The Mysterious Masquerade

Auckland Star, Volume LXIII, Issue 264, 7 November 1932, Page 15

The Mysterious Masquerade

by . . m ■ J. R. . WILMOT

CHAPTER XIX. A Lover Enchained. Cynics right down the ages have frequently compared love with disease — an insidious, creeping complaint ending in complete paralysis of the reason. Not infrequently, too, it has been mistaken diagnostically for dyspepsia, and its allied malady, insomnia. Alienists, who ought to have known better, have classed it with brain disease, temporary insanity and other cerebral disturbances. Thus have we progressed from the oldfashioned idea that love is pre-eminently-a cardiac infection.

Take the case of Roger Barling by way of example. For a whole month, love had gnawed at his vitals; changed his habits and his temperament and left him in dire danger of becoming a chronic sufferer.

Yet on the other hand Mr. Barling would have been the last person in the world to admit that there was anything untoward the matter with him. It was true his nights 3iad been consistently restless; the times and the manner of taking his meals had been characterised by an irregularity and a half-hearted-ness entirely alien to his nature; and he had discovered himself being unquestionably rude to his friends who dared to inquire after his health.

Anyone who offered the suggestion that "you're looking a bit seedy, Roger, old man," had been consigned to a purgatory where the minimum temperature would make the Equator appear a land for Esquimaux to live in. For the sake of preserving tho harmonies of life they said among themselves that something had hit old Roger good and hard, while others listening-in at the Gossip Hour had been boldly provocative and asked: "Who is she? What's she like?"

Which goes to show that in love appearances are seldom deceptive.

But Roger, it must be mentioned, scarcely,, if ever, actually thought about Molly Carstairs. He had long ago turned the cold lime of logic and reason on her and satisfied himself she was worthless. She had deceived him—flagrantly deceived him, and even if he had fobbed off Detective-Inspector Blayton regarding the gaming parties at Paul Silver's place at Hampstead, he would not admit that he had done so out of consideration of the girl he had so unexpectedly encountered there. Neither would he admit that his last visit to the place had been prompted solely by the fact that he knew she was there, and when he had discovered no trace of her he had shrugged his broad shoulders and told himself that he was no fool. He had gone there because life had suddenly became a vacuum, and inclination demanded a modicum of excitement.

On the other hand, if Roger refused to face the" seriousness of his clinical condition it was otherwise with Jiis faithful retainer CleVeland. " "f 7

Hβ had been with Mr. Roger since tho conclusion of the Great War decanted him again into tho less exacting ways of life. Now Cleveland was one of those rare, conscientious souls who believe that whatever one's mission in life may be, each individual is charged with a great duty to do that job, not only to tho best of his ability, but to cultivate an even greater ability for the job. And Cleveland had made a personal as well as an impersonal study of his employer. Ho prided himself that no other human being understood Mr. Roger's foibles and his character as he did. In fact, Cleveland believed —and firmly believed at that—that ho could even interpret Mr. Roger's unspoken thoughts which valuable mystic gift enabled him to anticipate that gentleman's wants with an accuracy that had to be experienced to bo appreciated.

But during the past few weeks Cleveland had been conscious of a complete change in Mr. Roger. He was dealing now with a being so radically different from the being to which he was accustomed that the metamorphosis called for a complete reorganisation of Cleveland's method. It was .not that, however, that worried Cleveland. It was Roger's utter disregard of his own condition that was disconcerting. Cleveland had watched the progress of the disease on many previous occasions. In those cases it had usually been of a welcome brief duration. Never in the whole course of his professional career had he encountered anything so lengthy. He had, too, recommended all the specifics known to science and without avail. The patient, seemingly unconscious of his condition, grew worse before his eyes, and to the devoted Cleveland it appeared a particularly hopeless case.

Cleveland was passing through the hall when he encountered Mr. Roger.

"I shall be lunching at the club today, Cleveland," he intimated. "I feel that a change of diet is eminently necessary."

"Very good, sir," said Cleveland, remembering the pheasant he had been instructed to order the night before. "Will you have the bird for dinner, sir?"

Roger turned as ho unhooked bis overcoat and held it out to his man. "My dear Cleveland, vulgarisms come so seldom from you that I almost hesitate to upbraid you. I shall be dining alone, but where I haven't yet decided."

"Very good, sir. The bird to which I made reference, sir, was the pheasant you ordered."

"My apologies, Cleveland," smiled Roger, "i wonder what made me jump i such an outrageous conclusion?"

"They do say, sir, that what is known as association of ideas, frequently manifests itself in the sub-conscious mind of the patient."

"Oh, my hatl" ejaculated Roger. "And whoever said our educational system was the worst in the world." Saying this, he opened the door' of the the astonished Cleveland could perform that office.

From the flat Roger walked 'briskly along Knightsbridge in the direction of his club. Earlier that morning he had been "pestered" by another visit from the persistent Blayton from Scotland yard. Blayton had merely called in the hopes that Mr. Barling's memory had improved, and that he could recollect any further haunts frequented by the late Mr. Carruthers.

But Roger's, memory was a stubborn affair. It could remember many things, hut there were others of which it had not the remotest recollection, and Inspector Blayton had gone on his way not in the least rejoicing, but telling himself that Mr. Judson, chauffeur and general handyman for Mr. Paul Silver, was a slick customer.

That he had been hanging around in the -vicinity of Barling's flat when the Inspector had.accosted:iamJgr«qme

strange purpose other than the excuse lie so extemporarily furnished, he had no doubt. Added to which he was puzzled to know just wliat really did go on vA, the Silvers.

Judson had mentioned the parties. Quite suburban social affairs lie had descriibed them, and when Blayton in his innocence had mentioned cards and "things," Mr. Judson had smiled in a somewhat aggravating fashion and said: "Nothing out of the ordinary, Mr. Blayton."

Roger arrived at. the Junior Services Club towards mid-day. He had taken a fancy to lunching there just lately because someone had persuaded him that he ought to go in foi , politics and to do that successfully one must meet the "righ]t people."

As a matter of fact Eoger had not tho remotest intention of "going in for politics." He considered the House of Commons quite the dullest place in London, but it had (been Sir Hugo Gatling, an old friend of Roger's father, who had made the suggestion, and Roger was rather partial to Sir Hugo.

The old gentleman was flanked by newspapers when Roger entered the lounge, and acknowledged the young man's greeting.

"Hope you're staying for lunch, my boy," he mentioned, briskly. "I've got an old friend coming along. Like you to meet him."

"I am staying for lunch," smiled Roger," and any friend of yours must be interesting,. Sir Hugo."

"Interesting? I should thinK he is. Why he's spent a lifetime in India. Knows more about India than the Viceroy or Winston Churchill. You'll like him."

Thirty minutes later Roger saw Sir Hugo advancing towards him with a soldierly man wearing a navy-blue suit, obviously new.

"Roger," introduced Sir Hugo, "I'd like you to meet my old friend Major Aldous Carstairs, late of the Indian Army."

' Roger gazed at the soldier with wide, .incredulous eyes. Carstairs! The name appeared to be haunting him. For the moment it hypnotised his brain.

"I'm pleased indeed to meet you, sir," responded Roger, taking the proffered hand. "Sir Hugo has been telling me something about you."

Major Carstairs smiled, good-hum-ouredly. "Hugo was always extravagant with "hie tongue, Mr. Barling. He's a born hero-worshipper. Started at school if I remember rightly. You once had a passion for cricketers hadn't you, Hugo? Used to paste their portraits around the study wall." They all laughed.

"What about lunch?" suggested Sir Hugo. "I breakfasted at eight o'clock."

"The early-rising way to health," tmg gested Roger.

"That's right, my boy—early rising; that's my motto, eh, Major ? No linenlounging for me."

The ineal was a great success. Sir Hugo monopolised the conversation by asking innumerable questions on Indian policy that would have required the services of a dozen Blue Books to furnish an" answer. Roger wae puzzling his brains about Major Carstairs. The mention of the name had brought him back to the girl who had so attracted Mm at "The Cygnet Club"—the girl who was supposed to bo Paul Silver's niece. It appeared almost as if Fate were conspiring against him, determining that on no account should he be permitted to forget that name.

At the conclusion of the meal lie managed to get Major Carstairs alone in the lounge for a moment while Sir Hugo had been called away to the telephone.

"I've just asked Sir Hugo if he'd dine with us to-night," mentioned Carstairs, "I wonder if you'd fare to join us ? You see I'm rather strange to London and though my daughter knows town quite well, I think: it only fair that she should have an occasional change of companionship, don*t you, Mr. Barling?"

Roger gasped. So this frankly honest soldier had a daughter. The next thing he would hear, no doubt, was that her name was Molly. .That, he told himself, would put the tin lid on things. "I'd be only too charmed, Major," smiled Roger, "although I must warn you I'm not considered a great success with the ladiee."

"I'll mention that to Molly," smiled the Major, laughingly.

Roger's brain reeled. Yes, this was certainly the last straw. Fate had a down on him. In all probability the name would haunt him to the grave. Well, he told himself, cheerlessly, perhaps he deserved it. (To be continued daily.)