CRIMSON CLOAK.

Ashburton Guardian, Volume 63, Issue 218, 25 June 1943, Page 6

CRIMSON CLOAK.

SERIAL STORY. A Thrilling Story Centred Round the Activities of a Mysterious Woman. THE GIRL IN THE

(Copyright).

(By J. R. WILMOT.)

CHAPTER XVIII. MANNISHER ALSO CONSULTS “You mean that Uncle Squire actually found a red cloak after the theft of the pearls last night.” “Exactly!” “Then there is some truth in what Ash tells me about one of the maids seeing someone wearing a similar cloak the night the Leverton Diamond was stolen?” Gervaise nodded.

“I’m tempted to tell you something more, Gerry,”, he went on. “Your aunt found a cloak hanging across a chairoaclc immediately we had made the discovery.” “She didn’t tell the police?”

“No! You see, Gerry, it was the discovery of the cloak that first led her to suspect Clive because there’s some absurd story about all the family when they were very young being attired in such cloaks, and she imagines that it is Clive’s way of intimating to the family that he’s got a rather long memory.”

“But why should Uncle Clive want to steal from either you or Uncle Squire?” There was a deep note of perplexity in the younger man’s voice. Gervaise shook his head almost despairingly. “That’s something I don’t know and even if your aunt anything, she hasn’t mentioned her suspicions to me.”

Gerry Daynton was still thinking of the girl in the read cloak he had met on the first night in London, and he was trying desperately to persuade himself that, of course, there could be no possible connection.

“And just precisely what do you want me to do, Uncle?”

“I don’t ' quite know, my 'boy,” hesitated Gervaise. “I was thinking that now that we know Clive Mannisher has been missing for sometime from the place where he was being looked after, perhaps you could make some inquiries on your own account and report back to me. Of course I have your word that you won’t mention a word of this to your friend, Superintendent Ash?” Gerry was quite definite in his assurances. *

“Certainly not, Uncle! Although it’s tough luck on old Ash,” he added. “The Superintendent’s got a job of work to do. You’ve invited him up here to catch a thief and now I find all cf you conspiring to burke’ him at every possible turn. It’s hardly fair you know, is it?”

“I quite see yoiir point of view, Gerry, old man,” Gervaise agreed. “But don’t you see that once we mention Clive to the police, something nasty might come out that quite obviously won’t do the family any good.”

Gerry was silent for a. moment. He stood gazing at the heavily-laden pear tree with half-closed eyes. “You mean that Uficle Clive is the skeleton in the family cupboard? Is that it?”

“Somethink like' that,” Gervaise agreed. “I don’t know all the facts myself. In fact, I’ve never troubled to ascertain them. All I do understand is that your aunt would be very upset if anything about Clive got into the newspapers. There are some things, my hoy, that go deeper than one’s duty. There is, for instance, a sense of loyalty to one’s family and since you are part of the family I think you will appreciate my point of view.” Gerry did appreciate that point although he was genuinely sorry for Superintendent Ash condemned /to work miracles in the dark, especially when the working of those miracles demanded more than one shaft of daylight.

‘‘When do I start?” asked Gerry, suddenly, so sudenly that Gervaise was momentarily startled. “So soon as I find out just where Clive was supposed to he living,” he said. “Once I’ve found that out, all you’ve got to do is to announce to your aunt that you’ve decided to return to London to continue your holiday. She’ll he glad of that, my hoy, you may be sure.” Gerry grinned again and watched Uncle Gervaise turn and stride hack in the direction of the house. * * * * Squire Mannisher did not remain very long at Leverton Grange. He declined an invitation to stay to lunch. He motored to London just as fast as he could and, having garaged his car near Victoria Station set out for an address in one of those labyrinths of obscure streets that abound in the neighbourhood. His knock at the door was answered by as frowsy looking a hag as anyone could imagine. Her untidy grey hair fell forward over her face. “I want to see The Boss,” he announced, authoritatively. “Take me to him.” But the hag was standing for none of that. She knew her job. “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ abaht, mister. There’s only one boss here .... that’s me. Wot you want?” “Look here,” persisted Mannisher, irritably, “I’ve no time to waste arguing with you. I want to see The Boss, and what’s more I mean to see him.” Before the woman could answer the challenge a deep booming voice came from the dark narrow hall-way behind her. It said: “Who means to see The Boss, I’d like to know?” At the sound of that booming voice the hag in the doorway seemed to grow visibly smaller. A rough hand fell on her skinny shoulder and she was bundled aside. (To be Continued).