A RING OF STEEL

Auckland Star, Volume LXIII, Issue 185, 6 August 1932, Page 10 (Supplement)

A RING OF STEEL

CHAPTER X. "Really 1" Brent said, a little startle'! by the dramatic statement. "Something very dreadful, was it?" "I am afraid so, Cecil. He was my father's brother, and the apple of hid mother's eye. He had a most fascinating way with him and, at one time, he must have been very handsome. Everybody spoilt him, including his mother, who was left a widow at a comparatively early age, and I am afraid that he get hold of most of the money she had. Ho was always going to make his fortune, but always ended in getting rid of anything that he was trusted with. A man who had 110 6ort of mental ballast. Then when ho could not get funds from his friends, he fell into-bad hands. Robbery and forgery, all sorts of dreadful thing:. Ho did have two or three chances an I then camo a very serious trouble in connection with an evil genius who managed to keep out of trouble himself and escaped punishment when my poor uncle was sentenced to seven years' penal servitude. That happened about 10 years ago and he died not long before, lje would have been released. It really was a good thing for everybody concerned, but I shall always have a soft spot in my heart for him, because he was so good to mo when I was a child. Just before he died, lie wrote me a letter in which he told mo that he had left a box with my mother 'and that I was to have everything it contained. Most of the portents were worthless, but that silver thing I gave to you was enclosed in a case in which was a note telling mo. • all about it. A sort of history, so to 1 speak."

"Oh, indeed," Brent said. "Do you happen to have that now ? 1 moan, diu you keep the piece of paper it was written on ?" "No, I didn't," Marjorie explained. "I was little more than a child when it came into my possession, so I destroyed the paper. Besides, it wasn't worth much, was it?" "Oh, I suppose not," Brent said, as casually as he could. "Old silver, no doubt, but I should say that, if you sold it out and out, you would get little more for it than I obtained." Brent spoke lightly enough, but he was feeling more and more uneasy in his mind. And yet that insignificant-look-ing object on which he had raised a tenpound note could not possibly have been in any way connected with the Charles I. salt-cellar which had been deemed important enough to call for a full-page photograph in the Due de Lancy's historic sale. And yet it seemed to tally with that unique object in every respect. But, for the moment, at any rate, Brent decided to say no more on the subject until he was a little surer of his ground. There was no reason why he should disturb Marjorie, only to find, at last, that the whole thing was little more than a coincidence. He knew, too, that art treasures such as pictures were frequently copied by clever painters and craftsmen, and it was just possible that Marjorie's legacy was no more than a replica of the famous salt-cellar. Therefore, it would be just as well not to pursue the subject any further. Still, he told himself that if he had had a spare ten pound note in his pocket he would lose no time in going round to the little shop off the Strand where he had pledged the article which was causing him such a lot of anxiety. Meanwhile, there was other work to be done, and on the next morning he went down to Brighton to interview the man called Luigi Zampa, whom he found in a restaurant at the end of St. James Street, where he had established himself and where there was every appearance of a thriving business. And before Brent had time to introduce the subject, the smiling little Italian addressed him in the friendliest fashion by name. "Ah, Signor Brent," he cried. "You may not remembaire me, yes? But you I recognise. It is one, two. years, yes, no, when I see you in Rome at the Neapolitan. You come there with Signor Foxcraft. Ah, that is a sad business, yes?"

Brent recognised the speaker now, though he had forgotten him long ago. This, then, was the man who had put his name as a witness to Reyner Foxcraft's will. "Ah, a sad business indeed," Brent said. "A most mysterious business. But that is not what I came down here to talk about. Do you happen to remember, not long before you left the Neapolitan, witnessing a document that was signed by Mr. Foxcraft when he was in the hotel?" The little man looked thoughtful for a moment or two. "Strange how these things will become forget," he said. "But now you mention, I remembaire. It was one morning n6t long after breakfast. You were out, saire. They call me into Mr. Foxcraft's private room—" "What do you mean by they?" Brent asked. "That is Mr. Foxcraft and the padrona —the owner of the hotel and my employer. Mr. Foxcraft, he say, 'Luigi, I want you to witness my signature to this document. I want you both to witness it, and you must both be present when 1 do so!' And then the padrona he sign, and I Bign, after seeing Signor Foxcraft sign, and then he say, 'This is my last will and testament-,' and he give me a present of twenty lira, and that was all." "Oh, then, you would recognise the document and your signature again?" Brent asked. The little Italian was perfectly certain on the point. He was prepared at any moment to verify his own handwriting, and would. Signor Brent do him the honour of lunching in 'the restaurant ? There was some special Chianti he would like the signor to taste. It would be an honour if he did so, so that Brent lunched and drank luxuriously, and then strolled out past the Palace Pier and along the front, coming back presently through Sussex Square, where, on a blank wall, !not far from St. Mark's Church, his eye was attracted by a gorgeous poster. He would not have stopped had not one prominent name in flaming letters arrested his gaze. Then he read to the effect that Blanchin's famous AngloFrench circus was doing a tour of the South Coast, and that for the next two or three days they would be holding high carnival on the Eastbourne Crum-

bles. It was a long sheet, setting out many marvels, and the mere sight of it brought back vivid memories to Brent's mind. For this was the very circus which had brought about an introduction to his late employer. He could see it ail now as if it was only yesterday. The great tent and its flaming lights, and the sinister crowd outside when the evening's performance had come to "an" end",' and half the underworld of Montmartre

B, GILBERT LITTLESTONE.

had gathered curiously to watch the disi mantling of the great canvas. And then t an old gentleman in a long, shabby 3 coat and a slouch hat being attacked 7 by two or three ruffians, who would most certainly have murdered him if _ Brent, still in his tights and sandals, , had not emerged from the tent at the I psychological moment and realised in a flash that here was a lonely Englishman ' being attacked by three or four apaches . with an eye to plunder. He could see himself as he stood there , in the semi-darkness waiting for a • favourable opening before taking a hand i in the fray. There were at leaist four > antagonists of the most desperate type, ' but, physically, not too formidable, ' though Brent knew only too well that . they were armed with knives. Then he had seen his opening. He crashed a fist into the chin of the leading apache, and there was an end of him. He shook off a second man who had an arm round his neck and laid him out with a thrust of his knee into the ruffian's stomach. After that, it was a comparatively easy matter to grasp the other two by the scruff of the neck and bang their heads together until they collapsed on the ground. So vividly did this poster bring back the recollection that Brent stood there for a moment or two, almost transfixed. Then he pulled himself together and walked thoughtfully on. The whole thing was like a chapter from a sensational novel, or a Lyceum melodrama. It seemed strange indeed that he should have come across this flaming reminder just at the very moment when he happened to be in Brighton on business in connection with the man whose life he had saved outside that very circus in Montmartre. It was an omen, and at the same time, a warning. Almost as if in some way Blanchin's famous AngloFrench circus was connected with the crime which had come later in the murder of Reyner Foxcraft; so strange, indeed, that Brent was almost impelled to go on and spend the night in Eastbourne, and renew his acquaintance with Blancliin, whose professional strong man he had at one time been. But that would be ridiculous, he told himself as he made his way to the station on his return journey to town. Once arrived there, he went to his rooms with the idea of telling Marjorie of the morning's adventure. But to his surprise, he found that she had already

"Yes, she went this afternoon, sir," his old nurse and landlady, Polly Moffat, told him. "She came back just after lunch in a great hurry and packed her things and went off to catch her train. She told me to tell you that her arrangements had been slightly altered, but she thought she would be back again by the end of the week." "Did she leave her address, Polly?" Brent asked. "No, Master Cecil, she didn't. Too much of a hurry, expect. Lawks, if I hadn't nearly forgotten. There was a telephone call for you about half an hour ago from a gentleman who wanted you to ring him up about seven o'clock. He said he would be in his office then. Mr. Craik he called himself." Brent glanced at the clock in the sitting-room and saw it was already past the appointed hour. With a slight fluttering at his heart, he went down to the hall and called up Craik on the 'phone. Almost immediately Craik's voice answered: "That you, Mr. Brent?" he asked. "We've found the pawnshop where the silver was pledged. Yea, we've got it back." With the desperate hope that his voiec betrayed nothing at the other end of the telephone wire, Brent forced himself to speak. He was surprised and not a little gratified to find that the words came naturally. "That is very interesting," he said. "You mean to say that you havt. actually found the Ferranti salt-cellar in a pawnshop? That means, of course, that it is now in your hands."

"That is right," Craik said. "I wonder if you would mind coining round here in the morning and seeing if you can identify it. You saw it, you know." "Perfectly true, but only for a moment or two. You remember my telling you that I was much more interested in a pearl necklace Mr. Foxcraft had purchased at the de Lancy sale, and I, therefore, paid little attention to that silver thing." Craik responded that he had not forgotten, but that all the same? he would be very glad if Brent would come round in the course of the next morning, which the latter promised to do. At the same time he was feeling more and more uneasy in his mind. Every word he said tended to involve him in his skein of deceit and even though he might have been acting as he was out of loyalty to Marjorie, he was not blind to the fact that it would have been infinitely wiser to have told Craik all about that wretched piece of silver in the first instance, and left the matter in his hands. He began to see, quite plainly, now, that no sort of blame or even the slightest suspicion could attach to Marjorie, whose explanation was so straightforward and simple that not even the most suspicious detective would have disbelieved her. Still, Brent knew perfectly well that there was somo sort of ridiculous coincident here, and that the knowledge he was conccaling would be no sort of use to the police

And then how much more did Craik know ? Had he obtained from the pawnshop in Upper Tavistock Street a description of the individual who ha'l pawned that wretched ornament? If so, then Brent would be compelled to make a clean breast of his share in the transaction. He would have to explain why he had suppressed certain facts and get himself out of an awkward situation as best ho might. These fears were uppermost in his mind when he founl himself face to face, the following mon-.-insr, with Craik, in the latter's private office.

(To be continued daily.)