SCORPION’S REALM

Ashburton Guardian, Volume 66, Issue 268, 24 August 1946, Page 7

SCORPION’S REALM

Serial Story:

BY L. C. DOUTHWAITE E E

(Copyright)

CHAPTER XXII. BETH DENSTONE’S FATHER ARRIVES Another moment, and it emerged, clear-cut—the extreme speed with which the parlour-maid Carter had executed her errand at the Luxury Garage,.and that on her return she had not been alone. “Carter,” lie demanded quickly, “did you take that order to the Luxury Garage yourself, or did you get someone to go in your place?” The girl hesitated; fenced a little, but eventually it came out. Primed with the tidings that at long last his mother, who was the housekeeper at one of 'the larger houses near by, had consented to receive for prospective but hitherto unacknowledged daugh-ter-in-law, Carter’s boy friend had been lurking outside the house. Nothing like striking while the iron was hot, fhat delighted young man declared, and—what about it? Mother was in her room—now in state—waiting. • • At which unlooked-for and wholly satisfactory news, with Carter the struggle between love and duty was reprehensively brief, with duty down for the count.

. As for her message io Ihe Hire people—what, about, that chap across the road? Why not give him a chance of earning a couple of bob? The man in question quite obviously was a footman or valet engaged in taking the air, for during all the time of these exchanges he had been strolling in leisurely and casual fash--ion up and down the opposite pavement. Following the transfer of a half-crown, expressing himself willing to undertake the small service, he had set off for the Hire people what time the erring maid “straightened herself up” for the forthcoming inspection. “I’m sorry if I did wrong, sir,” Carter began contritely, but already Colin had hung up the receiver. Only, a moment .later, to lift it down again.

He gave a number; listened ; spoke ; listened again. And when once more lhs hands were free, and he turned to the others, Ids face was that of a man stricken. “The car that came from the Luxury people for Beth wasn’t driven by one ot their own men,” lie said, hoarsely. Tense over the desk upon which was the telephone, Lord Stoneliouse cried:

“By whom, then?” “The man who hired jt,” said Colin * * i: :!•

Once a pioneer, always a pioneer, and in spile of the magnitude of his present fortune. Senator Calvin Bartholomew Den stone retained all the simplicity of taste and hardness of composition that from Fort Benton, Montana, in the north, to the Sierra Mar dre Plateau of New Mexico in the south; from Sacremento, Nevada, in the west, to Omaha, Nebraska, in the east, wherever prospectors gathered, had passed to legend. It was, then, typical of him that having decided to give the “once over” to the man of his adored daughter’s selection, he should have chosen to travel, not by luxury liner from New York, but by one of his own tramp steamers from Richmond, Virginia, to London Bridge.

Now, a short black pipe between his still unblemished teeth, his mane of greying hair stirring to the English wind, and feeling that life was good, he stood foursquare on the bridge of the Chesapeake Bay, as that well-found craft steamed slowly up Thames tideway, Nigel Stonehouse, his brother-in-law, though as .English as the river down which he was gliding, and a lord at that, was as fine an old scout asi his sister had been a woman (than which, from her widower, appreciation could go no further), and in consequence Calvin B. had all kinds of use for, and confidence in, him. So that as Beth had assured him the man she’d hooked up with was a friend of Nigel’s—why, the chances were that what was good enough for Nigel and Beth would be good enough for Calvin B.

So that that was all hunky-dory, and in half an hour or so there Beth would be, all ready and smiling, just waitin’ on the quay-side for him to take right into his arms.

With the Black'Eagle wharf to starboard, they glided down the long stretch of Limehouse Reach, to Wapping old stairs; then through the canyon made by the upswung Tower Bridge. From thence, parallel with Tooley Street, to the wharf that was their moorings.

Standing at the gangway head, after bidding, goodbye to the Captain, Calvin B. scanned the wharf —the second time a little wonderingly. No Beth there; at that time of night only a tiny sprinkle of people waiting—since he was the only passenger, friends of the British members of the crew most likely. He waited five minutes or so, and as still there was no sign of his daughter, a deck-hand carrying his valise he crossed the gangway and from the quayside scanned the Avharf anew. In any case, as, to make sure there’d be no mistake, he’d wirelessed the time of his arrival as a good half hour prior to when the skipper had assured him they'd be at their moorings, there was no need to get all hot and bothered, he told himself reassuringly. She’d be there all right, sooner or later.

Quarter of an hour passed, however, and no Beth. Nor, so far as he could see, anyone at all from Ebury Street to meet him. The only thing, then, was to wait; no good setting off in a taxi and passing her half way. Half an hour passed, and now except for himself the wharf was deserted. Three-quarters of an hour. Something wrong here; a mistake of some kind. Failing some urgent cause, Beth wasn’t the girl to allow her old father to land in a strange country and not be there to meet and greet him. Or, in the event of some urgent reason cropping up to keep her away, not to arange for a deputy. Of all the truths in life of which he was most assured, this was among the the most firmly established. . . Perhaps she hadn’t received his wireless. The British Post Office was all right in its way of course, but it wasn’t the Western Union. “Mister Denstone?”

(To be Continued.) The characters in this story are entirely imaginary. No reference is ini tended to any living person or to any i public or private company.