The Bars of Iron | Page 9

people said it was done by a foul."
"Adderley!" repeated Piers. "I know him. He gave me some quite useful tips once. What happened? It's the first I've heard of it."
"Well, he's a murderer," said Sir Beverley. "And he deserves to be hanged. He killed his man,--whether by a foul or not I can't say; but anyway he meant to kill him. It's obvious on the face of it. But they chose to bring it in manslaughter, and he's only got five years; while some brainless fool must needs write an article a column and a half long to protest against the disgraceful practice of permitting wrestling or boxing matches, which are a survival of the Dark Ages and a perpetual menace to our civilization! A survival of your grandmother! A nice set of nincompoops the race will develop into if such fools as that get their way! We're soft enough as it is, Heaven knows. Why couldn't they hang the scoundrel as he deserved? That's the surest way of putting an end to savagery. But to stop the sport altogether! It would be tomfoolery!"
Piers picked up the paper from the floor and smoothed it out. He proceeded to study it with drawn brows, and Sir Beverley sat and watched him with that in his stone-grey eyes which no one was ever allowed to see.
"Eat your crumpets, boy!" he said at last.
"What?" Piers glanced up momentarily. "Oh, all right, sir, in a minute. This is rather an interesting case, what? You see, Adderley was a friend of mine."
"When did you meet him?" demanded Sir Beverley.
"I knew him in my school-days. He spent a whole term in the neighbourhood. It was just before I left for my year of travel. I got to know him rather well. He gave me several hints on wrestling."
"Did he teach you how to break your opponent's neck?" asked Sir Beverley drily.
Piers made a slight, scarcely perceptible movement of one hand. It clenched upon the paper he held. "They were--worth knowing," he said, with his eyes upon the sheet. "But I should have thought he was too old a hand himself to get into trouble."
Sir Beverley grunted. Piers read on. At the end of a lengthy pause he laid the paper aside. "I'm beastly rude," he remarked. "Have a crumpet!"
"Eat 'em yourself!" said Sir Beverley. "I hate 'em!"
Piers picked up the plate and began to eat. He stared at the blaze as he did so, obviously lost in thought.
"Don't dream!" said Sir Beverley sharply.
He turned his eyes upon his grandfather's face--those soft Italian eyes of his so suggestive of hidden fire. "I wasn't--dreaming," he said slowly. "I wonder why you think Adderley ought to be hanged."
"Because he's a murderer," snapped Sir Beverley.
"Yes; but--" said Piers, and became silent as though he were following out some train of thought.
"Go on, boy! Finish!" commanded Sir Beverley. "I detest a sentence left in the middle."
"I was only thinking," said Piers deliberately, "that hanging in my opinion is much the easier sentence of the two. I should ask to be hanged if I were Adderley."
"Would you indeed?" Sir Beverley sounded supremely contemptuous.
But Piers did not seem to notice. "Besides, there are so many murderers in the world," he said, "though it's only the few who get punished. I'm sorry for the few myself. Its damned bad luck, human nature being what it is."
"You don't know what you're talking about," said Sir Beverley.
"All right; let's talk about something else," said Piers. "Caesar had a glorious mill with that Irish terrier brute at the Vicarage this afternoon. I couldn't separate 'em, so I just joined in. We'd have been at it now if we had been left to our own devices." He broke into his sudden boyish laugh. "But a kind lady came out of the Vicarage garden and flung the contents of a bedroom jug over the three of us. Rather plucky of her, what? I'm afraid I wasn't over-complimentary at the moment, but I've had time since to appreciate her tact and presence of mind. I'm going over to thank her to-morrow."
"Who was it?" growled Sir Beverley suspiciously. "Not that little white owl, Mrs. Lorimer?"
"Mrs. Lorimer! Great Scott, no! She'd have squealed and run to the Reverend Stephen for protection. No, this was a woman, not an owl. Her name is Denys--Mrs. Denys she was careful to inform me. They've started a mother's help at the Vicarage. None too soon I should say. Who wouldn't be a mother's help in that establishment?"
Sir Beverley uttered a dry laugh. "Daresay she knows how to feather her own nest. Most of 'em do."
"She knows how to keep her head in an emergency, anyhow," remarked Piers.
"Feline instinct," jeered Sir Beverley.
Piers looked across with a laugh in his dark eyes. "And feline pluck, sir," he maintained.
Sir