THE FATAL GLOVE

Auckland Star, Volume 55, Issue 95, 22 April 1924, Page 14

THE FATAL GLOVE

By R. A. J. WALLING.

CHAPTER 11. What the Newspaper Said. When Lysons came down next morning lie met Tom Pengelly in the hall. "Have the ear ready at ten o'clock, Tom," said he. In the coffee-room, the lady whom he had seen'in the corridor at two o'clock that morning was already seated at -Veakfast. She inclined her head to Lyson's bow. At a glance he judged her a woman between twenty-seven and thirty. A quietly attractive woman, Lysons thought. The main impression he got of her was of calm brown eyes, which watched intelligently. He expressed the hope that she had not.been further disturbed in the night. "Oh, no," said she. "I forgot all about it, and slept quite well. And you? That was a nasty knock you gave yourself in getting out of bed. I hope it does not inconvenience you." Lysons looked at her. The culm hrown eyes were watching him, lie thought, intently. "Oh dear, no!" he said. "It was a mere nothing. Tysons affected to go on with his breakfast. But all the time he had a subconsciousness of those calm, brown eyes, and at last it became intolerable. He pushed hack his plate, rose, and wished her good morning, and went away. "Who is that woman?" he asked Pengelly. "I don't know anything but her name, Mr. Victor. She came yesterday and registered as Miss Lucy Manners. That's all I can tell you." An unquiet "spirit seemed to possess Lysons. He had the car prepared before the appointed time, and as soon as it was ready he motored away. At halfpast eleven he was pacing the platform of the station of St. David's at Exeter, waiting for the express. The great green and gold locomotive slid in at last, hauling its long load of coaches. Porters • walked along the platform crying, ' \London the next stopf London only!" London! Ah! Yesterday he had been glad to leave London and to think of the green countryside and the swelling hills of Devon. Now, the fastest express could not carry him fast enough away from these scenes. As the train moved out of Exeter and thundered through the Vale of Exe, Lysons lay back in the corner of his compartment and endeavoured to turn away from the past. But he could not escape its phantoms. Marjorie was going to marry Dick Fallofleld! Why had Marjorie been willing to marry Dick Fallofield? At any rate, Marjorie was lost to Victor Lysons. Whomsoever Marjorie married, it would not be Victor Lysons. No woman would ever marry him. What should he do ? This journey to Devonshire had been a little interlude in the study of his problem. Now, it was insistent again. What should he do? ■ ' - That had been his one concern ever since he last saw Brewster's pale face looking up at him. He had to face "it 1 now. He could not go on any longer in suspense, haunted by that pale face in the jungle. Why did he ever go to Africa? What malign fate led Brewster to Africa and caused their paths to meet? West Africa was a horrible nightmare, which he dreamed for more than a year. He had lived at such a pace in that white man's grave that it was a miracle he lived at all. He had not cared. There ; was nothing much to live for. Irony of ironies! It was Brewster who dragged him out of the slough. Extraordinary fatality that brought him into the very camp where Lysons was living! Brewster, on a scientific expedition, in the company of grave and learned men—it was Brewster who routed him out of the pit into which he had fallen, though he would have been justified in repudiating acquaintance with the disreputable and dissipated man he found there. He had pulled him on his feet, he had made a show of using the knowledge of the country that Lysons had acquired, he attached him ■to the expedition, and took him out of the life that would have finished him in another six months. And the reward Lysons had given him for this service was He thought he saw that white face looking up to him as the train slowed down into Paddington. Lysons had his kit-bag bundled into a taxi, and drove off tp Maidstone Mansions. The lift-man was surprised to see him again so coon. "Thought you were.paying a long visit to the country, sir?" he said. "Changed my mind," said Lysons curtly. In his flat he threw himself into a chair and-sat for a lo_>g time brooding on the events of yesterday. Seeing, through the open door, some letters on the floor of the tiny hall, he rose, almost mechanically, walked out, and picked them up. There were circulars which he threw aside. But among them was an envelope addressed to him in a neat handwriting familiar enough in former days. "By Jove, from old Noel!" he thought, opened it, and read. It was of that morning's date. My dear Lysons (Pinson wrote), —I heard casually yesterday two pieces of news whicii immensely surprised mc. First, that you were alive and had not been eaten by crocodiles in the equatorial forests. Next, that you were in London. The man who told mc thought he had heard you were b_cl*. in the old rooms, but was not sure. I am writing there on the off-chance, and I shall look round this evening to confirm my suspicions—about seven, so that we can go out and spend feeding time together. There is a new girl in the desk at old Pinaud's Restaurant. Wait in for mc. —Yours ever, N. Pinson. The message momentarily roused Lysons out of his melancholy. He looked at his watch. It was six. He unpacked his bag, and spent the next hour in his bath and his dressing-room. While he waited he wrote a note to his man. Parsons', saying that he had changed his plans and would be glad to have him back for a month at least if he could come. Pinson was punctual. His knock at the door came while the clock was striking seven. "How do you do, Lysons?" he said, holding out his hand, as though it was a week since they t had met. "Heard you were in town. Thought you might like to have a decent meal of something better than boiled, maize and crocodile soup—l believe that's the principal nutri-! ment in those parts."

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

Lysons, lighter at heart for the sight of his friend's face—that fine, clear-cut face with the aquiline nose and the slightly-raised eyebrows—fell into the mood. "Oh, yes—for a change. But, my dear Pinson, it would do your epicurean stomach good to rough it in the jungle, and it would knock gome of the cynicism out of you." "Impossible!" said Pinson. sitting down on a small chair and neatly posing a cigarette between his fingers. "Impossible! / There is not a drop of cynicism in mc. I am full to the skin of the milk of human kindness. I never say a harsh word of anybody—except in a professional way. My soul wells out to the murderer when I denounce him to the jury; potentially I am a murderer myself. Potentially, Lysons, you are a murderer. Given the right environment, my dear boy, any man is anything. It cures you of cynicism, that." Lysons looked strangely at his friend, and his eyebrows contracted. Then he shook off the influence of his words and laughed. "Well, Pinson, I don't care what your motives may be, but you're a godsend to mc. I know you are a staunch friend. All your 'flanerie' is but an affectation. I want you to throw it off npw for the sake of friendship." "Spoken like a hero of melodrama!" said Pinson. "Command mc." Lysons laughed. "Yes, I know," he said. "The deuce of it is that I take myself and my affairs too seriously. But, Pinson, be serious, too, for a while. I said you were a godsend, and I meant it. I must disburden myself to somebody, and you are the one man in London to whom I can do it." "Agreed! But let mc call your attention to the fact that I have fasted since 1 o'clock. I won't hear a word until I have been fed. Call a taxi. But no, you have no man here now. Let's walk." The restaurant of M. Pinaud was one of those tiny resorts in the by-streets of Soho, where one is transported at a touch from London to the Quartier Latin. Lysons slowly unfolded his napkin and tried to discover why it was that he felt at home and that it was good to be back, why the events of his wild life during the last two years seemed so remote and unreal, why the strain of the emotion he had experienced less than twenty-four hours ago was passing off. Pinson was seated opposite him with his back to the dark panel of the wall. His clean-built, slim figure in its glovelike coat, his sharp, eager face, his long head, were outlined clearly against this background. The picture gave Lysons a curious sense of the solidity and permanence of things, the security of civilisation, the reality of comfort. Lysons fed with content, amused by his* companion's commentaries; the jungle receded till it did not exist; the obsessing vision of Brewster's face _>ecame dim and vanished. Was all his trouble really nothing- but the fruit of a disordered imagination, which disappeared at the touch of reality when brought into contact with a man"-ike' Pinson ? Pinson sipped his coffee and reached for a match. He gave a glance at the face of Lysons. "Pinson," said Lysons, "I told you I wanted your advice and sympathy—l want to tell you the story of two years and " "And two weeks —particularly the two weeks," said Lysons. "What do you mean'" "My dear Lysons, time is not the important element in a story, and it is quite clear that in your story it does not count. Every boiled crocodile you. ate, every nigger you killed " "What!" cried Lysons, grasping his friend's arm roughly. "What are you talking about?" "Eh? I say, Lysons! Your nerves are rotten. Wiiat's the matter? I say that every nigger you killed, every mosquito you sw_rc at, every silly thing that happened out there, put it all together and the total is insignificant with what has happened in the last two weeks—indeed, the last two days, which, I perceive, you have spent in Devonshire." Lysons sat staring at his friend while he spoke. "How do you know? I have told you nothing." "Oh, yes, you have—everything. The case is perfect. Do you imagine that I cannot do two and two? When you went away you were madly in Jove with Miss Playfair. Silly condition to be in. But there it was. Perhaps you thougUt crocodile soup was a good cure. Now you know better. I regard those two years as absolutely wasted. But the two weeks you have been in England are full of importance. You came home to discover the fact that it had been notified in the 'Morning Post' that Miss j Playfair was going to be married to your cousin, Fallofield." "I knew absolutely nothing about it," said Lysons. "At any rate, you went down to Devonshire in a hurry. You thought that you could dissipate Fallofield into thin air 'and forbid the banns. You found that it was not so. The social institution was too strong for you. You rushed back to London, wondering

whether to go away again or to commit suicide, either quickly with a bullet or slowly by dissipation. Then the fairy godmother turned up at your flat (I am the fairy godmother) and restored your sense of proportion. You began to forget your tribulations, and under the influence of common sense and food were becoming quite sane, when you suddenly thought of Devonshire again. Immediately you became sentimental and idiotic once more. Is that a fair account of "the situation?" "Fair guessing," said Lysons. "Incorrect in some details, but on the whole accurate. Still, Pinson, if you are going to be of any use to mc, you will have to take my case seriously." "Very well. First correct my inaccuracies and fill in my blanks. Where am I wrong?" "First," Lysons began, "with regard to the motive that took mc to Devonshire. I knew nothing about Marjories engagement. It was "He pulled up short. "Excuse mc," said Pinson, suddenly rising. Lysons turned as his friend threaded I his way down the room, and saw him go to a table near the door where a woman was standing. She handed her cloak to a waiter, and then turned 'as, apparently, she heard Pinson's voice. Lysons started when her face was revealed to him. It was the girl whom he had last seen seated at breakfast in the inn at Buckfast. She smiled and chatted a moment or two with Pinson, who lingered by her until the waiter brought her first plat, then left her and came back to his friend. "You know that girl?" said Lysons, whispering, he hardly knew why. "And you too, I see," said Lysons. "Where did you meet her?" "She comes into my story, that's all." "Ah!" said Pinson, looking sharply at him. "Well—the story. You were saying—" "Yes. But \ cannot go on talking here, Pinson. Let's go out. The air is close." "Miss Manners seems to have affected you strangely," said Pinson. "Quiet, innocent girl, too. But still, if you will, we'll settle up with old Pinaud and walk down to the club." Chaffing the head-waiter and the new girl at the desk, Pinson reached the door, and raised his hat to Miss Matters.' Lysons followed suit. She bowed sli__tl} r . and they passed out. (To be continued daily.)