THE FOURTH MAN

Auckland Star, Volume LXIV, Issue 99, 29 April 1933, Page 11 (Supplement)

THE FOURTH MAN

By ,R' A. J. WALLING

Author of "The IVlerafleld Mystery," "The Third Degree," eto., etc,

LEADING CHARACTERS. PAUL QUILTER, a young motor engineer ' in business in London. BERNARD OLVER, his friend, a young lawyer, and the pupil and protege, of John Selwyn, a middle-aged solicitor. ' EVELYN AIvASTER, Selwyn's ward. Olver, passionately in love with her, is forbidden by Selwyn, for some reason undisclosed, to make love to her. JOAN FETTIGREW, Evelyn's 1 friend, engaged to Quilter. SAMUEL MARPLE, friend and neighbour of Selwyn. i CHAPTER I. I It was through Joan that I knew the people at Waller House—Selwyn and his ward, Evelyn Akaster, and Olver, who was as good as an inmate. Joan had made passionate friendship with Evelyn Akaster at school, and, unlike so many passionate school friendships, it had lasted. j Everybody who got to know it loved Waller House, unpromising as it was in situation and outer aspect. Jt had belonged to Selwyn's father, who bought it some time in the middle of the hist century, when it stood in a really rural part of Middlesex, and not in. a vague region of outer West London which was neither town nor country, and did not know how it was going to end up. It had reached, when I was taken to it, the stage of allotments, stray bungalows, broken hedges, and marauding children. And in the midst of this the mellow brick walls that surrounded the grounds of Waller House, and' of Milton House, its neighbour, rose with a certain scandalised sadness at the deterioration all round. I Being no archaeologist, I had Bug-' gested to Selwyn one day that the names of these tvyo houses indicated a seventeenth century origin. But ho did not flatter himself that they were so old'. Georgian, lie said, and named by some owner who had hero-worshipped the men of the Commonwealth. j Waller House was inconvenient, awkward to get at, and in an unfashionable district. But it had an air which you could not help liking. As for Selwyn, he adored it. He had been born in it, and had lived in it all his life. It stood for as much in the affections of this quiet and unpretentious lawyer as his ancestral castle and acres to any feudal aristocrat. He shut his eyes to what was goinpr on around and continued to inhabit Waller House, and to care for it, maintain its. old gardens and preserve its old structure. And to Waller House, when hisi friend Akaster died, leaving to him the fjuardianship of Evelyn, he took the girl. She had been a bright spirit about the place for two years when 1 fell in love with her friend Joan Pettigrew and was made free of the premises. j " John Selwyn was fifty or so and a bachelor. I heard hints that, he was a bachelor because Evelyn's mother-had preferred Akaster to him in his. youth. The favour in. his lovo of the orphan suggested something more than an ordinary, friendship. He had inherited from his father, a.long with Waller House, the' old -legal business of Burns, Selwyn and Selwyn, with a city office in Bisliopsgate Street, and a substantial city practice. Bernard Olver, the only son of a widow who lived at Ealing, not far away from Waller House, was a favourite articled pupil, whom he had taken into the firm almost as soon as he passed his gnal. Olver, invested with the freedom of .Waller House, had been almost a resident before Evelyn Akaster arrived. A lively and well-looking youth and a girl like Evelyn, thrown together in an isolated place, did not take long to discover testes and interests in common, of which the chief were their taste for and their interest in caeh other. Selwyn, a quiet and studious man, had nevertheless an observant mind and a profound knowledge of the world. For some reason he disapproved of an engagement 'between Olver and his ward. He put Olver on his honour, he was not to' make love to Evelyn or attempt in any way to engage her promise. They might be comrades. They might have as mueh tennis, as much golf, as much music, as many friends a3 they liked. But Evelyn was very young —not yet 20 —and he did not intend that she should pledge herself to anybody until she reached 21. Of course, he could not prevent Olver and Evelyn from disobeying him; but he could make things extremely uncomfortable for Olver if he was disobeyed. He gave no reasons. He issued an edict. That was all. Olver did not pretend to understand this, and when I became acquainted with the milieu of Waller House it was an ever-growing mystery to me. In everything else Selwyn seemed such a reasonable being —geiitle, tolerant, open to argument, sympathetic to youth. The irksome ban which he placed upon one of the most reasonable and natural things in the world 'was incapable of explanation. However, Olver, head oyer ears in love with Evelyn, as she with him, was loyal to Selwyn, and nothing untoward happened till that summer afternoon which we, wiled away at a ratlier lazy game of tennis on the lawn at the end of the great garden. A delightful place on a hot summer day, that garden of Waller House, The .row of French windows at the back gave from the dining room and from Selwyn's library on to a narrow terrace overlooking a lawn with a water-lily pond in the middle, fed by a stream that came in under the red brick wall and wandered away from the pond past the kitchen garden and the tennis court, and disappeared beneath the wall again, to find its way in the end, no doubt, to the River Brent. The vista was closed by a row of tall elms which shaded the courts. It was pleasanter that afternoon to sit out than to play. We had got through one set by half-past four, and were resting in the shade, with the stream tinkling down behind us. Joan and I had recently determined that we had waited long enough, and would be married in September. We suffered, I am afraid, about "that time, from a little over-concentration upon our own emotions and' anticipations. There was a. tendency to silence in company, to long gazing in each \other's eyes, a process which always brought a high colour into Joan's cheeks and a sleepiness into her look. Our , hands would search for each other. We were, in fact, in a con-1 dition o| ineffable sentimentality. )

Then I saw Olver, who was leaning over the back of Evelyn's seat, looking hard at us with u tense expression. The blood came rushing into his face, and lie put his hand on Evelyn's shoulder. She glanced up to him, startled, and their eyes met in a long look. He bent down, as by a sudden impulse, bent her head back and kissed her passionately. Joan, turned towards me, did not see. It was so sudden a thing, as though Olver had been seized by an uncontrollable madness, that I had hardly time to look away before it was over. 1 And then there was Selvvyn, walking across the lawn with his neighbour, Marple, by his side, and Selwyn must have seen it all. When I glanced round again Olver had straightened up, and Evelyn and he were trying to look as if nothing had happened. Marple smiled with a diabolical smirk, and Selwyn's face was like night as he said, "How do you do, Miss Pettigrew? Hot for tennis ?" and nodded to me. He did not take the least notice of Olver and Evelyn, but Marple went on and spoke to them. Presently the strain was eased when a maid came to say that tea was served on the upper lawn. CHAPTER H. Our programme that Saturday had been another set after tea, dinner informally, and a dance to whatever music might come over the wireless and enable us to skip about the lawn, with a loud speaker installed in the dining room window. Selwyn did not dance, and usually spent the hour after dinner either in his library or strolling about the garden. He liked the young people to amuse themselves how they would. We carried out the programme. But except for Joan, who had not seen the forbidden kiss, and for Marple, who seemed to be sniggering about it all the time, we all laboured under a sense of trouble. Olver and Miss Akastcr were obviously nervous, looking every now and then with alarm at the stern and frowning face of Selwyn, and I had a most uncomfortable feeling of impending disaster. It was mingled with a sense of responsibility, too, because I realised that Olver would probably not have made an ass of himself if lie had not taken the infection from me. During dinner-time Marple was thoroughly caddish, or so it seemed to me. He caught at any innuendo in the conversation that would lead up to some remote allusion —forbidden fruit, tlio impetuousness of youth, the free manners of the age, and so forth. And Selwyn all the time looked like a thundercloud on the point of bursting. After dinner Selwyn took Marple off to the and the girls went up to the drawing room, promising to be down in a quarter of an hour to see if there was any music to which we could dance. Olver. and I were left together. "You've -done it, Bernard!" said I. "If you had t8 kiss the girl, why couldn't you have chosen a more private moment?" "Your fault entirely," he replied, gloomily. "Looking at you and Joan, I don't know what came over me. I simply couldn't help it. Sympathy complex, I expect. Of course, there's no real harm in it. Evelyn and I are for each other. Quilter, beyond recall. But I've never said a word to her, and I've, never kissed her before. Simply out of respect for Selwyn's wishes., I don't understand it. He likes me. He's as good as gold to me. What is there in me that makes him put up a barbed wire barrier around Evelyn to keep me off?" I had 110 more idea than Olver —:not so much, as it seemed, for he went on: "That blighter Marple has something to do with it. I am positive. I can feel it in my bones." Now, Marple had never struck me as a blighter. He was the occupant of Milton House, the smaller of the two places that lay side by side,. and was often in and out. Apparently he and Selwyn had been I 'ng acquainted—since their boyhood. Marple was aba.'.t Selwyn's age, and was a bachelor, living alqne, his wants attended to by a housekeeper. Since I had known him he lived as a man of means, though there was an impression in my mind—l don't quite know how obtained —that earlier in life he had been poor. He had travelled much, had a wide knowledge of the world, and could keep a lively talk going in an interesting way. I had to confess that lie had been particularly beastly and leering that afternoon. "Selwyn and Marple have been a lot together lately," said Olver. "The blighter is always blowing in at Bishopsgate Street and being closeted with the old man. He was there two days this week. The more they are together the fussier Selwyn gets. There's something afoot, Quilter. They were together all this afternoon. They'r® together now. What's it mean?" "You don't think," I asked him, "that Selwyn has an idea of getting Evelyn off with Marple ?" Olver swore deep. "If I did, Selwyn or no Selwyn, and partnership or none. . 'pon ' my' soul, Quilter, I'd elope with her to-night. And she'd go, I feel sure. It's inconceivable! It's an outrage to think of it." I agreed that it would be an outrage if it were done, for Marple was fifty and more, and a bit of a cynic, though, as I have said, he was an entertaining companion. Anyhow, he was no fit mate for the youth and beauty of Evelyn Akastcr. "Then, if it isn't that, what makes you think that Marple has anything' to do with Selwyn's curious attitude?" "All sorts of little things. The way he looks at her. His manner with me. And they talk about her, too. Last week, when I barged into Selwyn's room, not knowing he had anybody, there, the first thing I heard was Evelyn's name, and it was Marple who was talking." "Well," said I, "I don't see what you can do about it. You'll have to lie doggo and see what happens. Meanwhile, you're in for a court-martial—anybody can guess that from the look of Selwyn. Keep your wits about you and don't lose your temper, that's my tip." It was a very good tip, too. But I did not know till some time later whether Olver took it, and what the result was. The girls came down. I thought Joan looked bothered, and Evelyn was red about the eyes. But, of course, we took no notice of that. We tuned' in the wireless and fiddled about till we got dance music from somewhere, and then in the cool of the evening we pirouetted about the lawn. It would have been jolly if that sense, of an unsettled quarrel had not been with us all the time.

Even as it was, I fear that Olver's j troubles did not hurt me very much when I was dancing with Joan. When I danced, with Evelyn I found her very quiet and absorbed. I "Cheer up, Evelyn!" I said, in an effort to clear the air. "It's hot a hanging matter. I've often done it myself." "Don't be an ass!" she replied. "It's [ very- serious for Bernard. You don't know Mr. Selwyn as well as I do." And that was all I could get out of her. About a quarter to ten, in an interval between two tunes, we heard the door of the library open and close, and steps along the hall, and the voices of Selwyn and Marple came to us, though no words. Then Marple went, and the door of the house was shut after him. A moment later Selwyn came through the window of the library and called out: "Bernard, will you come and speak to me?" * "Now you're for it, old bean," I said to him under my breath. "Remember what I said." . "Righto!" said Olver. "I'll keep my temper all right." And he marched into the library with his shoulders up. ' Left with the two girls, I made some show of keeping up a general conversation, but it was a melancholy business. We all had our minds on what was passing in the library. The interview lasted long. Ten o'clock struck in some tower down Acton way, and the notes came to us clearly in the still summer air. It got chilly. _ Evelyn shivered. "Let's get inside and sit in the drawing room," she said. We went up there and waited five minutes. Evelyn tinkered about with' the piano. Joan and I eat on a couch. At five minutes past ten, "Well," I said, "we've got. to go now, Evelyn. Will you please take Joan to get her things on? Say good-night to Mr. Selwyn and Bernard for us." Joan had to catch a train at North Acton station at half-past ten in order to get home. It was our regular procedure. We went down. The library door was. still closed. Joan and Evelyn went to a cloakroom to fetch Joan's things. I waited in the hall. I heaj-d a footstep in the dining room, turned, and saw Olver coming into the hall. "Hullo!" said I. "Got it over, old bean? What's the sentence?" Olver looked pale and worried. "Where's Evelyn?" he asked. "Helping Joan to put on her things." "Seen Selwyn ?" "No; I thought you were with him." "He went into the garden. I want to speak to him before I wish Evelyn goodnight. I'll wait here." The girls were rather a long time. I watched the clock while I chatted with Olver. I asked him how he got on. "Oh," not so bad," he said; "but don't ask me any questions about it, old chap. I want to see Selwyn just to clear it up for good and all." I did not press him, and we talked at large about what we might do next week. Quarter-past ten went, and twenty-past. "Well," said I, "I think I'd better rout 1 out the girls, or Joan will miss the train. So long!" "Au 'voir!" said Olver. "I'll just see if I can find Selwyn in the garden." Olver went back through the dining room. Almost immediately the girls ' joined me. \ j , "It's all over, I said. Bernard has just gone to speak to Mr. Selwyn in the garden. Time's up, Joan. Wish Bernard good-night for her, Evelyn. Look slippy, young woman." Wo were passing out at the gate when Olver walked quickly by us. I heard , Evelyn cry out, "Bernard! Bernard!" He took no notice of her. As he passed he said: ■ "Good-bye, Quilter —good-bye, Joan," ! and sprinted off down the road. We stared in wonderment at the vanishing white-clad figure. (To be. continued daily.)