Northern Weekly Gazette. — 1904-07-09 (Stockton-on-Tees, Cleveland, England)

NORTHERN WEEKLY GAZETTE.  Rutherford coloured ad it lea lip. "Teti har' wrna his sallower, "that I am still her friend, as I seem unable to doubt she d..,e‘r,Tes ate to be. The artist nodded •t.ravely, and the car rolled out of ;4 courtyard.  Austin Dallier paused, uncertain how to evade this new complication. Mrs East put up her veil. "There is no time for subterfuges," elle said in a low strained voice; "I have been brought here to see the person whom you know as Lynch. Ills real name is George Ferris, and he's my husband." Cyril Marsden's eyes were starting with an unearthly astonishment; he opened his mouth, but no sound ca,me. Gertrude Ferris waved him aside and went forward. The party rounded an angle of the ravine and paused. The artist had missed his way; a wall of blank rock confronted them. "I must have taken the wrong turning," he said, apologetically ; "we had better try back. This is not where I left Haclaett." .  Cyril Marsden thrust himself into the group. He was a.4hy pale and his jaw ghook. "You want this Zergebel's husband," he snarled; "so do I. I want a word with him, too, the grinning, doubledealing honrad. Hi bzing him to you fast enough; he—he expects a visit from me to-day. Its a trifle early, but he'll overlook that."_.  He pursed his trembling lips and began to whistle. The air was the theme of "11l Baeio," and it sounded oddly in the great silent gorge. As it died away a head projected itself over a ledge above him—the head and face of "Mr George Lynch." He surveyed the group below, and a vicious smile flitted over his lean countenance.  "So, my friend," he said, as his gaze rested on. Cyril; "I told you whet would happen if you didn't come alone."  A report punctuated his sentence. Cyril Mar ii spun round and collapsed without a groan. He had been shot through the temple. The onlookers were paralysed. As they stood in a species of stupor' a figure emerged from a branch of the ravine that opened alinost opposite to them. It was Hackett, and he was supporting the feeble steps of another —a hie man with si ragged, tawny beard, glazing blue eyes, and dingy, weather-stained garments. His right hand clung to Hackett's shouklen, and they could see that it lacked the fore finier• At the sight of the newcomers Gertrude Ferris tottered and leaned heavily upon Austin Darner. She steadied herself, and moved a faltering pace 07 two in the direction of Hackett and his burden.  "George" she gasipod, stariug at the tatter; "George, is it really you?'  Hackett- answered. her; the man he was aiding had passed almost beyond the power of srech. "Ay, ma'am, ' he said bluntly; "this is him, and a nice time he's had of it. Six weeks in the open with a broken leg and little but roots and berries to keep life in him. But how he got here he won't tell." Hackett broke off to deposit his burden upon a convenient portion of the adjacent elope. The action brought him within sight of the motionless form of Cyril Maxeden. Ile contemplated it bewilderedly. "Has—has there been an amide:it ?" he stammered( "I heard a shot, but 11 didn't think—" No one answered him • all eyes were conoentrated upon Gertrude Ferris. She was stooping over the unkempt figure that lay at Hackett's feet. The face was deathly and the eyelids drooped over the blue pupils, while the beard from pointed had become square. But the face was that of the man she had married, the man whom slie had met in secret by the "Bottomless Pit," the men whom she had beheld plunged into its motis void. There were impromptu ha.ndaes about his throat, and tightly-twisted tourniquets of a makeshift kind about an arm and leg. His wife gazed at him, astounded.  " Then who," she cried, that—" And she extended her hand towards the rocky sheif whence Mr George Lynch had fired his fatal shot. It was vacant; the murderer had disap pea red.