THE CHANNEL-CRASHER

Ashburton Guardian, Volume 62, Issue 307, 9 October 1942, Page 6

THE CHANNEL-CRASHER

| By LESLIE BERESFORD. |

SERIAL STORY.

5 (Copyright). =

CHAPTER XXVTIT. “THE DOWNS.” So there was nobody to notice and, least of all, Rowena —when he made use of opportunity to escape to his! office. There lie got the local exchange to put him through to a number, was connected, and answered impatiently by a man’s voice. But, after he had murmured a few cryptic words into the mike, he could hear.the impatience give way to a sudden unconcealed whoopee, of excited triumph. A moment later, having switched off the lights in his room so that all was in total darkness, lie wriggled behind the heavy curtains, opened one of the French windows which led from it out on to the broad terrace running along the whole facade.of the big house.

There was inky blackness outside and the silence of utter desertion. Only the slight crunch of his shoes as hei trod the gravel surface of the terrace, light-footed as he could, disturbed faintly the soundless night.

Beyond the terrace at last he could make swifter headway, and trouble less about the noise of it, even using an electric torch guardedly now and again to make sure of his direction. This led him at last for a second time to the high-walled and heavily wooded grounds within which stood that house of rapier sinister isolation, known ,as ‘‘The Downs.”

* • Rowena was alone at breakfast when Craven came down next morning, even earlier than usual, for he had passed a restless night. Craven could not help noticing how fresh and lovely she looked, her redgold hair just touched by a sun-shaft entering the dark old room through a French window. For himself, he felt completely in the shadows, ill-hum-oured, mentally tired. “You don’t look any too bright, John,” she observed atfer a study of him as he took his place, and added: “Yet you disappeared early on last night, and I was told you’d gone to bed.”

“That's right!” he nodded. “Feeling a bit, out-of-sorts, Rowena. Your uncle ” “You needn’t tell me!” she laughed. “He’s an unconscionable slave-driver. Peter always ,used to say that.” “Which reminds me,” she went on, “I had a letter from, Peter yesterday. It seems there’s been some hitch about his going to the Middle East after all. He didn’t say why, but he seems worried about it.” Craven murmured something about the ways of the Services being inscrutable, and changed the subject. Inwardly he was very interested. The thought came to him at once that there might be more behind the postponement than that. If Scotland Yard, in the person of Superintendent Willing, were in a position to prove Sayer’s connexion in any way with the previous leakages of official secrets, 1 the fact might well hold him up for more detailed inquiry.

That, Craven decided, was Sayers affair. Yet, if this were the explanation, it showed that the Superintendent must have some pretty good evidence at his disposal. Meanwhile, Sir Bantock and others had joined them, full of chatter. Craven hurried through a ideal for which he had no appetite, and went directly to his office, where he had much to occupy him. He had not been there long, sorting out ahd arranging for Sir Bantock the contents of the mail-bag which had been delivered early, when Drew came in.

“Maddoclcs was telling me just now that one of the maids reported having found one of the French windows of this room unlatched this morning, Craven,” he said. “Looks as if it had been like that all night. That shouldn’t happen in these days.” Craven, taken aback by sudden recognition of his own forgetfulness, which he instantly knew was the real explanation, looked surprised, He said nothing, following his usual line of least resistance, and mumbled a word of agreement. Sir Bantock looked anxiously round the room. “Didn’t have any idea, when you came in this morning that anyone had been around, I suppose? Anyone—unauthorised, I mean?”

“Not the slightest sign of that, sir!” Craven spoke confidently, though he continued to look surprised. “Every thing, so far as I,remember, was exactly as T left it latish last night. All the same, a. window shouldn’t he unlatched. It’s —asking for trouble.” “Those conference minutes ” Sir Bantock began questioningly, and Craven instantly unlocked the' safe, bringing the papers out and laying them on his table. “All here and intact, sir,” he reported after a careful examination of the little sheaf of papers. Sir Bantock looked relieved, if still puzzled. “Well, that’s good enough. All the same, I must speak to Maddoclcs. He must see the windows are safe in future. And now, Craven ” They moved together to his room, and plunged into the morning’s work. Sir Bantock was in slightly, irritable mood; Craven was nonchalant, and so inclined to mincl-wandering this: morning that his chief remarked somewhat testily on the fact, bringing the work to an abrupt end. “Anything seriously troubling you, young fellow?” he rapped out. suddenly at Craven as they walked on to the sun-lit terrace together. The latter eyed him questionably. “Why do you ask, sir?” “I’ve been feeling, Craven, these last few days, that something is worrying you. You give that impression. Is the

work too heavy? Am I driving you too hard?” “Not ,a hit, sir.” “Good. I’m supposed to he a slavedriver. Young Sayers called me that, But' then young Sayers—and he had his good points—wasn’t too strong, in more senses than one. I’ve more faith in you, though. Although, to be quite candid, Craven, I’ve had more than one of my colleagues question whether 1 haven’t taken you on trust a trifle too much on personal instinct. They He was interrupted here, two of his guests calling to say good-bye. Craven did not follow him towards, them. He walked on the terrace, towards which a car had just been driven. It was, he recognised, a police car. .(To be Continued.) The characters in this story are entirely imaginary. No reference is intended to any living person or to any public or private company.