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PICTURE-PLAY WEEKLY
9
j continued to sip his gin and water, and : )rood.
"There is no God !" he muttered. There is no such thing as conscience ! £very man is a law unto himself !" . As the reflected light from the ^racket lamp threw his face into relief, Tenchford's features were a curious lombination of strength and sullenness. Tpis face was thin almost to the 'point ! if emaciation. His lips were tightly 1 ompressed in a straight line. His "'quare, outthrust jaw plainly showed a
first time that you have asked me to do things which I have refused to do. You are continually selecting me to do some bit of work that you would not ask any one else to do, and I tell you frankly that I'll not do this thing."
"That's the trouble with you, Henchford, confound your impudence." replied his lordship, his wrath rising. "You are always denying my authority, and setting yourself up as being better than you are. By Heaven, man, you'll do as I tell vou. or I'll know the reason
Through the mind of the gardener flashed the many indignities which had been heaped upon him by the master of Rexford Terrace. Never had Lord Rexford let an opportunity pass to browbeat and humiliate Henchford.
In the heart of the man these insults rankled. With the falling of that lash, however, there was immediately born a deep and implacable hatred. An unholy desire for revenge seized Henchford.
As Lord Rexford walked away, Martin turned again to the work at hand,
"There is no such thing as conscience," he muttered. "Every man is a law unto himself!'
ignacious streak in his nature. No He, looking at Henchford, would ever ive believed that he was the gardener i the estate of Lord Rexford, of Rexrd Terrace.
"Beg pardon, your lordship," said enchford, touching his cap, "but I •n't do it. I know that I was born on is estate, and that my father was head rdener before me, but I can't do the ing you ask of me." "You can't do it, eh?" rejoined Lord ;xford. "You mean you won't do it." "If you care to look at it in that way, en that's what I mean. This is not the
why." He nervously clenched the riding crop he carried in his hand.
"I'll not obey you in this."
Scarcely had the words left Henchford's lips before there was a swish through the air, and a livid welt was raised across the gardener's cheek, where the lash of Lord Rexford's riding crop had fallen.
Spasmodically. Henchford's hands opened and clenched, and the bitter expression on his face told of the desire that was in his heart to spring upon the man who had struck him. • Without further parley, Lord Rexford turned on his heel and strode away.
but if the master of Rexford Terrace could have read the innermost workings of his gardener's mind he would have had cause for fear.
That night as he sat alone in his room, puffing nervously at the stubby bit of black pipe he clenched between his teeth, Henchford's thoughts were centered around the slash of the riding crop across his face. Slowly he raised his hand and rubbed the spot where the lash had raised its welt.
"There is no God. I am without a conscience," muttered Henchford. "And I can beat the law. That dirty cur, Rexford, is at Lord Hammersmith's to