THE FATAL GLOVE

Auckland Star, Volume 55, Issue 94, 21 April 1924, Page 12

THE FATAL GLOVE

By R. A. J. WALLING.

THE STORY—TWO YEARS LATER. CHAPTER I. The Night of October IS. Victor Lysons had been in many a tight place during the last two years. He was not afraid of taking risks. Had ho not held his life in his hands in that wild journey through the Iloodi country when he last saw Brewster? If the rain had come down in a deluge fierce enough to blanch the face of an English stay-at-home, what was it to him? Had he not seen rain in the tropics—rain so wild that the people of these temperate zones could not conceive its fury? What darkness that ever descended upon an English countryside could be compared with the thick darkness, the primeval night, of the Hoodi jungle? Yet Lysons, as he sat at the wheel of his car, peering into the funnel of light thrown ahead by his bk; lamps, Where the rain streams glittered like sheets of falling diamonds, where the wind whirled dead leaves from the trees and the wheels projected torrents of* liquid mud —Lysons was uncomfortable. The car skidded and squelched and swished along the narrow road by the side of the Dart. At a turn the white light would shine for an instant upon its seething waters foaming round great boulders; the next ipstant it gleamed upon the tree trunks of the wood on the other side; again it lit the streaming road, the narrow bridge, the terrible corner at Densham's Turn, climbed a precipice, slid down another. The minutes were hours. Lysons looked ahead for the light of Buckfast Village; it was an interminable drive. Why was it that he could not keep his mind off Brewster? The keen, pallid iac. of Brewster rose up in the lunnel of light, and Brewster's eyes gleamed so that he could hardly see the road. "It's the wind and rain," thought Lysons. "I've got the nerves. I'm not fit. Brewster—Brewster—Brewster! The engine sings Brewster, and the wind chants Brewster; there's Brewster behind the trees. Ha!" He shrieked, and his own voice startled him; he swerved, and the off wheel sputtered and scraped in the gutter. "Phew!" Every muscle trembled, every nerve tingled as he seemed to lift the car on to the road again by the sheer exercise of his own strength. It was nothing—nothing at all; a chimera, ai figment of his strained imagination. But it had certainly seemed for a moment as if Brewster had stood with his inscrutable smile in the roatt facing him, right in front of the car! And then the lights of Buckfast, the quiet houses in garden,plots, the white cobwalls, the .thatched roofs, the narrow streets, the red blinds in the windows of the inn. The brakes squealed. Lysons pulled up facing the wide archway which cut in two the ground floor of the George and Dragon. Brewster no more; phantom faces gone; instead of the roar of the river, the clinking of glasses and the murmur of voices within the building; instead of the voice of the storm, the hearty laughing greeting of old Tom Pengelly, whose name was on the signpost. "What a night! You've had a rough drive, sir." "Deuce of a drive, Tom." "Eh—why, it's Mr. Victor's voice!" cried Boniface. "Mr. Victor Lysons, by jimmy! By jimmy, it's Mr. Victor Lysons—or—" He shrank 'back as he spoke. "Yes, Tom—it's mc. By jimmy, or any other strange gods you like to swear by, the very same. You seem surprised." "I was going to say Mr. Victor or his ghost," said Pengelly, hanging back in the archway. Lysons had fished a big Tiandkerchief from somewhere among his heavy wrappings, pushed back his goggles and his cap, and wiped his face dry. "Ghost!" said he, looking hard at the landlord. "Ghost? Why do you say 'ghost?' Anyhow, ghost or no ghost, I stop to-night at the George and Dragon. Open up the old coachhouse, Tom and I'll get round." Pengelly went off to find a lantern. In five minutes the ear was housed, and the two men were standing beside her, Pengelly unfastening the mud-soaked straps pf his visitor's kit. "Yah!" said he. "What a state she's in! Kmothered in it. Look at the lamps! With all that red earth in front of the lights, they look as if you'd been driving through a slaughterhouse, Mr. Victor. But it's good red Devonshire mud, not blood." Lysons started. "What a fool you are, Tom! Blood? Of course it's not blood." He bent down, scraped the glass of the headlight with his finger, and held it in the light. "Why, of course not," the landlord replied. "No offence, Mr. Victor, I hope? I'll go and see about your supper for you, and your room. *You know your way, sir." He shouldered the ibig _.s_cr ana ambled off. Lysons packed up his coats in the coupe, put out the lamps, locked the double doors, and walked round by the silent street to the archway entrance of the George and Dragon. Beyond the archway rose a well into the "interior of the building, the floor paved with flat stones, doorways givin"access to the dining room and the kitchens, a glass partition, with red curtains shutting off the bar; above, a balastraded corridor, with numbered bedroom doors on three sides. The passage was continued along the fourth j side against a blank wall, and over it was a skylight to illuminate the narrow staircase by which one climbed to the second store}'. It was a bright and comfortable old scene. As "Lysons passed across it to the door of the dining room he shook himself free of the morbid fancies that had afflicted him for the last hour. In the armchair by a cheerful fire, stretching his cold limbs to the blaze while awaiting his supper, he was himself again. To the deuce with Brewster and the wraith of Brewster! Brewster's pale face had no business to haunt him to-night. It was long since he had seen *it lying with closed eyes three thousand miles away. With the smoking steak that he bad commanded, Tom Pengelly arrived. "Sit and talk to mc while I eat," said Lysons. "I want to know all" about the old folks."

Author of "A Silver Dagger," "A Sea Dog of Devon," etc.

Pengelly placed himself at the opposite side of the table, supporting his chin upon his hands. "All, yes, Mr. Victor," st.id he, "the old folks. It's a long time since you went foreign, isn't it? When did you come back, Mr. Victor?" "Back? Oh, a fortnight ago, maybe. But I did not want to talk about myself. You're to tell mc about the old people—old Gadd and Jane Cummings, and Baker Scampit, and Ben Cobbledick, the poaching rascal, and all the rest." "As for they, Mr. Victor, old Jane 'died two years ago, and Baker Scampit lis still alive that ought to be dead for j his sins, and Ben Cobbledick spends no more nor less of his time in gaol than he even did. Sir Richard never could abide poachers, and never will." Lysons was pouring wine for himself, and spilt some on the cloth. "Driving the car does not steady the hand, Tom," said he. "Never mind, sir. It's nothing. By the way, talking of Sir Richard, there's been time enough since you went away to forget—. That is, I'm impertinent, but you'll excuse an old friend, Mr. Victor. It's a pity to see two gentlemen like you at cross-purposes, and such close relations, too." Lysons cut through his thick steak with deliberation and said nothing. "I'm a blundering thickhead," Pengelly went on. "I'm mixing myself up in things that don't concern mc. But none of us down here could ever understand why it was that you cousins should quarrel. And I was hoping, sir, if I make so 'bold, that, seeing you come in this way and just now, it was like to be made up, and that, in fact, you'd come for the wedding." Lysons threw down his knife and fork. "Wedding!" he cried. "You didn't know about the wedding?" "Whose wedding?" "Why, whose but Sir Richard Fallofield's, Mr. Victor? But I forget you'd only just come back from foreign. You haven't heard? Sir Richard ig going to be married next week to the young lady from Stoke Michael—what's her name? —ah, yes, Miss Playfair." Lysons pushed back Ills chair, and stood leaning over the table for a moment glaring at the landlord. "Richard—is—going—to—marry—Miss Playfair ?" , Lysons spoke . the worffs as if they were being pumped out of him one by one. " 'Twas in the paper, Mr. Victor," Tom Pengelly said. "But perhaps I ought not to have talked about it." Lysons suddenly thrust his hand in the breast-pocket of his coat. He drew out a letter and looked at it. "You think that fool Dick Falloficld is going to marry her?" he cried, slapping the paper with his palm. I'll be —" Hei did not finish the sentence. He dropped back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. "Tom," he said, in his normal voice, "Tom you'll think I've suddenly gone mad. That's the worst of living and travelling in tropical countries. It upsets your nerves and destroys your liver, and plays the very deuce and all with you. I've got into a bad habit of bursting out like this. Don't take any notice of it." "No, Mr. Victor, certainly not. No offence, I hope? I knew you and Sir Richard were not very good friends, but I thought maybe, after all this time —" "Never mind, Tom. We won't resume that subject. So my cousin Dick is going to be married to Miss Playfair, and I suppose all the place is agog to see him bring home a new mistress for Fallofield. It's many years since there was a lady of the house, and Miss Playfair will make a very charming one." Then suddenly: "Have you ever seen Miss Playfair? Tell mc!" There was a sharp ring of command in his voice. "Never, sir, never. I don't think she's ever been to Buckfast. But we used to hear tell of her through Captain Pedrick's people when he was alive and had tho little villa at Newbridge. There was old Susan Farthingale, his housekeeper —she had been a servant in the Playfair family. Old Susan had two hundred left to her in the old boy's will, and having a nest egg of her own she went to live retired in a bit of a cottage she'd taken a fancy to—out along by the river under Hanging Wood. A leen r old place to my mind," said Tom Pengelly, giving a mock shudder. "Ah!" said Lysons. "What's the name of the cottage, eh?" "Underwood Cottage, Mr. Victor— that's the name of it. It's not so very far from Wheal Buckley. And that reminds me —you, having been foreign so long, haven't you heard the news about [Wheal Buckley." "No. What news?" "Why, 'tis said there's a great fortune in Wheal Buckley. That miserable old bal, which sunk a mint o' money and never raised any, and has been abandoned these many years—they do say that she'll do now. There's some new mineral discovered that they never knew about before, and you get it out of pitch-blende. Pitch-blende, good lor! Why, there's enough pitch-blende on the dump heaps up in the woods to build Exeter Cathedral all over again with. I mind the time—" The landlord stopped and lodked suddenly round. The door of the coffee room had creaked and opened a little way, and then banged fast again. "What a night!" he exclaimed, going to the door and looking into the hall. "It was the wind: I could have sworn I heard somebody outside." "Yes, yes," said Lysons. "Pitch-blende? How did they find it?" "Some gent from London come down one day, and stopped here a night. Then he fetched Sir Richard up to Wheal Buckley the next afternoon, and then jit leaked out about the new stuff that ■ was found there." "A 'gent' from London—a man came down from London looking for pitchblende in Wheal Buckley? Ah!" 6aid Lysons. "Now—what sort of man was he, Pengelly?" "He was a gent," salu Pengelly, "not a man. None of your common mining chaps, but a gent who had travelled all over the world and knew all kinds of languages and had all kinds of queer things to tell." - "Yes, yes," Lysons interrupted impatiently. "I daresay. But what sort of man was lie to look at and to hear? Was he an uncommon sort of man?" "Uncommon ? My word, I should think he was! You only wanted to see him once—the man with the lantern jaw and the high, square forehead, and the straight eyebrows, and the grey eyes that looked like steel. Uncommon! I should think he was." Lysons had risen from his chair and walked restlessly about the room. "And nig name was J"

"His name was Mr. Brewster, air— Mr. David Brewster. I have—" But Lysons waited to hear no more. He leaped back from the table. "Brewster—David Brewster!" he cried. He dropped on the old sofa under the window and buried his face in his hands. "Mr. Victor! Mr. Victor!" cried Pengelly, running to his side. "What is the matter, sir?" A sudden thought seemed to strike Lysons. He started to his feet. "When did you see Mr. Brewßter?" he said, grasping Tom Pengelly by the arm. "Recently?" "Oh, no, Mr. Vjctor; it'll be more than twelve months agone that I saw him here; but I've heard that the mining scheme's going on.* Mr. Brewster, he went foreign too, I heard, and I haven't seen him since." The grasp of Lysons on his arm relaxed, and Pengelly's visitor sank again to the sofa, holding his head with his hands. "Look here, Tom," he said. "I can count on you, can't IV "Hdw, sir?" "I mean, you aren't a talkative man." "Well, no more than ordinary, sir. I can say a few words when there's any occasion. On the other hand, I can hold my tongue when there's any need." Lysons gave a little laugh. "This is the time when there's need," said he. "Just go and get my big rubber coat and cap; and the gloves. You'll find them in the car." "You're never going out on a night like this, sir? " Lysons affected not to hear him. "Oh, I see," said the landlord. "You can count on mc, sir." He went into the hall, and presently returned with the coat, the cap, and the gloves. 1 _id you leave this little bag in the hall, sir?" he asked, showing a handbag which he had brought with him. "No," said Lysons, as he heaved his way into the big waterproof. "Now, nobody knows I'm here except you and Mrs. Pengelly and the maid, who doesn't know who I am. See?" , "Quite, sir." "And you don't know I've gone out." "No, sir; I am quite unaware of it." ' "And you won't know when I come in ", . "No, sir. For anything I know, you've gone to bed already. You're safe in number 14, where you've slept many a time before." "Good!" cried Lysons. "Now go away, and keep Mrs. Pengelly busy for five minutes. Be off!" He waited till the landlord had crossed the hall, entered the kitchen apartments, and closed the door behind him. Then Lysons peeped out. The hall was empty. He stepped on tiptoe to a little door under the corridor, quickly opened it, and passed out. A lady, asleep in No. 15 at the George and Dragon, was awakened at two o'clock in the morning by a thud and a sharp ringing as of breaking glass. She lay still until she heard voices in the corridor outside. Then Bhe lit her candle and put on a dressing-gown. She opened the door and looked out. Tom Pengelly was holding a light and looking over the railing into the well. Mrs. Pengelly, in her nightdress, stood behind him. "What's the matter?" she asked. "Don't know for the life o' "mc, miss," replied Tom. "Sounded like window smashing." The lady became conscious of a cold draught of damp air. "What's that?" she said, pointing to the other end of the gallery. "Good lordl" cried Pengelly, holding the candle above his head and peering. There was a skylight over the gallery at the back of the house. It had been smashed in several panes, and the woodwork was torn. The rain poured in. They went around to examine it. "What a mess! " Mrs. Pengelly looked mournfully at the rain-soaked" carpet strewn with broken glass and splinters of wood. "What's all the row about?" said another voice. All three started and turned, and Mrs. Pengelly fled to her bedroom. s . Lysons stood with a lighted candle in his hand in the door of No. 14. He was in pyjamas. "WBat's all the row about!" he repeated. "Something had blown off and come through the skylight," said Pengelly, "and woke us all up. Ijrote we go back to bed. Can't do anything to-night." "Well," said Lysons, "'youTe right, Tom. It's draughty. We'd all better go to bed. I thought somebody was trying to break into the house." "But look!" cried the lady. "What have you done to yourself?" She pointed to the sleeping suit that Lysons wore. The right leg was stained a dark red, and the dark red spot grew as Pengelly pushed forward his candle. "Blood!" he said. "You've hurt your leg, Mr. Lysons?" "Nothing, Tom. An old scratch —I must have knocked it as I jumped out of bed. It's nothing, I assure you." The lady looked at Lysons with steady eyes, and he flinched under their gaze. She went back to her room. Pengelly scratched his head and turned away. Lysons opened his door again, and retired. The corridor waa dark once more, the wind screamed outside, and the rain beat through the broken skylight. (To be continued daily.) Q-TOL No. 2 FOR ANIMAL USE. Mr. H. J. Taylor, or Otaki, writes: "Q-tol No. 2is a good cure for sore teats, i can recommend Dairy Farmers to use It." Protects teats from sunburn or frost.— (Ad.)