THE THIRD DEGREE.

Auckland Star, Volume LVI, Issue 190, 13 August 1925, Page 18

THE THIRD DEGREE.

BY R. A. J. WALLING.

Author of " The Fatal Glove," etc. CHAPTER IX. The Charcoal Burner's Hut. "Who is Samuel Belliver? "What does Samuel Belliver want with nearly twenty-two thousand pounds? "Why did Mr. Lanson hand over nearly twenty-two thousand pounds to Samuel Belliver and leave his niece and ward penniless? "What has Samuel Belliver to do with John Belliver ? "Bellivcr is not a very common name. There can't be many Samuel Bellivers in existence. '•She's a sweet girl. It's a privilege to bo in her confidence. What am 1 going to do? - ' These questions and reflections chased each other through the mind of Mr. Fewings all night. They got themselves mixed uj) with his writing and his proofs. Errand hoys and emissaries from his stair found him preoccupied and absorbed. It was a nightmare to him. that night's labour. He was glad when it was over, and he heard the machines roaring and rattling out the "Westport Journal' , in the distance, and a boy brought him a cup of coffee for his refreshment. He sat sipping it for live minutes. Then he rolled a cigarette. Then a thought struck, him. He pressed his bell. "Bring mc the 'County Directory', please." he said to the boy who answered. "Belliver." he repeated to himself, "is not a common name. It's a local name, too. It's not likely—Jack Belliver gave mc the idea, or 1 got the idea, that he was a country boy from the West country." 'She big directory was brought. "Thank you," said Fewings, and locked his door upon the disappearing messenger. He spread open the book upon his table and turned to the long list of "General Names." "B" was a prolific letter. There were large numbers of "B"s." B—a, B —e, B—e —c, B —c —d, a whole page of them, B—e—g, B —e — k, B—e—l—ahl—Belairs. Belby, Beldon, Belger, Belison—what strange names one found nowhere else than in a directory! Bellaston, Bclledon—ah ah! — Belliver! Here we were. A short list of Bellivers. "Belliver, Alfred, grocer." No. that won't do. "Belliver, Charles William, gentleman." No. "Belliver, Frederick, farmer, Draecombe." No. "Belliver, John, solicitor, 10, Hayes Avenue, Westport." Fewings paused at the name of his friend. "Poor old Jack!" said he. The next Belliver in the list was Matthew Belliver, farmer, Winscombc. Then—ah!—"Belliver, Samuel, v The Schoolhouse, Lakeford."' Fewings stopped his finger as it slid down the page. Good Lord! was he as far off a discovery as ever? Samuel Belliver, of The Schoolhouse, Lakeford. was the only Belliver of that Christian name in the directory. Was it possible that the clue he sought could be here? At any rate, it was most unlikely. Fewings knew Lakeford; it was a remote hamlet in the wilds of Dartmoor. Howcould a village schoolmaster away in those poverty-stricken solitudes be the man he was seeking? It seemed preposterous. Yet there was no other Samuel Belliver in all the thousand pages of the big book that lay before him. And somehow or other the sight of the name in print made an impression on his mind. Jack Belliver was probably connected with one of these Bellivers, either the grocer or one of the farmers, possibly the "gentleman," for all kinds of people got set down as "gentlemen" in directories. But the closest link was certainly witli Samuel Belliver, the schoolmaster at Lakeford. Fewings shut the book, leant hack in his chair and lit his cigarette. After six puffs he put it down, took pen and paper, and wrote a note to Miss Lanson. Then he put on his hat and switched off his lights, left the office, and walked out into the quiet dawn. He posted his letter and hesitated, yawning. Should lie go home to sleep, or should he get on the trail at once? It took three hours to reach Lakeford from Westport by rail and road. If he went home'to sleep the best part of the morning would be gone before he started. True, ,he could do it in an hour by taking a motor car. He might have a few hours' rest and still be at Lakeford by midday. He yawned again. But there were reasons why it would be better not to appear at Lakeford in a motor car. If Fewings had any ideas worth" having, the inquiries he was to make ought to be carried out with as little stir and publicity as possible. He could imagine the fuss that would be made by the arrival of a motor car in .the hamlet of. Lakeford. He .shook himself ; and took a timetable '■ from his pocket. A policeman passed the post office and touched his hat. He looked round once or twice, as though surprised to see Mr. Fewings examining a: time-table in-the street at that hour of the morning. ' There was a train at 5.30 which reached Yannadon Junction at 6.15, and a branch train to Kingsleigh at 0.45. From Kingsleigh live miles' hard walking would bring him to Lakeford V.efore nine. He could have a day there and get back in the early evening. Fewings looked at his watch, started off for his rooms, lit his gas and set a kettle to boil. He made as little noise as he could about a bath, and, feeling fresh and wide awake, took tea and some food, left a note for his landlady, and was at Northtown Station in good time for his train. He was one of very few' passengers who stepped out of the morning train at Kingsleigh into the keen air of the great moorland waste by which it was surrounded. Asking no questions there, he set oil' through the bare, windswept village, inhaling with the clear morning breeze the. pungent, pleasant; aroma of buming*peat. When lie had passed the last of the granite-walled and blackroofed cottages the. white- sandy road stretched before him into the recesses of the moor, undulating over great bare downs and through the passes of the rocky tors into the purple haze of the distant east. One walked easily in this finely -rarefied air. All his lassitude Was. gone. He went with springing step. No questions at Kingsleigh, he decided, because it was well that Lakeford should be in nobody's mind just now for any special reason. He knew his road roughly. An inquiry to,any peat-cutter • a few miles further on, before he loft •tlfC"lil»hw»V, would be all that was necessary. ..„ • '

So Fewings found himself at shortly j after eight o'clock making across a ' sheep-track for a wood that showed black against the sky a mile from the road to the left. He had found his peat-cutter. He had been told that there was a path through the wood which would bring him down to Lakeford direct, and save him two miles as compared with the way round by road. In twenty minutes he had entered J the wood. It was a vast forest growth, clothing the whole side of a great valley for miles, the river running through the bottom. At the top pine and larch, lower down oak and ash, but mostly oak—young oak. whose sapling trunks stretched upwards, clean and shining, with the sunlight flickering through their branches upon the thick carpet of dead leaves underneath. i It was when Fewings had descended trie puth skirting the valley for about a mile that he encountered the incident which made him so late at Lakeford. Just before the path had forked, and lie had chosen the branch that led down- j wards to the left. It turned out to be ' the wrong direction, for it led merely to a clearing in the wood where a charcoal burner kept his vigil, and a thin stream of blue smoke ascended from the chimney of his hut. I When Fewings reached the place the man was not to be seen. Desiring to ask a question about the way, Fewings | walked across the clearing towards the hut. There was a mound of beaten earth between him and the doorway, ' and. instead of going round it, lie made as if to walk across it. He had not taken three steps before his feet sank under him. and smoke and flames sprang from the ground and burst all around him. As he leapt backwards he felt a sharp burning sensation on his right leg. and. thoroughly startled, he extricated himself from the soft earth and ran a few paces away from the spot where a volcano seemed suddenly to , have come to life. I The whole clearing was filled with thick smoke. He could see nothing. I The pain in his leg was so sharp that he sat down to examine the injured limb. His boot had saved his foot, but the leg of his trcmiser was charred, and as he tore the cloth away he saw that he had a bad burn on the calf. i As lie sat looking at it he heard a man's voice grumbling, arid the sharp strokes of a shovel. By degrees the smoke diminished, and when it cleared away Fewings saw an elderly man piling fresh eartli upon the heap and ramming it hard. I He hailed him. The man turned sharply. j "All!" he cried. "So it's you that : have been disturbing my furnace? Why the mischief couldn't you let it alone':". He came towards Fewings. ] '"Oh. I see," he exclaimed: "an accident! Beg pardon, sir. I thought it was some meddlesome varmint of a boy jip from the village. You walked into it by mistake, I see." i Fewings nodded. I "I've burnt myself a bit," said he. "I didn't know you kept private volcanoes of your own on Dartmoor." | "Let mc look." said tlie man. "It's a nasty little scald, but we'll soon get that right, sir. Come along with mc." He led the way to the hut. "Strangers be few and far between in Lakeford Woods, and the folks hereabout know a charcoal furnace when they sec one. You be going to Lakeford, sir?" | "Yes." said Fewings; "I'd just missed my road, and was going to ask you to put mc right, when I found myself on the way to Kingdom Come." | "Plenty of time for that yet," said the ' man, with a. smile. "Sit down and let mc fix this up for you, sir." j The hut had one apartment only, and no furniture except a table, a bed, and some boxes. Fewings sat on one of the boxes and stretched out his leg. The man got oil and some clean rag. assuaged the burning, and dressed the injury jieatly. j "That's much better," said Fewings. "I'm much obliged to you. Now, can you put mc right for Lakeford?" | '"Yes—you must go back to the fork in the path and turn to the right. But if I was you, sir, I'd sit for a bit and let the oil soak in. You'll walk all the better after." i "Thank," Fewings replied, and was glad to accept the offer. Two steps had shown him that the hurt was still very painful. "So that's a charcoal furnace?" he observed. "You put the earth on to keep the wood smouldering, of course?" J I "Yes; it's spoilt if you let it flame." "Eather dangerous for any chance wanderer who came along by night, eh?" "Yes: but it's very quiet" in the wood at night. I never get any visitors, sir. It's more than twenty years since 1 had a visitor by night, and I shall never forget that." j The man shook his head and looked' grave. j "Was it so striking a visit, then?"! asked Fewings, witli idle curiosity, as lie looked out into the clearing where the sun phone between the lines of an avenue of saplings. "It was a thing to burn itself into your memory in more than one way," said his host. "Life's a queer business, I sir." ' ' - 1 Fewings turned from his , contempla-'. tion of the woodland scene outside f* arrested by the man's tone as lie spoke.' I "Ah!" said he. "You have plenty of time to philosophise as you sit in* the I quiet woods and tend your "fiYes. ' Yes,life is a queer business. .But .what makes you say that just now?" "I was just thinking that I live in this hut seven months of the year and have been here for thirty years past. You live in the town, doiilitles*. sir. where all sorts of tilings are always happening. Yet I wonder whether any such strange thing ever happened to you in town as happened to mc here? You putting your foot in my oven puts mc in mind of it-" "Tell mc about it," said Fewings. " Twas more than twenty years ago," said the charcoal burner. "I was sitting in front of my hut—not in this clearing then, but further up the hill— one evening, and I remember that I was skinning a rabbit I meant to cook next day, when I heard the bushes crackling and a bundle of rags came through. Yes, a bundle of rags, with a basket hanging to it, tha-t's all you could call the man that came through die bushes." (To be continued daily.)