The Birkenhead News and Wirral General Advertiser. — 1908-01-25 (Birkenhead, Merseyside, England)

CHAPTER 111.-GOD'S VENGEANCE  WOULD BE TOO SLOW.  The idea of murder in the abstract has become so tam-liar to us from its frequent use by the novelist and its appearance in the columns cf newspapers that it is rather difficult for an unimaginative person to realise its full horrors. To do so thoroughly we must picture to ourselves some one very near and dear to us suddenly snatrhed from our midst and hurried into eternity by such foul means. If we can do that we may be able to realise the agony of horrified grief, succeeded by the burning desire for vengeance, which Lord Clanavon felt as he slowly began to grasp what had happened. It did more than make itself felt; it crept into his whole being like morphia let into an opened vein, and swept every other thought and impulse before it. The relations between him and his father had been typical of the relations which exist between the majority of English fathers Aid English sons. There had been little or no sentiment, and outward expressions of affection had been very rare between them Yet underneath the superficial crust o: indifference there had been a strong and reciprocal affection, seldom manifesting itself in any more pronounced manner than by quiet cordiality, but still an existent and healthy feeling, which this hideous tragedy had fanned almost into a passion. And so, naturally enough, when the first shock of the interview was over, and the sight of her eon had quieted his mother's grief, he withdrew from her embrace and asked: - - _  --;;-1-3 there any clue, mother? Do they know who nos. dono—thig, thing?"  --fliey-;eririlone in Lady Alceston's boudoir, a small octagonal apartment hung with amber satin, and furnished with the luxury which perfect taste and unlimited wealth could devise. It was a room sacred to women—even Lord Alceston himself had seldom entered it—and Lord Clanavon looked curiously out of place standing erect among the low velvet-covered 'fauteuils,' the delicate knick-knacks and softly flashing mirrors. a fierce look upon his white, sorrow-etricken face, and his flaming eyes fixed upon his mother's bent figure. She withdrew her handkerchief from her face, and looking up at him, shuddered. " bernard don't look like that," she pleaded. "I would rather see you cry." He turned his face with a alight gesture of impatience, but its expression was un— altered. _  "Crying is for women, mother," he said in a low tone. "There is something else for a man to think about here. You have not answered my question." "Net Mon has disappeared,", she said slowly. "There Li nothing else." "Neillson! Neillson!" he repeated, half in wonderment! half in contempt. "Neill- ' eon guilty of—oh, that is all nonsense! I would as soon .uspect myself." "Nevertheless, he has disappeared," she repeated. "He was the last person who saw your father alive, and—" But it couldn't have been Neillson," he interrupted firmly. "Why, a more simpleminded ola fellow never breathed. You can't believe this yourself, mother." The hand which clutched her handkerchief trembled violently, and she seemed to answer with great difficulty. "I —I don't know. It is all so strange and horrible. Why should any one oh, Bernard, Ettrnard, ask me no more questions!" she burst out, sobbing violently. He waited until she was more composed, standing perfectly motionless, his fair, beardless face at and rigid and full of terrible datermination, looking, in the sweet subdued light thrown upon it by the tinted and heavily shaded fairy lamp., like a piece c exquisite statuary. "It was not Neillson," he said, quietly. *hen at last his mother removed the Load.