A SHELTERED EXISTENGE.

Auckland Star, Volume LVI, Issue 66, 19 March 1925, Page 18

A SHELTERED EXISTENGE.

(SHORT STORY.) *

(By ELLIOT BAILEY.)

Mrs. Hildegard-Brown put down her newspaper with a sigh.

"When I think, dear Alfred, of the turmoil which goes on in the world around us I feel that we cannot be too thankful for our sheltered existence. It is now ten o'clock; let us go to bed." The young man on the opposite side of the hearth roused himself with a start from the reverie into which he had fallen. He was quite a presentable young man, but his height and the breadth of his shoulders were legacies from a father who had been something of an athlete and who, unfortunately for Alfred, had died in the latter's infancy. They were not the product of his own love of games or exercise. As a matter of fact, presentable though he was, Alfred Hildegard-Brown was the despair of the maidens of that sport-loving locality. Golf was anathema to him; tennis he abhorred; he had tried hockey.—but unfortunately the ground was rough, the ball inclined to rise, and Alfred's black eye had sent his mother to bed for a week. The experiment had not been repeated. His one and abiding passion in life— co far—was his collection of china, and his latest treasure in this direction two perfect examples of early Worcester which he had discovered going unrecognised at an absurd price. But it was not on china that his thoughts were fixed when his mother's observation roused him to his surroundings. It was something quite different that his mind's eye traced in the flames of the fire, something subtly attractive and disturbing, something he had seen there more than once of late. In short, it was a girl's head, her hair brown and bobbed, a hint of raillery, almost mockery, in the dancing eyes which matched the hair—eyes quick to register the expression of that piquant face, whether friendliness or scorn. He had met her several times lately at the teas to which he dutifully accompanied his doting mother. They had discussed games, and she had asked him if he played golf, cricket, football. He had watched her play tennis. Once he had seen her drive from the tee with all the grace of her vigorous young body. For tile first time in his life vague regrets stirred hini that lie was not as other men. He rose abruptly, and as he kissed his mother good night it seemed that for an Instant her face changed to that of the girl, Gladys Conyers. She wondered at his sudden flush, and hoped it did Hot denote a chill. "I trust," she murmured, "that Jane has remembered your hot-wafer bottle." For once, Alfred did not undress immediately, and tumble off to sleep. Instead, he flung himself into a chair and gave himscif up to thought. Then he crossed to his bookcase and took down a slim volume. It was "The A.B.C. of Lawn Tennis." He settled down again, and began to read. A couple of hours passed, and he was still imbibing the rudiments of lawn tennis. Then all at once lie stiffened, and raised his head. From the room below —the room containing most of his china cabinets—came the unmistakable sound of .broken erocktry. Alfred emitted an exclamation of annoyance. "No doubt," he muttered, "Jane has omitted to turn out the cat. How very careless of her!" He was still fully dressed, and he opened door quietly and went downstairs. Not that he had any real fear of waking his mother. Mrs. Brown was one of those people who while declaring they never sleep, invariably do so soundly from ten-thirty to seven. Had Alfred fallen—down the stairs it would probably hav e made no difference to her. When he arrived in the hall, a chink of hght under the drawing-room door made Alfred pause *and reconsider his diagnosis. Cats may knock down china ornaments, but they do not as a rule turn on the electric light to pick up the pieces. It needed little deduction to guess that some unauthorised person had broken in, and was helping himself to Alfred's beloved porcelain. He opened the door and walked into the room. " Once inside, he stopped short—very short. A composed figure in tweed jacket and trousers, witli features covered by a black velvet mask, stood confronting Mm. A revolver was levelled straight at his head. "Up with your hands," came the gruff command, "or I fire." Alfred gasped. A Raffles in real life was beyond his scheme of things Obediently he raised his arms, his eyes taking in the nefarious work that was proceeding. On the table was a box containing sawdust, arid embedded in the sawdust were the two specimens of early Worcester. Alfred's heart sank. "Here, I say," he murmured, feebly. "What I mean is " "Silence!" hissed the burglar—and Alfred was silent. To tell the truth, he was considerably flummoxed. His upbringing had not 'been conducive to quick thinking in a crisis, and undoubtedly lie found this a crisis of the first magnitude. One thing brought him relief. The fragments of the broken vase which had brought him on the scene revealed that it was not one of his dearest treasures which had been smashed. As a matter of fact it was an atrocity which Alfred hated—a hideous affair with "A present from Margate" on it, sent to his mother by his erstwhile nurse -and which for sentimental reasons she had insisted should be placed with the rest. It was the one thing in the room the demise of which could wring no tears from Alfred's heart. The burglar stared at him fixedly through the mask. "Are you armed ?" "No," eaid Alfred, promptly. "Then you may drop your hands." The young man did so, with a sigh of relief. "Now get your overcoat on." Alfred bunked. "My overcoat! What on earth for? " There came a significant tilt of the pistol. "No questions; get it on." Alfred turned into the hall, where his overcoat was hanging on its peg, and the masked figure stood by while he put it W Tbe * tlle J*"** nodded towards the box containing the Worcester vases window £ through the The astounded youth picked up. the his revolver conducted Alfred to a twoseater car which stood in the roadway In with you, and remember I've got the pistol where I can use it, so no mo&key tricks."

More dazed than he had ever been in his life, Alfred clambered into the car. Where he was being taken, and what was going to happen when they got there, was beyond him. He held firmly to the box containing his precious vases and hoped for the best. Without another word on either side, they drove for perhaps half an hour, and in the dead of night on those lonely roads they did not meet a soul. Then the driver slowed down. "Leave that box on the seat and get out," he ordered. "You can walk home from here." "B-b-but those vases; you sec ; they're m-mine. I m-mean to say " "Shut up," was the vicious retort. "Do as I tell you." And Alfred felt the muzzle of the pistol dig him fiercely in the ribs. Without further palaver he alighted, and scarcely had his feet touched the ground when the second act of this amazing comedy began. From the bushes at the roadside a third figure stepped out, and Alfred dimly made out that he too was armed. "Keep quite still,- both of you," he remarked, in a quiet, threatening voice. "I want that car." Whereat the car's driver uttered a queer little cry, and Alfred heard a pistol fall from fingers that seemed suddenly to have grown nerveless. The stranger reached out a long arm and began to drag the other from the seat. At that Alfred Hildegard-Brown went suddenly mad. Ignoring the weapon in the stranger's hand, he drew back his arm and hit him a resounding blow on the side of the head, and then grappled him in a bear-like hug. There came the sound of a pistol-shot, and a bullet sang harmlessly away into the void.