ANNE ALONE

Auckland Star, Volume LXII, Issue 2, 3 January 1931, Page 10 (Supplement)

ANNE ALONE

By ERSKINE FRASER.

CHAPTER XXII. Mr, Whitney Has Visitors, Over an inadequate lunch. of tinned spaghetti, ."which was all Anne could supply from their meagre stores, the Berringtons and their two friends discussed their immediate programme. "We're going to pay Whitney a call this afternoon," Anne declared firmly. "A nice Sunday afternoon visit. The better the day—the better the deed. Where's his private residence, Joan? The 'ouse with the 'ole in the garden." "In St. Michael's Hamlet. I forget the name of the road, but I can find the house quite well. It's not far from the river." "Look here, Anne, don't you think I'd better go by myself ?" Anthony said. "I'd be able to manage it quite well with this." He tapped Mr. Rowse's statement, which lay on the table beside him. "What? Timothy, d'you hear him? He wants to keep us out of it. Keep me out of the finest row I've ever dreamt of. Of all the selfish pijgs." "Horrible," Timothy agreed. "The man seems to be without a particle of brotherly love or consideration. Think, Berrington, of your delicately nurtured sister and her sensitive feelings. Think what madness, what cruelty, it would be to prevent her coming with us. . . "Us," Anthony repeated. "Are you all coming with me?" "We are. The villain's got to be brought to book in the presence of us all. Seriously, Berrington, I think we ought to go with you. I don't think he'd try to chuck you out of the house, or anything, but four people are much more outfacing than one. Also, the more witnesses you have the better." "Yes," Jean agreed. "I must say I think it would be best if we were all there. I—l'm not trying to exaggerate . . . but really, Anthony, I do think there's a danger of his perhaps going for .you. To get the statement and destroy it, I mean. In the heat of the moment, you know. He has a terrible temper." "And though I'm laughing now," Anne put in, "I won't bo laughing when I see him. I'll be too wild for that. I won't go up to him and say, 'That was a jolly little trick of yours about the table. Ha ha-ha.'" Anne's gift for mimicry was extraordinarily good, and it almost seemed to Anthony and Jean as if Whitney were in the room—she had caught his tones so well. "We must get some definite admission out of him," Timothy said. "Something j that Berrington can produce—like Rowse's statement." "An affi-what-do-you-call-it," Anne interrupted. "I, the undersigned, do solemnly swear that the said Norman table was executed at, by, to, or from my express instructions, and that I of malign purpose aforethought, requested the plaintive —I mean plaintiff—Anthony Berrington, to sell the said Norman table as a genuine article. Therefore I—as witnesseth my signature—do apologise to the said Anthony Berrington, now and unto the third and fourth generation of " "That's the kind of thing I mean— without the legal and Scriptural phrases which my learned young friend, with the spaghetti dangling from her lips, has given .to it. Write out something satisfying—admission and apology—and we'll make him sign it." "How'll this do?" asked Anthony, after a few minutes' writing. "It's not long, but I think it's enough. You know, it's no good asking him to put his name to s. long-winded document that incriminates him up to the eyes." "But he ought to be incriminated." Ajme was vehement. "He ought to be hounded out of Liverpool." "When he's signed this, my dear, he'll realise that he's dished in this part of the world. Hell just have to go. I'll be satisfied by his admission that I knew nothing whatever about the antecedents of the wretched table, and did not give the guarantee on my own responsibility. That's what this says—and the apology to myself I've added at the end is all that I want." I

"I think that is all right, Anthony," Jean had considered it carefully. "It's got everything in—everything that really matters —to.you." "It's a thought simple for me," said Anne, regretfully. "I should have liked a few more hereby's, therefrom's and whicliof's. However, it'll do." "Yes," Timothy agreed. "It's good enough. You can send a copy of it to Isham when it's duly filled up. Well, now, what about starting on our pilgrimage to St. Michael's Hamlet?" "Eight." Anne jumped up. "Jean, I've got an extra walking stick if you'd like one." "But I don't use a walking stick in town. Whatever d'you want one for?" "To walk with, of course," said Anne, as she selected the stoutest as'hplant in the stand. They found Mr. Whitney's house without much difficulty. "Not a bad place," Anne said, as they went up the path to the front door. "Nice garden to dig in, don't you think? Wonder if he's exhuming an Early Christian sofa now. Oh, Jean, is he married? D'you think we'll be met by a Mrs. W.?" • "No, he isn't. He's " "Single, but his troubles are going to begin all the same." Timothy looked at the house with interest. "Who's going to knock the knocker? Childe Anthony, I think. Actually there ought to be a hom to blow. Never mind. Give it a good bang, Berrington." Anthony gave a loud knock at rhe door —ignoring the electric bell which was placed discreetly at the side. All four waited for the door to open. "All of a dither, I am," whispered Anne, as they heard footetepe in the hall. "Suppose he opens the door himself." The knock, however, was answered by an elderly manservant, who showed a little surprise at the sight of the four young people on the step. "Mr. Whitney in?" asked Anthony. "Yes, sir—but he's resting at present.' Did you wish to see him particularly?" "Very particularly," Anne answsred for her brother. "I'm afraid you'll have to disturb him." The man let them pass into the hall. "Will you leave your stick here, madam?" He showed Anne an umbrella stand. "Urn ... no ... I think I'll take it with me, thanks. Family heirloom,

you know. Never let it out of my sight for a moment." "Yes, madam." He showed them into a large, well-lit room. "I'll tell Mr. Whitney. What name, please?" "Berrington," Anthony told him. Anne looked round the room. "Sort of study place, I suppose," she said, striving to keep her voice calm, "He reads a lot, doesn't he?" "And he hasn't a bad collection of pictures, either?" Timothy was taking a rapid survey of the walls. "Assuming that he hasn't had them copied, they're a pretty valuable lot. He ha# taste, certanly." Jean and Anthony said nothing. They were watching the door. Jean's faco was a little pale. . . . Anthony's wa» stern -and set. "Oh, Anthony, look at this " Anne was beginning, when Mr. Whitney came in. Ho was dressed in his usual flamboyant way and his presence seemed to dominate the room. "Ah. . . . Berrington. . . " He paused as he quickly scrutinised the other three. . . . "And your sister. And Mur Graham. . . "And me— —" Timothy bowed. "Timothy Carr. I've met you before at the Chatham Club." "Yes, of course. Ha-ha-ha. I remember you now. Well, Berrington, I'm surprised to see you. I should have thought that you and I had had enough to say to each other by now. I hope you have not come to ask for any more commissions—Ha-ha-ha. . . "

There was a second's silence before Anthony spoke. When he did so his voice was so choked with anger that it sounded almost like a whisper iij the beautiful room.

"No. ... I have not come to ask foi money. But wo have not said enough to each other yet. .•. . Mr. Whitney, J have come to show you a statement that I have had from Rowse—a man who used to be in your employ." At the mention of Rowse's name, the expression in Whitney's eyes had changed ever so slightjy, Anne noticed. "Ah. . . . Rowse. ... a discharged workman of mine. Yes^" "Ho wasn't discharged." Jean interrupted. "You sent him to Birmingham —but he wasn't discharged. You wouldn't have dared to do that."

"My dear Miss Graham, you're being very sinister and ridiculous. I dare to discharge many people. Berrington here, for instance. Ha-ha-ha." He smiled unpleasantly, and Anne saw that he was watching Anthony closely. "In this statement," Anthony's voice was steadier, louder, "Rowse says that ho was employed by you to carve an imitation Norseman table. He also says that he can produce another re liable witness who was engaged on the carving——" "And burial " put in Anne "And subsequent burial of the table in your own garden." "Perhaps you will let me see this absurd document." Whitney held out his hand. "Certainly." Anthony gave it to him, and they watched the antique dealer swiftly read it through, his thick lipy compressed as he did so. "By the way, you needn't think of tearing it up," said Timothy. "Mr. Rowse is ready to write out a similar one at any time." "I see. ..." Whitney returned the paper to Anthony "Well, what do you propose to do? 1 suppose you want some money?" Anne was amazed at the calm way he took it. Not a muscle of his face had moved. He stood there, bland and smiling as she had always known him. "No." Anthony, too, was taken aback—"l don't want anything like that. I've not come here to blackmail you. . . ." "Oh, yes, you have. That's what you are doing. And you've managed things very well. I don't know how you succeeded in fmding Rowse —unless, of course, it was through Miss Graham— who has always been, shall we say, a warm champion of your intereets—for want of a better word. . . ." He smiled ironically at Jean. ... "I wish I were us young and good-looking as you, Berrington. Miss Graham might have exerted her talents on my behalf instead of on yours." Ho dropped his bantering tone. "Well now, Berrington, what d'you want? You and your friends. I am, of course, completely in your hands."

"I want you to sign this, Mr. Whitney. And you must sign it." Again Whitney held out his hand for the paper which Anthony gave him. "Ah, yes. Very nicely worded. Very thorough. The apology at the conclution is extraordinarily well expressed. And you think I'm going to sign this damned thing, do you?" James Whitney's white face had suddenly gone a dark red. His eyes were blazing and bright with fury. "Do you think that I am going to put my name to this? I—l —" He crumpled the paper in his hand and took a step towards Anthony. Timothy came forward. "You will have to sign it. You've not other alternative. You have offered Berrington money in the presence of us all. We have all witnessed Rowse's statement. If you don't sign that paper, the matter shall be brought to court. As it is you are getting off very lightly. You must sign it." There was another silence during which Anne had an almost irresistible impulse to shout "Sign, please." The flush slowly faded from Mr. Whitney's face, leaving it sallow and grey. All at once he looked an old man. "Very well. . AH the anger had left his voice. . . "I see I have no alternative. This means ruin to me, of course. I shall have to leave Liverpool now. It .. . it's not so easy for a man ... a man of my years to begin all over again. . "No." Anthony's voice was hard. "But you didn't think of me when you discharged me. When you accused me of stealing—as good as stealing- in front of Mr. Isham. You didn't think of my life, did you, when—" "You're a young man," Mr. Whitney began sadly, "you—" "It's no use," Anne broke in. "You can't pull the old-ruined-man stuff off with us. To begin with, you're not ruined. You have money—and pot aof it, I'm sure. And you can go and fake things in another town. Change your name if you like." Anne was purposely crude and insulting. She was afraid that Anthony might be touched by the elder man's appeal. She was afraid that her brother might relent for the sake of his former admiration and' affection for Whitney. Timothy, too, realised this.

| "You can't get out of things that way. I You're not so old either, and as Miss ' Berrington has said, you're not ruined, i We don't care what you do as long as i Berrington is cleared. You'll be able to begin all over again with a better conscience in fact. If you have a conscience, of course."

Mr. Whitney straightened out the crumpled paper. He walked over to- his desk by the window, and sat down. The four watched him pick up a pen, dip it into a beautifully chased Italian inkpot, and sign his name at the bottom of the paper.

"Thank you." Anthony took it from him and studied the signature. Mr. Whitney said nothing. He sat motionless in his chair, his curiously-focussed eyes gazing unseeingly out into the garden. Anne suddenly felt embarrassed and awkward, and she saw that the others felt it too. Everything had ended in a strangely uncomfortable anticlimax. . . Anthony had the paper—she wished that Mr. Whitney would say something — something that would break the unnatural silence that had fallen on them all. It was, however, Timothy who broke it. "Well, that's that." His voice was purposely casual. "Permit me to sign as your witness. I've been doing a bit of that lately—getting rather good at it in fact. Thank you." He turned to tha others. "We'll go now. Nothing to be gained by staying any longer. Come on." As they left the room Anno glanced back. Mr. Whitney had not moved. He was still sitting' at the window, large, silent and remote. It was only when Anne was half-way home that she remembered she had left her stick in Mr. Whitney's room. "I'm not going back for it, though. Couldn't face him again—and I would spoil his curtain if I did. That silent business at the end was most effective. I almost thought that we'd beeen doing him an injury. However, he can keep my stick and have it carved into St. lona's staff if he likes. . . " (To be continued daily.)