Amends for All.

Auckland Star, Volume XLII, Issue 138, 12 June 1911, Page 10

Amends for All.

BY 9 E. R. PUNSHOf.. [Author of "The Choice? "The Spin of the Coin," etc.)

CHAPTER IV.—(Continued.) "There's just a chance," Green thought io himself, sitting close beside Thorold, v "just a chance; all the same I would D not be in her shoes for nothing. But If it comes off," he said to himself witli ' secret joy and hope, "I'd rather have j saved her and done you, you great big I rworming bully, than got that there ■' hundred pounds as you wouldn't turn up, curse j-ou." j. They drove on for a few minutes till a they had covered perhaps a couple of f miles, and then Green coughed and said n aloud: J "Begging your parden, sir, most 'unibly, ~ sir, 1 Uiinks as 'ovr it would be a deai li safer if I was to get down 'ere—it's that <- there InspecLor .Lock as I'm so scared x on.'' t Thorold, without answering, brought f his car to a standstill. But though he ■: did not .s;i!?ak he turned his lowering v g.i/.e on Green, and looked at him till n tho little convict shivered with fresh t fe;:rt of what his companion might know i or guess. "Yen want to get down?" Thorold ' said presently. ' "I — 1 tl ink it would be safe," Green muttered uneasily. Tliorjld put his hand in his pocket and wave him some money nnd an ad d-.-e=3° ' _ l "Tonic to mc to-morrow." he Said, "at that house, :md I will give you ; enough to tak,e you out of the country." ' Green accepted the money greedily and jumped down, relieved beyond measure to escape from Thorold's brooding com- j ■pany, that see.Tied to him so full of throat t and rage he feared they might seek a c vent ' anywhere, anyhow, at any [ moment. Thorold drove on, . almost j equally relieved to be alone; for the ] pnin in his head was returning, and now j he was asking himself whether all that. , had taken place in this last hour or two was real; and now he was thinking also of the dark future and the darker task . before him. Until he was out of sight Green watched him, and saw that he never once looked round. "Bone 'im brown," Green cried ( triumphantly. "He never suspected no- , thing, tiie soft fool, for all his bullying , —but now we'll see." ;j He turned round and began to run • again at the very top of his .speed. , for he knew that all might dppend on' \ even a moment sooner or later. In- ] little over ten minutes, for he ran furi- , otisly, he reached the house again, and , to his delight saw that the volume c, \ smoke was already decreasing, and that ) there was no trace of flame at all. He opened the front door and found s the passage fairly free of smoke. Shut . ting the door behind him to cut off , the draught, he ventured to open tho , door of the drawing-room. Here the . smoke -was thick, and he fell back al- > most.choking. But it cleared, and peep- j ingT-agailThe saw that though in several places'fire was burning in little growing flames that would in all probability , spread before long, unless they were checked, to the rest of the house, yet that there was no immediate danger, . Green closed the door again, and ran up the stairs to the room in which the unconscious body of the young lady lay. ' He took some water from the toilet- , table and. flung; ii in her face, and' then . began to slap he-r hands vigorously with i a wet towel. Under this rough treat- i ment she revived, and opening her eyes looked at him. She lifted herself, aud j leaning on one arm looked round questioninglv. "Better?" he asked. "Where am I? What has happened?" she said in return. "Who are you?" "Oh, I'm just a cove as' was passing," ' Ihe answiered. "You are Miss Joan Durand?" "Yes," she said. She rose from her crouching position and stood up, supporting herself against the bed-post. "But —what—how do you know xay name? _ do not know you. What is all that _moke?" "The house is on fire," he answered. * r We shall 'aye to be going, miss." "On fire," she exclaimed in, alarm, starting up; "why, then—but how is it it's on fire." "A bloke's' been trying to burn it," Green answered, and added, unable to resist boasting of his own cleverness, "he mad? mc 'elp Im, but, bless your soul, I did "im brown for all his bullying and 'im calling mc a worm, too— I done 'im brown, so I did; and when he thought I was pouring oil about, it was water 'alf the time, while there was Band, too —lor', I found nigh a ton of sand in the cellar and I laid it thick inNhe room above, so that if the floor caught the sand would check the fire; and I pat more sand and wet clothes about everywhere while he wasn't looking—my, 'ow I did work though—everywhere where I thought it would check the blaze I put sand and wet cloths and things-, lor', I did him brown, I did, but we ,'ad better be going now, for _ couldn't stop it altogether, and I daresay what's got a hold will spread soon.'' "But," said Joan, puzzled and confused, "I don't understand; who tried to set the house on fire?" "A big brute of a bloke," Green answered vaguely. "Can you _wa_k, miss ?" "Yes, I think so," she answered; "but why—what—what does it mean " She hesitated, and then asked with an air of terror, "But is there no one else in the house?" Green shook his head, and looking at her wondered if she knew of that dead youth whose body still lay in the room beneath, surrounded by flames and; smoke. If she knew nothing of this tragedy that had taken place, there might possibly be some advantage in keeping'the matter secret. At any rate there- seemed no special ■■object in telling her of if till he knew more of the circumstances of the case. His natural leaning, too, by his innate character was towards secrecy and concealment. "No," he said,'"no, there was nothing else—and we, must be off, miss, if you can walk, for though I checked the fire, ltll be spreading •soon enough; with no one. there to stop it." "Yes, yes," she agreed quite eagerly, as though the suggestion being made* she was only too anxious to go. I She moved towards the door and he followed her. At the moment that she stretched out her hand towards the doorknob they heard a sound outside, and at the same instant heard the key turned in the lock and then hurried steps retreating. -.ookTng at' each other "in astonishment .'and' dismay, they realized that they were the prisoners in a burning house of an unknown cantor.

CHAPTER V. A POET AT HOME. To many who have never read, and who probably never will read, a line of hi. writings, the features of the poet and critic, Wilton Mayne, have been made familiar by the numerous portraits that have appeared of him in the various journals and periodicals of the day. These as a rule do him less than justice, for they show a form and features essentially commonplace—"a round little man with a tubby-face" he has been described by the reporter of a halfpenny paper — and a look at his photograph, and, in fact, even a casual glance at himself, might make the description seem as apt as it is certainly unflattering. But to know him better, to meet him and enjoy a talk with him, always seemed somehow to change entirely one's whole conception of the man's appearance. For when he talked, the slow movements of tho round little body would grow dignified and even graceful from their sheer 'intensity of feeling; the tubby face would change and grow vivid and eager; and the eyes, of so curiously dark a hue that they often seemed quite black, would glow and sparkle til! the visitor vould understand something of the influence that tbjs man exercised in English literature—an influence which the ■scanty bulk of his work, and the still scantier number of his readers, hardly seemed to justify. "There are two men in Wilton Mayne," the well-known ediitor of the "Weekly Review" had once said. "There's the ordinary, average, every-day man and there is the poet, the man of geniu?, who only seems to come to the top when something happens to stir him up.". Some people would have added that there was a third personality under Wilton Mayne's skin—that of'the prompt, comfortable, shrewd man of business; and these might have certainly urged that he looked that part to perfection as he sat this morning in his pleasant rooms in George-street, Piccadilly, busy with his morning's correspondence. Differing from other men of letters in j many ways, Wilton Mayne differed perhaps mo9t of all in the fact that nobody could well have had less vanity. Yet he certainly could not help being both pleased and gratified by the reception accorded to his recent book of verse, which had not only been very well reviewed but had actually achieved a cer"tain sale. Better than that to Wilton Mayne's mind was the fact that to a great extent it had been understood, and that, it was being discussed with seriousness" and comprehension. Almost every ] morning there was some letter f roiri some unknown correspondent to prove that' the message of the book had not been lost. "Above all tilings," he meditated aloud, "poetry must justify itself, since otherwise it can have no right to exist at all, and I hope—l hope "he repeated gently with a softness in his eyes as he laid down the letter from a recently bereaved widow he had just been reading. "I hope that my book is proving its right to live. Well, Monday, what is it?" he added with a sharpness his voice seldom took on. His valet had just entered the room. He was a singularly tall and powerfullooking fellow with a scowling, evil face and narrow eyes in which cunning and ferocity seemed to mingle in equal proportions. His thick lips and yellow skin told that he was of negr-o race, a fact also shown by his curling hair, of which he was inprdinafcely premd, and which he "kept plentifully annointed with odorous hair-oil. It was perhaps to his negro blood that he owed also his magnificently white and even teeth. "Mr. Thorold's below, sir," he said, his attitude and vpice perfectly respectful, and yet about him a kind of subdued insolence and familiarity, while his bold eyes roved up and down the room with an almost brutal' curiosity. "Shall I show him up, sir?" "Of course, of course, you know I am expecting him," said Mayne impatiently. He turned in his chair,-thrusting away the.papers with.which.he had been occupied. "Show Mr. Thorold up. at once, Monday,'' he' said, again. The valet withdrew, and Mayne looked after him with a troubled frown on his usually placid brow. "I shall get rid of that fellow," he said; "he annoys me—his manner is most insolent—upon my soul, I believe he frightens mc. Yes, I -will certainly get rid of him at once. I cannot imagine why I have kept him so long. Ah, .Thorold, my dear fellow, I am delighted to see you at last." He sprang up eagerly as Thorold came with slow and heavy steps into the room, but his words of welcome died on his lips, and the smile faded from his face, as he saw how grim and ghastly the other looked. "Ah," he said softly, "what has happened—Frank?" Without replying, Thorold dropped heavily into a chair, his whole manner indicative of a weakness and depression almost pathetic in one by nature so strong and self-reliant. It was as though this vigorous soul had at last come into contact with something stronger than itself and had been thrown back again as much bewildered as bruised. "Bad news, no sleep, no food," muttered Mayne to himself; his quick sympathy, as intuitive as a woman's, at once aroused. He turned hurriedly to a massive sideboard secured by an-unusually strong letter lock. This he opened and drew out a spirit-stand, also locked, and then gave- a sharp exclamation of annoyance as he. saw that one of .the. bottles it held was-- empty and the other nearly so. . "Why, Thorold," he cried over his.shoulder, "this beats all. My •whisky, has been going at such a rate that I was forced io. suspect. Monday." So I put it under double lock and key, and I'll be hanged if it isn't going even' faster than before. I have no doubt it is Monday,' -but how he manages to get it I can't iniagine. Upon my word," he added, while for a moment his clear, dark blue eyes seemed to cloud over with a strange suggestion of furtive cunning. "I think I shall have to keep the rascal till I find out." He mixed a whisky and soda and took j it across to Thorold, wno still sat in the same drooping attitude that consorted so ill with his fierce and wilful i personality. 5 "Brink this, my dear fellow," said Wilton Mayne in his soft voice of gentle c SpSed y "" and theU teU mc What has t t Th ,° r , ol ?- *?* the " lass > b «t only t. touched his lips with the contents, and .- him"-: " ° n the - table near >- j'Well," he said' abruptly, "t went to i that house of which Vbii told mc." "Ah," exclaimed Mayne eagerly, "and was Frank there*' ° ""

"Yes," answered " ThoroW, "be vr*m there—with a bullet through his head." "Oh,-my God, do you mean-it?'.cried Mayne, leaping to his feet and. looking very pale and disturbed; "what—oh, poor Frank—why, that is worse— why- " "No, it wfes not suicide," returned Thorold in the same, harsh tone, "not suicide, for the shot .had been fired at a distance." "Not suicide," repeated Mayne in a dazed tone, "but—but " His face was pale as death, his voice trembled. "Thorold, Thorold," he said, "what are you telling mc?" "That it was murder," Thorold answered; "but who is it that is listening at the door?" Mayne made one leap to it, and flinging it open disclosed the valet, the man Monday, stooping on the threshold in an attitude that left no doubt what he had been doing. Ordinarily a man of gentle, even timid nature, Mayne flewnow into a violent temper. "Out of my house," he shouted," aa Monday beat a hurried retreat, "take y/ourself off —there are your wages — pack and be off within an hour or 111 call in the police. And don't write to mc for a character, either." Monday disappeared before the torrent of the little poet's invective, and Mayne returned to Thorold, panting with his anger. "The villain," he "but, thank heaven, I am rid of him now. It's a relief to be rid of him. Upon my soul, I don't know why I have kept him so long, but it's a relief to be rid of him now. Upon my word, I believe the fellow half frightened me —he always gave mc the idea of knowing something, some profound and awful secret —some profound and even awful secret," he repeated musingly as he flung himself down in the nearest chair, and, as if these words troubled him, he repeated them over to himself in apparent forgetfulness of the news that the moment before he had received with so much agitation. (To tie continued dairy.)