PLAYTHINGS OF FATE

Cromwell Argus, Volume LXVIII, Issue 3482, 16 August 1937, Page 2

PLAYTHINGS OF FATE

CHAPTER XXIII. A Friendly Enemy. Arthur watched Nell as she walked slowly away from the house and down the track, until she was hidden from view by the trees. A week had passed since the night of the eventful dance. A week in which Nell had avoided him. He realised that this state of affairs could not continue indefinitely. He must make some effort to renew their friendship. He rose and followed to where she was sitting upon a large boulder, gazing pensively at the ground. This was the first time they had actually been alone all the week. "I’m sorry, Nell,” he said lamely, “I didn’t realise —I didn’t think you would take it so badly.” She looked up at him bitterly. “You’re sorry,” she stormed. “My God! What sort of a man are you? Have you no sense of the fitness of things? I’m not going to tell you 1 went through hell for you. You know It, but I did it because I love you. You know that, too.” She stood up and turned her back to him. “I’m not too ashamed or too modest to admit how I feel about you. You made a promise, you’ve—you’ve taken it back and ” She swung round and faced him again. “Arthur,” she pleaded, “why have you treated me so? Why didn’t you tell me in that letter about — about everything? You brought me here; you filled my heart with happiness; you made me dream of things to come —only to snatch them away. After all that has passed between us, how could you expect me to live here, happy, and content, to -watch you—to watch another doing the things I’d love to do —for you?” Arthur could not bring his eyes to meet her. She had shamed him by her outburst. He knew that he stood before her, a' craven without principle, shorn of all his bland selfconceit.

Nellie's eyes filled with tears. She stepped towards him and laid a hand upon his arm. "Arthur," she said tenderly, "I love you so much that I want you to forget, to forget that there ever was a promise. Think of me just as a friend. I want you to be happy. I —l hope she makes you happy; as happy as I could have done. Let me know when it's — it's to take place, so that I can go away. I couldn't stay." Her hand dropped listlessly to her side and she began to move away. "But —but where can you go?" he questioned, laying a restraining hand upon her arm. "Let me help you. I had no idea you cared so much. I I thought you'd be happy hero. I realise now that you wouldn't, couldn't be happy, and I'm sorry." He realised that she was right, that he had done a wicked and foolish thing to bring her here, when he loved another girl. Nellie surveyed him with a halfpitying glance. "I don't want your help any more," she replied, shaking her head. "I'll leave mum and June here until —until we can get another —home," she finished with a catch in her voice. She hurried away from back towards the house. He followed her for a few paces.

"You'll stay for a few weeks yet," he pleaded, but she paid no heed to him.

He turned and walked away into the timber, his head bent in thought. He felt distressed, nothing more. He liked Nell immensely, but lie loved Anita, and he was growing heartily sick of subterfuge. He wanted to face facts squarely, to live clean and fair, to do the right thing by everyone. He was growing tired of the deceit of his past life, all built upon that one false step he had made. Was the rest of his life to be one long living lie? At times he felt as though he could go and dig that stuff up again, and take it back to its rightful owners. He would have done so long ago. if Driscoll hadn't died. He knew that he would give half his life to be able to tear aside the veil of deception, and stand free and untrammelled before his fellow-men. And that promise to Nell had been an unfortunate mistake, made in a moment of great stress. It was not love, but gratitude, that he had felt towards Nell; gratitude for what she had done for him. He could not help it if she loved him. He felt snre she would not have him marry her out of mere gratitude. Perhaps, later on, when the sting had gone out of her disappointment, she would allow him to express his gratitude in ways more practical and more appropriate. Arthur wandered on aimlessly, pondering much, regretting a little, wishing a little more, until he came out of the scrub at the end of the clearing. He leaned against a tree, the tree where he had buried his stolen spoils, and where he thought he had buried the memory of his past. But he had buried neither the past nor the memory of it. Now and then both had been crowded out of his life for a time, but they had come back. They always returned to his mind, seemingly with renewed vigor, prodding and probing at his guilty conscience. He gazed thoughtfully at the ground, digging at the now hardened soil with the toe of his shoe. The diamonds, the money, might well have been lying upon the earth's surface as buried beneath it, for all the good the burial of them had done towards banishing from his mind the evil history that surrounded them. He sighed and moved on towards the house. June came running out to meet him and he swunu her up on to his ahouldeT.

By J. T. ALLAN. (Published by Arrangement with N.S.W. Bookstall Co. Ltd.) [COPYRIGHT.]

"How does my little girl like living in the country, eh?" "Dood. I'se never going to leave 'oo now," she lisped.

The days slipped by, mounting into weeks, and Easter drew very near. It was only a week away. Arthur stood at the window of his room, and drummed moodily upon the windowledge with a pencil. Nellie's outburst of a few weeks ago had had a steadying effect upon him. He still looked forward to the time, now drawing very close, when he would meet Anita Barrow again, and hold her in his arms, but there had been times during the past few weeks when he had completely forgotten her. He would have ridiculed any suggestion that Nellie's outburst was in any way responsible for the apparent cooling of his ardor, or that it was even responsible for the serious interest he now displayed in his father's property; yet it was a fact. Her outburst, together with her ever-present influence, was working a change in him, moulding him into the considerate, thoughtful man he should have been long ago; subconsciously working a change in him. He turned back to his desk and examined the blue-prints scattered upon it. They were plans of proposed alterations to the station. Arthur had been quick to recognise the growing demand for well-bred beef cattle, and was intent upon improving the strain of his father's herds by setting aside a certain area as a stud form wherein he could breed better stock. He had reached that age when every man becomes ambitious to see his name written in letters of fire across the horizon, a beacon of significance to the public life of the community in which he lives, and Arthur was bent on making the nam© of Mannering something to conjure with in the cattle world. Nellie had not left the homestead as she had threatened, and had made no further reference to the subject of their discussion in the scrub. She seemed to have shaken off the depressing effects of her disappointment, and entered into keen dispusßion about the improvements he contemplated. She accompanied him on many of his tours around the property, and displayed her interest by many sound and surprising suggestions, some of which he had adopted in his plans. A city girl, she had adapted herself to her changed environment in a manner that surprised him. He was teaching her a drive the car, too, and she was proving herself a most apt pupil, handling the big car with remarkable ability. Nellie was showing herself to be a bundle of alarming surprises, and at times he could not help comparing the two, Anita Barrow and Nell Arnold, rather to Anita's disadvantage; for in all fairness, he had to admit that Nell showed a deep interest in the station and everything connected with it. Such an interest was quite lacking in his fiancee, a fact that he regretted, though it did not lessen the intensity of his feelings' towards her. Yes, though he would never have admitted the change had he noticed it. Nell's attitude during the past few weeks had not been without its effect upon him. Arthur tossed his pencil on to the desk and walked out to the verandah. Nell was seated opposite his father, knitting a jumper. Ho watched her nimble flying fingers as they wove stitch upon stitch on the ever-moving needles.

Here, too, was a change, a change in his father, and one that he did perceive. And it was due entirely to the presence of Nell and her mother, to their care and solicitude, for his every need. How his father would miss them when they were gone! Arthur tried hard to imagine what the place would be like without Nell, and he did not like the picture his thoughts conjured up for him to see. He, too, would miss them when they were gone.

Sunday was only three days away, and he was going to Sydney; yet he was facing the trip and all that it meant to him with a remarkable indifference which, he realised, was strange, but which he could not explain. In spite of his love for Anita, he had settled into a state of comfortable indolence. He was contented. His every need was anticipated by Mrs. Arnold, whom he loved almost as a mother, and by Nell, whom he regarded as a great pal. He was loth to change the order of things just yet. His eyes wandered off to the edge of the clearing, to a tree with large spreading branches, beneath which lay buried his greatest and most vexing problem. It was funny how the confounded thing kept creeping back into his thoughts of late, and with such persistence. And now their presence there, under that tree, had raised fresh points in his mind for consideration. Could he face the future with Anita, with those gems lying there, a grim reminder of the past? Could he build up a name for himself in the cattle world and among his friends? Could he dare aspire for renown, with their shadow for ever hanging over him, for ever threatening reprisal and punishment? What else could he do but leave them there? His hands were tied by circumstance!

"How about coming into town for a drive, Nell?" he suggested at last, coming out to his reverie.

Nell looked up. "All right." she agreed readily, would like it."

"We might get your licence, too," Arthur went on. "Are you coming, dad?"

'"Er, no. I'm too comfortable here," his father replied. As they entered the town, they were hailed by the very person Arthur wanted particularly to see Constable Davis. Nellie had driven the car, and Davis walked around to the side on which Arthur sat. He picked a piece of fluff off Arthur's sleeve, and rested on the door of the car. "You're just the man I wanted to see," Arthur said, opening the conversation.

"Well, I wanted to see you. too — and very urgently at that," replied Davis; "in fact, I was almost coming out to see you." Arthur shot the policeman a swift glance. "Oh! something wrong with my licence?"

"N —no, but your licence has got something to do with it." "Ah! What's the trouble?" Davis looked at the ground, then up the street towards the railway station. "I don't know how to explain it best," he said, perplexedly, "it doesn't seem so important now, and I think the sergeant is satisfied." ) "Yes, but what is, or what was the trouble?" Davis looked into Arthur's eyes. "You remember the other day when I was filling your licence in?" Arthur nodded. "You told me you had no marks or scars."

"That's right—neither I have," Arthur shifted his right arm into his lap and brushed some imaginary dust from his sleeve. Davis watched the motions in silence, then he said: "I knew your father when I was a kid going to school, Arthur, and I knew you when you were a kid going to school. I watched you grow from just so high. I remember when you were about nine, you got a pretty bad cut oil one of your arms; I can't think just which one, but it was ca» <*ed by barbed wire. Donlt you remember it?" •'Yes, I remember," replied Arthur. "Well, didn't that cut leave a scar?" Arthur hesitated.

"No," he replied. "It healed and — and vanished completed." He tried to laugh lightly. "I'll show you." His left hand moved to roll back his right sleeve.

"No, don't bother," protested Davis. "I've known you and your dad too long for that. I'd rather take your word about it than have you show me your arm." ,

Arthur relaxed with a sigh. "Then why did you ask? There must be some reason."

"Yes, there is. Not that it need concern you. 1 don't know whether you noticed it, but there's a notice in our office. A notice of £SOO reward for the apprehension of a —ci-iminal who committed a murder some time ago." "I don't see "

"Let me explain. Our sergeant is new to the district, and he's a pretty heady fellow. He was filing our copy of your licence the other day and he happened to look at the particulars. He ran over to our reward board and compared it with this fellow's description. There were only two things that did not agree. A difference in height of about an inch and a half and —a scar." "Surely you don't "

"Wait on," Davis replied. "He started firing questions at me about you. He wanted to know if you had been away recently and for how long. Of course I had to tell him you were away, that you have only just come back. He asked me if you had any scars. I told him no, but be didn't seem satisfied. He wanted to go out to your place and see for himself. I took a pretty big risk chinnin' to him about what a fool he'd look if he did. I told him just how high your father stood in this district." Davis paused. "I let him know what a big noise you Mannerings are, around here." "Thanks, Davis." "That's not all. Afterwards I thought about that accident you had when you were a kid, and I wasn't so sure about the scar business. I thought maybe you had one, and didn't think it was important enough to " Arthur laughed. He felt sure that his bluff had worked, and that he was reasonably safe.

"Surely, Davis, you don't think I'm a criminal? That I've committed a—a murder?"

"I don't,'' Davis replied emphatically, "but there's no tellin' what the sergeant might think, if you happened to have a scar, especially on your right arm. He wouldn't hesitate about "

"Oh! I could easily prove -" "I haven't any doubt about thai," interjected Davis. "I know you could prove you weren't a crook easy enough, and you'd make him look a bit of a fool, too, but he'd put you to a lot of trouble and discomfort first." "Well, what do you advise me to do?" inquired Arthur. "Have I got to keep out of town just because " "No," Davis interjected quickly. He

looked down, and surveyed Arthur's right arm covertly, then he looked up into Arthur's eyes. "It's a matter for you to decide. As I said, I think he's pretty satisfied now, but if you want to avoid any risk of discomfort, keep out of his sight for a while until — until he forgets this murder-bug idea he's got in his head." Arthur nodded and smiled. "Perhaps that's good advice, Davis, and I'm much obliged to you. If you'll take Miss Arnold along and give her a test and fix her up with a licence —I'll wait here at the doctor's."

Davis agreed, so Arthur clambei-ed out of the car, and Davis took his place. Arthur caught a questioning, worried look in Nellie's eyes. He nodded to her encouragingly and smiled. "Go on, Nell, you'll be all right," he said, but he knew she was not anxious about herself. In a short time she came back npraln

alone. Her face was deathly white, j and almoßt before the ear stopped she sprang out, and ran up to where he sat upon Andrews' verandah. "Arthur! Arthur!" she cried. "Wemust hurry away from here." "Sh!" he cautioned. He knew What she had to tell him, but he was, not unduly alarmed about it. He went in and made his excuses to Mrs. Andrews. The doctor was out.

"Now, what have you got to tell me?" he inquired later. There was an amused light in his eyes.

She pulled the car to the side of the road and stopped it. "Did you know that the police are looking for you under that other name —Shannon?"

"Yes." "And that they've got a description of you—a good description?" "Yes, I know that too." "And the scar! You have got a scar on your right arm, running from the elbow, almost to the wrist." "Right again, Miss Sherlock Holmes," he replied, banteringly.

She set the engine going. "I —I— you're impossible." She paused with her hand on the gear lever, and looked at him.

"Do you mean to stay here —now, knowing all this?" "Of course. There is no danger." "No danger! The hangman's lope is almost round your neck," she retorted. "You must go away—to another State."

"No," he replied firmly. "My father's name, his position, place me entirely above suspicion. You heard what Davis said."

"Yes, and what he said about the sergeant, too," she retorted. "That man Mill put the rope round your neck —quickly." "No one will put a rope round my neck," he snapped heatedly. "Oh, don't talk rot, Arthur," she said despairingly. "There is £SOO reward on your head, for murder! You killed that old man you can't shut your own, or anyone else's eyes to that!" "I've got no need to shut anyone's eyes," he retorted. "I didn't kill Driscoll or anyone else." She looked at him an instant in blank disbelief, then she burst into a fit of hysterical laughter. She bowed her head upou the steering wheel. Her laughter changed to sobbing. Presently she looked up. "You're an infernally poor liar," she cried fiercely, "almost as poor a liar as you are a man—and still I love you —I_I don't know why." She wiped her eyes with a handkerchief. "If you didn't kill that man, how did you get the stuff? I know you must have had it, because of that money you left me. I've still got it —and because of that hole in the floor of your room. I nailed it up. If you didn't kill that man, turn round now. and go back to the police station. Face it out. I'll face it out with you. If you are innocent, it must come out right in the end." She looked at him for a long time waiting for him to answer. "Will you?" she pleaded. He looked into her eyes an instant, then away, out across the country.

"I can’t, Nell. Things are —are dead against me.’’ She started the car and drove on. Of course he couldn’t face it out. Apart from things being against him, as he termed it, even if he had been innocent, she knew him to be too much of a coward to face the charge and fight it. He was a poltroon, a craven! And she loved him —a coward —a murderer! CHAPTER XXIV. % “Doctor, What Is Love?” Arthur finished his packing in readiness for an early start the next morning. There remained only one thing to go in his trunk, and that could not be put in until late that night. He had made up his mind concerning the diamonds and the balance of the money, the proceeds from the Floodgate robbery. They must go out of his life definitely and for all time. Last night he had thought out many ways to be rid of them, but none had satisfied. Suddenly an idea had come to him. He remembered reading of a gentleman crook, who stole from the rich to give to the poor. Though it was fiction, it had supplied him with a fitting solution to his problem. He had not stolen from the rich to give to the poor, but that would be his intention as regards this stolen property. He bad been unable to blot from his mind the fact that a man’s life had been forfeited in the obtaining of it, and he hated the thought of merely casting it away where it could do no good, w’here no human hand, or e3 r e, would ever find it. He wanted to do something with it, something that would help to atone for his horrible sin; something that would remove, or at least bleach the blood-red stain of shame; something that wmuld ease his pricking conscience, aud give him in the future at least one pleasant recollection of the affair. And so had come to him the great idea of taking the goods to Sydney. He would sell it to a “fence,” and every pound the stuff brought, he would supplement with oue of his own. He would donate the wirole to the needy hospitals. But the desire to atone somewhat for the sin had not been the only factor urging him to get rid of the goods. There had been the question of his own personal safety. His mind kept reverting to his conversation with Constable Davis, only a few days ago. He recognised the ever present menace to his safety in the person of the suspicious sergeant of police. Were he ever brought to book over the Floodgate affair, Arthur realised that the discovery of the goods in his possession w r ould be the deciding factor in convicting him. Then there w'as Anita. Yes, there were many factors now urging him to be rid of these dangerous possessions, factors which pointed to that spot under the tree, holding it up as the great question mark of his life. (To be Continued.)