conduct badge are taken for work on the farms, where they have more freedom and even the chance of stolen conversation. Although the rule of silence is not relaxed, it is impossible for the warders, who stand on guard at every vantage point around the field in which the men are working, to hear; and the art of speaking without moving the lips is practised by every convict.

Nearly six months had passed since Rupert had stepped from the train between two warders on to the tiny platform at Princetown, and for six months the prison walls had hidden from his longing eyes the moor that was his home.

But eventually the day came when he was taken outside the prison walls to work in the fields. As he was marched with his gang through the great gates soon after the sunrise of an early summer morning he remembered with a curious tightening of his heart-strings another morning—he had forgotten how long ago—when he had entered those very gates with his friend Robert Despard.

They had come to look over the prison, to stare at the prisoners.

He choked back a laugh, and the convict marching on his left half turned his head and gave him a look of warning. They had reached the cross roads and the next moment halted outside the gate that led to the fields—for the convicts were never marched further along the road than was necessary.

Rupert looked back at the risk of reprimand. It was at this very spot that his sister Marjorie had left them, going on into Princetown to do the week's shopping—and to buy herself a present with the money Rupert had given her!

He stared dry-eyed along the broad highway. Tears never dimmed his eyes now, as they had done at first.

Reaction had come long ago. He had gone through the fire and had come out hardened. For a little while his sufferings had been unbearable. He had prayed for death. Even his love for Ruby Strode had not been sufficient to give him a hold on life.

In the great convict prison day and night had been merged into one. There had been no break to the dreadful monotony and the everlasting silence. Time had not been composed of days and nights, but of hours; hours of minutes, minutes of seconds—and each second had been an eternity.

Part of his torture had been in thinking of the sufferings of those he loved. Of the woman who had tried to save him, and whose great love had brought him to this pass; of his father and sister, who, perhaps, would never hold up their heads again, ostracised by the so-called decent people.

He did not even know how they managed to live, whether they had enough money to keep body and soul together. And it was that thought that sometimes nearly drove him mad.

The old man who had sacrificed everything for his sake to make a gentleman of him; his beautiful little sister, who had been standing on the threshold of life with the dawn of love in her heart. He had robbed her, too, of life and of love.

Over and over again he had pictured Marjorie and his father sitting in the old kitchen of the little farmhouse alone, afraid even to look at one another, afraid to talk. Shunned by all their neighbours. Poverty facing them, perhaps starvation, the farm going to rot and ruin before their eyes. And yet, had they but known, a fortune waited for them in that old, disused tin-mine. No one knew anything about it but his friend, Robert Despard.

His eyes had been opened too late, and he knew what sort of a friend Despard was. He did not even dare hope that the man who had taken their hospitality would play the game and tell John Dale of the vast possibilities that were hidden in the mine on his property. He would keep the knowledge to himself and take advantage of it ... and of Marjorie!—Rupert's sister—whom he had professed to fall in love with.

The convicts were crossing a patch of moorland towards the fields in which they were to work; the soft turf was beneath Rupert's feet, the blue sky above his head, the scent of gorse, already blossoming, in his nostrils. The sweet sounds and sights and scents stirred his blood. He gazed down into the valley across the Dart. There lay Two Bridges, almost a stone's throw away. Beyond, Post Bridge. He almost fancied he could see Blackthorn Farm! Were they still there, his loved ones, ekeing out a lonely, miserable existence, or had shame driven them away, and had the home they owned been taken? With a fortune lying hidden beneath the land!

Sometimes he had wondered whether the story Despard told him about the traces of radium in the pitch-blende had been an hallucination on his part. But long ago, a month or two after his arrival at Princetown, he had made up his mind and sworn a solemn oath that he would wait for a chance of escape. He knew that no convict had ever succeeded in getting right away, but now and then some unfortunate had hidden on the moors for many days before he was captured.

Knowing the country as he did it would be easy for Rupert, if he could make a dash for freedom, to get to Blackthorn Farm, see his father and tell him what lay hidden in the old mine just outside his very door. The place was mortgaged to Sir Reginald, and in that fact lay the one chance that Despard had been unable to either purchase or lease it. He would have to wait until Sir Reginald foreclosed and then buy it from him.

Every week that passed, every day, meant that the chance of the fortune was slipping away from his father. Rupert knew by the time of the year that more than nine months had passed since he had been tried and sentenced. Unless he escaped within the year it would be too late.

It might be too late now, but it was worth the risk. To get out from the prison cell, or from the great walls that surrounded the prison itself, was practically impossible. His only hope had lain in being sent to work in the quarries or fields.

And now the chance had come. It seemed as if Providence had sent it.

Suddenly the word "Halt!" rang out. Automatically Rupert stopped. The convicts were lined up and their numbers called over. Rupert raised his eyes.

The man on his left was speaking to him again—using his usual signals—a man who had often been his companion in exercise within the prison walls and whose one idea, curiously enough, had also been escape.

Rupert did not look at him. His fists were clenched, every muscle in his body was tight and taut. It required all his self-restraint not to make a dash then and there. He looked up: the blue sky flecked with fleecy clouds was above him, the sweet smell of new-mown hay was everywhere in the air; the soft bleating of sheep and the barking of a dog came faintly down the breeze from Beardown Hill, and along the white dusty road he could see the carrier's cart crawling to Post Bridge.

"No. 381, get on with your work!"

The raucous voice of the warder brought him back to the fact that work was about to commence. As he lifted the hay on his fork he gazed around. The black forms of the warders stood like silhouettes against the sky, their rifles glinting in the sun, a wall as formidable, as impassable, as those of the prison behind him.

By a lucky chance the convict who was raking by him now was his pal, No. 303. He had been plying him with questions of roads, paths, and distances to the nearest railway stations, and only yesterday had offered to make an attempt with him to escape. He was a small man with flaxen hair, which now stood up in a short, stiff stubble like a closely-mown cornfield, and the blue, dreamy eyes, whose kindly glance belied the broad arrows which covered every portion of his costume, made one wonder how this kindly little gentleman had earned the ten years, four of which had failed to stamp the convict brand upon his face. In all their many opportunities for secret conversation he had never confided in Rupert his crime or his name.

He was a mystery, but his willingness and his ready obedience, his haunting smile and kindly blue eyes, had made him a favourite with the warders, who treated him with a lack of harshness that almost amounted to kindness. And as he worked as though his life depended upon it, and always with the same sad smile, he was allowed more freedom of movement within the limits of the warder's chain than any other convict.

Once or twice during the day, whenever they were close together, No. 303 questioned Rupert as to the part of the moorlands they were on, how far from Princetown or Moretonhampstead.

"Keep your eyes open, the chance may come to-day."

But Rupert shook his head. What chance had they, surrounded by armed men, in the broad light of day? True, there was always the chance of a fog, and though in the spring they were fairly common, as the summer advanced their appearance was rare.

To-day the heat was oppressive, and though the sun shone in a cloudless sky a thin, almost imperceptible, haze hung over the tors, and the peaks shone with a curious light. Rupert noted this, for it sometimes was the precursor of a summer fog, and when these fogs did come they appeared suddenly, without warning—and as suddenly disappeared.

In the afternoon a slight breeze, which now and then had blown from the hills, died down. There was not a breath of air. It was with a sigh of relief that even the warders saw the sun sink beneath the bank of grey cloud that had covered the western sky.

The perspiration poured down the convicts' faces as they worked, and the warders began to throw anxious glances behind them where Great Tor had already disappeared in an ominous cloud-bank, which rolled down its slopes like cotton-wool. The field in which they were working was the furthest one from the prison, and just above Two Bridges, which lay at the bottom of a steep slope of rough grass. The field was separated from the road by another one, and a high wall without any gates ran down the whole length of the road.

The head warder pulled out his watch. It was a quarter to five. He glanced at the low, white clouds which the least puff of wind might at any moment bring down and blot out the landscape.

He sounded his whistle, and the convicts at once began to form up and the guard to close in. There was a few moments' delay while the rakes and forks were collected and the waggon brought up from the end of the field.

"Stand next me," No. 303 whispered to Rupert. "Our chance has come. You won't fail me!"

Rupert, whose knowledge of the moor told him that escape was impossible for one as ignorant of his surroundings as poor 303, stooped down to tie his shoelace. "For God's sake, don't be a fool! Summer fogs are no good, I can't——"

"No. 381, stand up! All present, chief."

The chief warder immediately gave the order to march, and the whole party moved up the centre of the field towards the prison, the warders marching beside their charges and the armed guard about thirty paces away extended so as to completely surround them.

Further conversation was rendered impossible. A faint breeze began to stir the still air, bringing a damp mist, which beat in their faces. Rupert, with his eyes fixed on the ground, began to pray that the approaching fog might not blow away. A chance had come—for him. His heart went out in tender sympathy to the poor soul who could not face the long dreary years of his punishment yet to come, while his mind was torn in two by an agony of doubt.

He, who knew the moors so well, did not believe for a moment that, alone and unhampered, he could escape; even if they could hide on the moors for a day or two, capture in the end was inevitable. All he wanted was to get to Blackthorn Farm; but 303 wanted to get clear away.

Within a few minutes telephones and telegraphs would inform every town and village in the two counties, every railway station would be watched, every egress barred; every constable in Devon and Cornwall would block all roads.

Suddenly the voice of the chief warder ordering the convicts to close up broke in upon his thoughts, and looking up he saw that the prison had disappeared—nothing but a white sea of fog lay all around, and even the walls of the field a few yards away were almost invisible! They were only two fields now from the prison, and the gang checked for a moment as the last gate but one was reached.

Rupert was almost the centre of the gang, and he noticed that his own warder, who was just in front, was only just visible in spite of his dark uniform.

As he reached the gate 303 gripped him by the arm, dropped on his knees behind the wall and disappeared. At this moment the chief warder gave the order to halt, and his heart flew into his mouth, for he thought 303's action had been seen. But the sound of some one shouting at the horses, and the chief warder's voice raised in angry question, reassured him.

Without thinking of what he was doing he dropped on his face and crawled rapidly down the side of the wall. At the same moment the order to march was given and the noisy beating of his heart was drowned by the creaking of the waggon as it lumbered past.

He lay perfectly still, flattened against the wall. He wondered why he heard no shot or other indication that they had been seen. The rear guards passed within six feet of him, and when their black forms were swallowed up by the white fog, he realised that their absence from the gang would not be discovered until they reached the prison.

Leaping to his feet he ran along the wall, and almost immediately fell over 303, who was crouching against it.

"Quick, for God's sake follow me!" he whispered. "We must make for Beardown. This fog may blow away at any moment."

They ran like hares; scrambling over the walls, falling into holes, stumbling on rocks, Rupert intent only on reaching Wistman's wood before the fog lifted.

He had nothing to guide him but the knowledge of the direction in which he originally started from the wall and the moorman's instinct to prevent him from travelling in a circle, which is the inevitable fate of every one lost in a fog.

They dropped on to a road, Tavistock Road. "Come on, we are right now!" Rupert cried excitedly.

They scrambled over the wall and raced down the steep hillside. Suddenly they saw the gleam of water below them, bushes and stones appeared. They had left the fog behind, the valley was clear.

As they plunged across the river and breasted the steep hill they saw the blessed fog shutting out Beardown Farm and all the tors above it.

"Quick! we must get up with the fog before we are seen. Thank God, there is no one in sight!"

But poor 303 was no moorman, and he was already dropping behind.

"I can't do it, 381; go on without me!"

Rupert turned back and, taking him by the arm, pulled him down into a little hollow behind a huge furze-bush and laid him on his back.

"You're only winded; we have run over a mile; you'll get your second wind in a minute," he whispered. "But we must not wait here a moment longer than absolutely necessary. If the fog should lift now, we are certain to be taken. I am going to make for Hartland Tor, which is close to my father's house; there is an old, disused mine below the tor in which we can hide for the present."

Boom! A dull explosion echoed across the hills.

"What's that?" exclaimed 303.

"The alarm," Rupert replied. "We have not a moment to lose."

CHAPTER XVI.

"YOU'VE KILLED HIM."

Again the dull boom echoed over the moorland. In a few minutes the hill would be swarming with warders searching for them.

Rupert felt a thrill of excitement. The first thrill he had experienced for many weeks. Curious thoughts and memories flashed through his brain as he raced along shoulder to shoulder with Convict 303, who kept closely to his side in spite of the steep ascent. He remembered as a boy hunting with a pack of harriers which sometimes met at The Hall; he used to ride a rough moorland pony. This thrill of being hunted was somewhat similar to the thrill of hunting. As a boy he had always had a sneaking sympathy with the quarry, and a vague hope, he was always ashamed to express, that it might escape. He understood now. It was far finer to be hunted than to hunt.

"We'll cheat them, No. 303, never fear!" he cried to his comrade. "Keep your pecker up, man!"

"I'm all right," the convict panted; "but I can't keep this pace up for long."

They had entered the thick pall of fog, and presently Rupert stopped in order to regain his breath. They stood close together, touching one another, listening. At first they heard nothing but the sobbing of their own breath, and the beating of their own hearts. And they could see nothing; the blessed fog shut everything out from sight—rocks, walls, roads, hills, and valleys.

"If this only lasts," Rupert whispered.

"Where shall we make for?" No. 303 asked. "Plymouth ain't far from here, is it; and that's a seaport town?"

Rupert turned and looked into the blue eyes of his comrade. He laid his hand on his shoulder. "Man, you don't expect to get right away, do you? It has never been done and never will be done. I was born on these moorlands. I know every stick and stone and bush on them. Even if I wanted to I couldn't get away."

"Even if you wanted to!" No. 303 hissed. "What do you mean? What sort of game is it you're playing—Hide and Seek, or Puss in the Corner?"

He broke off suddenly, and Rupert's grip tightened on his shoulder. The silence was broken. On the still air they heard the sound of a horse galloping along the distant road in the valley somewhere below them. They held their breath and listened intently.

The sound grew nearer and nearer; for a few seconds it seemed as if the speed of the horse was checked. Then, to the relief of both men, the sounds became fainter and fainter, gradually dying away.

"A mounted warder galloping to Post Bridge to cut us off in that direction," Rupert said. "We must stick to the tors. While the fog lasts they can't leave the roads or bridle paths."

Again they commenced to struggle up the steep ascent, keeping along the edge of the water course.

"Where are you making for?" No. 303 demanded.

"Wistman's Wood, the other side of the Dart. A good place to hide if the fog lifts."

"Ain't no use hiding," the convict objected. "We must find a farm or a cottage where we can get a change of clothing and food. Then we may get a chance of slipping away. You say you know the moorland—then you must know the folk on it. Ain't there some one who would help us—or somewhere where we could hide ourselves? This is life or death, remember."

Rupert nodded, and once again he slackened speed and stopped. "Listen, 303. I don't want to escape, because I know it's impossible. All I hope is to get on the other side of Post Bridge to Blackthorn Farm—to my home."

His voice faltered a moment at the last word. "There is something I want to say to my father—if he's still alive. Something I must say. It's a matter of life or death to him, perhaps—and to my sister. When I've done that, delivered my message—why then I shall give myself up."

The muscles about 303's face contracted, his blue eyes clouded. For a little while he was silent, turning over in his mind what Rupert had said.

"You're balmy!" he growled eventually. "Crikey, what a chance! Why, if you gets home, they'll hide you, won't they—give you food and clothes and money? And I'll jolly well see that I gets the same too. We're going to see this thing through together."

Rupert sighed and shook his head: "Follow me, if you like; but it's not a bit of good. My father will give us both up."

He looked at 303 sadly. For months, perhaps for years, he knew this convict had only thought of, and planned, escape, dreamed of it day and night. The taste of freedom was sweet in his mouth already; he could not believe that they would not get clear away. It was no use trying to persuade him that he was attempting the impossible.

"I'll stand by you," he replied. "I'll do what I can to help you. But it's no use talking. Come along!"

Presently they came to a high, stone wall, and Rupert uttered an exclamation of joy.

"We're just above Wistman's Wood, and this is the great wall that runs from Beardown to Rough Tor, which is past Post Bridge Hall. It will be easy going now, and if the fog lifts the wall will help to conceal us from anyone on the road below."

They started off again at a good pace. They had not gone for more than half a mile when they both stopped simultaneously.

The sound of a voice had come out of the fog far above them. They listened. It came again—a faint shout. They were straining their ears in the intense silence. Presently they heard a pony's iron-shod hoofs striking on the granite. A moment later another shout, nearer than the first.

"Mounted warders on the tor above us," Rupert whispered. "Quick, get over the wall! We must hide until they're gone."

As they climbed the wall a large stone was displaced and went rolling and bounding down the hill side. Then, just as they jumped to the ground, there was a sudden puff of wind and the cloud of fog rolled away, almost as if it were a great white blanket withdrawn by invisible hands. And there on the tor above them Rupert saw clearly outlined against the sky two horsemen, about three hundred yards apart.

"By God, we're done!" 303 cried.

The mounted warders raised a shout, and jabbing their heels into their ponies' sides, commenced to gallop down the hill.

"We must make a run for it," Rupert said. "There's fog still in the valley."

Before he finished speaking, 303 had torn off like a hare, leaping, stumbling, dashing first one way, then another to avoid obstacles. Rupert followed. Twice 303 fell, and each time Rupert waited to lend him a hand. Once he glanced back and he saw the warders reach the wall; they dismounted, and one commenced to pull the stones off the wall to make a gap for his pony; the other unslung his rifle and shouted to the flying convicts to stop—or he would fire.

Twice the warning came. They were racing side by side now. Rupert heard himself laugh. The sheltering pall of fog was not a hundred yards away now. He set his teeth and flung back his head while he waited for the crack of the warders' carbines and the "ping" of the buckshot.

It came just as the kindly fog was about to envelop them again. Ten seconds more and they would have been safe.

Perhaps the warder had the instincts of a sportsman. Perhaps he had purposely given them a run for their money. But he had to do his duty. He knew that if once they got into the fog again they would be lost.

So he fired. He saw the right-hand man stumble, then roll over and over like a shot rabbit until he lay quite still face downwards on the heather. Before he could raise his carbine and fire again the other man had disappeared.

Both warders let go their ponies, stumbled over the wall and ran down the hill-side to the fallen convict. The man who had fired the shot stooped down and turned him over. And he started and looked at his companion. The convict's face was white as death; blood was flowing from a wound on his forehead.

"My God Bill, you've done it this time!" the second warder said. "You've killed him!"

CHAPTER XVII.

AT POST BRIDGE HALL.

The warders stared into each other's faces.

"It's a bad job. You're sure he's dead——"

"I wouldn't have done it for anything," the man who had fired the shot whispered. "I aimed at his legs, too. Damn the gun!"

He threw it into the heather, and turned away to hide his emotion.

The second warder glanced back over his shoulder. The fog was slipping down the hillside again. The stone wall and the ponies were already lost to view.

"Fire off your gun again; they'll hear it on the road. I'd better go back for the ponies, or we shall lose 'em."

"Which way did the other fellow go?"

"I don't know. You get the ponies—I'll wait here."

The second warder hurried up the hillside towards the stone wall and disappeared into the fog. The one who had fired the fatal shot stooped to pick up his gun. As he did so, the figure of the convict lying on the heather stirred. A second later he was on his feet, running for dear life!

He was gone before the warder could realise what had happened. He swung round and stared open-mouthed at the wall of fog surrounding him on all sides.

"Well, I'm damned!" he ejaculated.

Jamming a cartridge into his gun, he fired it off.

* * * * *

When the fatal shot was fired Rupert was a few yards ahead of 303, and he felt a sharp sting at the point of his shoulder as he heard the shot whiz by. Thinking that the shot was aimed at him, and feeling himself hit, he swerved to the right and made for a low wall which ran down towards the powder-magazine, intent only on reaching its shelter. The shock of being fired at had put all thought of his comrade for the moment out of his mind, and it was not until he was over the wall and heading for the small clump of trees, through the top of which he could see the ruined chimney of the old powder-mill which instinct told him was his only chance, did he think of 303.

Slackening his pace, he glanced back over his shoulder—but he could see nothing. He turned once more and sped towards the trees which were now only a few hundred yards away, and the fold in the ground hid him from the road and also from the hill above. On reaching the trees, his breath coming in great gasps, worn out with excitement, he threw himself upon a bed of rushes growing beside the Cherry Brook, which flowed within the walls that enclosed the powder mills.

He was consumed with raging thirst, and when he had recovered his breath sufficiently, he crawled to the brook and buried his face in the cool, clear stream. As he sat up he saw his right hand dripping with blood, and for the first time remembered his wound. Taking off his broad-arrowed coat, he felt his throbbing shoulder, and was relieved to find the bullet had but grazed his flesh. He went to the stream and dipped his coat into the water—when he was startled by the dull thud of horses' hoofs approaching.

The powder mill buildings were mere ruined shells. There was no shelter there—but suddenly his eye caught the chimney, a circular stack about thirty feet high. The horseman had reached the wall; he heard him check the horse and dismount. Rupert remembered that he had often swarmed up the inside of the chimney when a boy. The sound of the pony's hoofs striking the stones of the wall as the warder led him through the gap caused Rupert to spring towards the chimney. In a second he was within the ruined furnace, grasping the iron bar which crossed the chimney some six feet above the ground.

He swung himself up, and placing his knees against the round wall in front of him, and with his back against the other side, he slowly worked himself up the narrow shaft until he was some twelve feet up. By jamming his feet in a niche from which the mortar had fallen out, and with his back thrust against the opposite wall, he made himself secure for the moment.

He heard the warder and the pony stumbling over the rubble which strewed the mouth of the ruined chimney; his heart was in his mouth. Pony and man were within the furnace, and the voice of the warder almost beneath him made Rupert look down in momentary expectation of meeting his upturned gaze; he saw his arm and shoulder already beneath the chimney—another moment he would be discovered.

A voice outside hailed the warder, and he stepped back—and disappeared.

For some little time Rupert heard the voice of men talking in the precincts of the powder mill. He strained his ears to try and hear what they said, but only caught odd words. He gathered that they were still searching both for him and Convict 303. He was relieved to know that his friend had not been caught; yet in his heart he realised it was only a matter of time. Once he reached home—if indeed he were lucky enough to succeed in doing so—he would only wait long enough to discover how things were with his father and sister, and to warn them that a fortune might still be lying within their grasp. He did not know how much of the little property had been mortgaged to Sir Reginald Crichton; he almost hoped the disused tin mine was included. As long as the interest was paid, the mortgage would remain undisturbed; and Sir Reginald had proved himself to be not only an upright gentleman, but a kind friend.

It was his one-time friend, Robert Despard, the man who had called himself his pal, whom he feared. Almost the last words the latter had spoken to him echoed ironically in his brain:

"I'll keep the secret about our radium mine, old man, never fear. It's safe with me!"

Various schemes flashed with lightning-like rapidity through Rupert's brain as he clung to his perilous position in the chimney above the furnace. He began to think that the men outside intended to remain there for the night—it seemed so long before they moved away, and he heard the beat of their ponies' hoofs growing fainter and fainter. But at last he knew they were really gone. Even then he waited awhile before he commenced to painfully clamber to the ground.

He was stiff and sore. His shoulder ached and throbbed where the stray buckshot had struck him. There was blood upon his hand, too, where he had cut it.

But he was still free. At first he moved cautiously, examining the country as much as was visible in all directions. The fog had partially cleared away, but it still lay in patches here and there.

There was not a soul in sight. Not a sound to be heard save the purling waters of the little Cherry Brook on his left. He knelt down and washed the blood from his hand, then took a drink. And suddenly he laughed under his breath.

It was good to be alive again—for he had not been living those past months in prison. He had been less alive than a caged animal. He had slept, eaten, worked, and exercised with mechanical-like precision. Even the agonies of mind he had undergone seemed unreal now. They did not even seem to matter—nothing mattered but the fact that he was free!

Free to sit or stand, to walk or run, to laugh or to cry. Free to move as he liked, look where he liked, do what he liked. He dug his hands into the soft peat and tore it up, and sniffed the sweet scent. He stood upright and stretched out his arms, then laughed aloud.

It was indeed good to be alive again. It was wonderful! The next moment he was trembling from head to foot, and his body broke out in a sweat. He was not to be alive for long. Even if he reached Blackthorn Farm and delivered his message he would have to give himself up and go back to prison. Back to that living grave!

He had told poor 303 that escape was absolutely impossible. Even if a man got outside Dartmoor and reached Tavistock or Exeter or Plymouth he was certain to be detected and brought back. His father would never hide him or help him—he knew that.

Yet if he once succeeded in getting home he could remain there hidden long enough to disguise himself, to grow a beard. And then one day, so altered as to be hardly recognisable, he might ship off to Canada or Australia.

His head swam: he put his hands up before his eyes for a moment. The sudden draught of freedom had intoxicated him.

Once again he gazed round the moorland. It was growing dark, the sun had set, and the western sky was still glowing red. Now and then a faint puff of wind stirred the trees surrounding the powder mill, and he saw stray banks of fog driving here and there, shifting their position. By crossing the stream he could step right into the white bank of mist.

Freedom! The thought of it had become an obsession now. Taking a run he cleared Cherry Brook and plunged into the fog. He knew his way now; he could have found it blindfold. But he went cautiously, for no man can be sure of himself if he once misses his way when a Dartmoor fog is down.

To reach Blackthorn Farm he would have to pass Post Bridge Hall, which lay between him and the East Dart. He kept edging towards the valley, for though it was near the main road, the fog lay more thickly there than in the higher ground.

It was rough going. Rocks and boulders and gorse bushes impeded the progress, invisible in the mist. Now and again he struck a boggy patch of ground and had to make a wide detour to avoid it. He had been walking for upwards of an hour, and he began to fear lest he had missed his way and perhaps been going round in a circle, when suddenly he stepped out into a clear, starlit night. Below him he saw the tiny village of Post Bridge, and almost directly in front of him red lights gleaming through the belt of trees.

Post Bridge Hall! Down on the bridge itself, near the little post office, he saw figures moving to and fro. He dropped on to his hands and knees behind the shelter of a rock. He heard the barking of a sheep dog, the voices of men and women travelled up to him.

Of course the news of the escape had spread, and the place was alive with people searching.

How eager men and women were to hunt their kind! He remembered how as a boy he had joined in just such a hunt.

He commenced to crawl along on all fours towards Post Bridge Hall. The trees there might shelter him, but it would be useless to try and cross the patch of country on the other side. He climbed a couple of stone walls, crossed a field, scrambled over a fence, and dropped straight into the garden of the Hall itself.

Lights gleamed from the windows. The front door stood wide open, and not a hundred yards away from him he saw the outer door of the glass conservatory which abutted from the drawing-room. He saw with surprise that this was open too.

For a long time he lay waiting, watching, afraid to go on—because he knew the fog would not descend again. The million eyes of the night watched him from a cloudless sky.

Presently from the woods behind him he heard voices and the barking of dogs. A gang of men were beating the spinney, searching for the two convicts.

Within sight of home he would be caught. He rose to his feet, crossed the narrow stretch of turf and walked boldly up the drive.

He stood a moment outside the conservatory door, listening. He heard nothing but the voices of the men in the wood and the barking of the dogs.

He stepped inside the conservatory, closed the door, and then, fumbling for the key, found it. He locked it, and drew the bolts top and bottom which he knew were there. Stooping down he crawled beneath the broad shelf which ran the length of the glass-house. The leaves of a palm and the fronds of a large fern gave him complete shelter.

He stretched himself out full length so as to lie perfectly flat, and as he did so his foot struck a pile of empty flower-pots. They fell over with a crash. He stopped breathing. He thought he detected a woman's voice in the drawing-room. A minute passed, but no one came.

He breathed again. He was safe for the time being. The conservatory door was locked. They would never search Sir Reginald Crichton's house! He was still a free man. And freedom to him now was more than anything else in the world. More than love or honour, or the wealth that might be lying hidden in the tin mine at home, waiting for his father and sister.

CHAPTER XVIII.

ALARMED.

Marjorie Dale only remained at Blackthorn Farm after her father's return from London long enough to nurse him back to health. When he had completely recovered from the effects of his accident she left home, Devonshire, and all she knew and loved. She went away as much in deference to her lover's wishes as to her father's, though so far as her own feelings were concerned she would have preferred to remain at Post Bridge and face public opinion—scandal, cruelty, and calumny. She knew that both she and her father would be social outcasts.

She had connections on her mother's side living at Calais. They were in the lace trade, and had spent the best part of their lives out of England. To them Marjorie was sent—not altogether as a guest. In return for a home and protection she was expected to play the part of nursery governess to their children and help in the housework.

No one was more delighted at this arrangement than Sir Reginald Crichton. Marjorie would be away for at least six months, and during that time much might happen.

Jim would learn to forget; work would help him.

He was so grateful that he made the mistake of thanking Marjorie for the step she was taking. But she read his thoughts as she had done before: she knew what he hoped would come from this parting between Jim and her.

"I'm going away, not for my father's sake, nor for yours, nor my own, but for Jim's sake," she explained. "I know that the parting will only strengthen our love, and his determination to marry me. With him I believe that love is the greatest thing in the world." She smiled when Sir Reginald shrugged his shoulders. "I know it's an unfashionable belief, yet everything in the world depends on love. The greatest men have always been the greatest lovers; even soldiers, sailors, and Empire builders. When I return from abroad Jim is going to announce our engagement. I'm not entirely selfish in agreeing to this; for I know that his happiness and his future lie in my hand."

Sir Reginald had nothing to say. He had proved that argument was useless. His son's attitude was a severe blow to him. For the moment love was stronger than reason or ambition, but he still believed that by waiting, love would weaken and even Jim would listen to wiser and more worldly counsels.

So Marjorie bade her lover farewell one grey autumn morning and left for France—but not before she had had an unpleasant interview with Robert Despard and taken a very unhappy farewell of her father.

For when Despard brought the old man back from London, he had stayed on at Blackthorn Farm, and he had seized every opportunity of making love to Marjorie—even after she had told him his case was hopeless, that her heart was already given.

Despard had merely laughed and said he intended to win her in spite of all opposition. At first his attitude puzzled her, for she could not conceive why a man of his type should wish to marry into a family whose name was now a byword in the county. Her father encouraged him, moreover, and did everything in his power to make her look kindly on Despard's suit.

It was only the night before she left for Calais that she discovered the reason.

Despard had insisted on paying off the mortgage which Sir Reginald held on Blackthorn Farm, and the homestead was once again her father's property. Crichton, too, had acted very generously in the matter of paying the conveyancing expenses himself.

Instead of being grateful, Marjorie was shocked and horrified. It seemed as if the three men had laid their heads together and planned this thing to put her in their power. It was a trick on Despard's part, and Sir Reginald had helped him—not really for John Dale's sake, but in order to save his own son from what he considered would be a mesalliance.

To a certain extent she was right. But Despard had another and stronger motive for his generosity in paying off the mortgage on the farm and handing the estate back to the man who had, only a month or two ago, been a stranger to him. The reason was to be found in the old tin mine where Rupert and he had suddenly discovered the presence of pitch-blende, firing their imaginations with thoughts of radium—and a fortune.

News of what was happening in the outside world seldom reached Marjorie in Calais. And the only news she received of what was taking place in the wilds of Dartmoor was contained in a weekly letter from her father. He refrained from telling her everything. Jim wrote to her daily. They were very wonderful letters telling her of his work, telling her of his love. But for those letters she would never have remained for half those long, weary months in the conventional Anglo-French family in the sleepy little town of Calais.

But even Jim did not know what was taking place at Blackthorn Farm until the news became public property, and the great boom which Despard cleverly engineered was burst on a credulous, Tango-dancing world.

By that time Marjorie had returned home to find Despard ensconsed at Blackthorn Farm, the land surrounded and over-run by a small army of men, and Jim Crichton still absent with his corps at Netheravon.

Marjorie hardly recognised her old home. It was over nine months since her brother had been convicted and sentenced. A change had taken place, too, in her, and she knew it. Six months abroad had made a great difference—mentally and physically. She had looked forward to returning to Blackthorn Farm in spite of its loneliness and the bitter memories she knew she would find there.

Her father met her at Newton Abbot station, and it was some minutes before he found her in the crowd of passengers who alighted from the West of England express. To the old man it seemed as if she had grown up suddenly. Grown from a girl into a woman. From a farmer's daughter into a lady.

"Why, how swagger we have become," he smiled. "I almost took you for a Frenchwoman with that smart little hat and dress, and those ridiculous shoes! It's lucky we haven't brought the dogcart, so you won't have to walk up the hills."

Marjorie imagined they would take the train to Moretonhampstead, and from thence by motor omnibus to Post Bridge. When she had collected her luggage, John Dale led her across the bridge and out of the station. And there she saw Robert Despard waiting in a motor-car. He seized the reluctant hand she gave him, and after pressing it warmly, put it to his lips.

"Welcome home!" he cried; then, turning to Dale: "By Jove, what a fine lady she's become! She'll be able to play the part to perfection, eh?"

Marjorie flushed with resentment and disappointment. Despard was the last person in the world she wanted to see.

"Have I got to drive home in that thing?" she cried, pointing disdainfully to the motor-car.

While the luggage was being strapped on, Dale explained that it belonged to Mr. Despard, and that he kindly allowed them to make use of it.

"It belongs to the syndicate," Despard replied. "There have been great happenings at Post Bridge since you went away, Marjorie. I'm afraid you'll find the place changed—not the farmhouse itself, but the surrounding waste land."

"Mr. Despard has discovered that we've been living with a fortune under our feet all these years," Dale explained.

He looked anxiously at his daughter and took her hand; but she made no response. After two or three attempts at conversation when the car had started, Dale relapsed into silence. It was not easy to talk at the pace they went, with the wind singing in their ears. And in his heart, too, he felt a little afraid of Marjorie. A little frightened at the quick march of events since she had been away. And perhaps just a little ashamed.

Marjorie guessed what had happened. When Blackthorn Farm was reached, she knew. But instead of feeling grateful or elated, disgust seized her. Within a few hundred yards of the farm, hideous corrugated iron buildings had sprung up; the land all around the tin mine had been cleared and levelled. Plant was being erected; scattered here and there were temporary dwellings, and offices for the workmen; a miniature railway line had already been laid on the ancient granite track. Tears rose to her eyes as she looked at the desecration that had been done to her moorlands and her home.

"Whose work is this?" she asked. "Mr. Despard's, of course! I suppose Sir Reginald gave permission——"

Dale explained all that had happened, and the generous part Despard had played. "I owe him a debt I can never repay. Ruin stared us in the face, Marjorie, and through him it has been averted. When—when my boy comes out of prison—though I hope I shall not live to see that day—he will at least have the chance of living a decent life, of wiping out the crime he committed, and becoming a useful citizen. He will have the opportunity, for he will be a rich man. God grant that he takes it."

Marjorie shook her head. "Mr. Despard is a stranger to us. It's unlike you, father, to accept so much from a stranger. What does Mr. Despard expect in return?"

The old man turned away. "Nothing. Of course he'll share in our good fortune. He'll take the larger share of whatever money we make. I have insisted on that. A company will be floated—it's in the course of promotion already. It's a gamble, to a certain extent. I believe there's a deal of opposition; there are men who scoff at the idea of traces of radium having been discovered here. Other eminent men have made exhaustive tests, and their report leads us to believe there is no doubt that we shall be able to extract radium from the mine. But I've refused to take a single penny in cash; I'm to be paid entirely in shares."

"And how is Mr. Despard to be paid?"

"I don't believe he has thought of himself," Dale replied. "He'll join the board of directors, of course, and I suppose he'll receive a certain number of shares. He'll become a very famous man, Marjorie. I've seen a lot of him during the past few months, and my respect has grown daily. He has thrown himself heart and soul into this business. At first every one scoffed at him, but lately a change has taken place in public opinion here. Even Sir Reginald is converted. Can't you guess why Mr. Despard has worked so hard and been so generous? I'm sure his love for you, born originally of pity, has been the motive."

"Then I'm sorry," Marjorie said quickly. "Even if I were not engaged to Jim I could never care for Mr. Despard. I dislike and distrust him. The sooner he realises this the better."