WHAT HARGREAVES KNEW.

Hawera Star, Volume XLVI, 12 February 1927, Page 13

WHAT HARGREAVES KNEW.

CHAPTER IV. (continued). For a few moments, James Fairfield looked Hargreaves cleanly in the eye. and in those few moments he was aide to read the butler’s mind. “I’ll see you in a worse place than [Beggar’s End, Hargreaves,” he said, “before I give you five pounds to learn the contents"of my uncle’s will; and there’s another thing, I’ve a good •mind to tell him that you ’ve been trying to sell his confidences. I’ll admit you’ve roused my curiosity, nevertheless. ” “I’m sorry if you misunderstood me, sir,” said the under-butler. “It was not my intentioit to sell confidences. But between yon and me, sir, I Had a little bit to do with the will being what it is. As I told you, Sir John confides in me, and he’s good enough to be influenced at times bv wha/t I say. However, you can be sure that I shall not attempt to make him change his mind.” •For a moment Fairfield was on the verge of losing his temper with Hargreaves. Ho thought better of it, •however, for if it were true that Sir <+■ John had included him in his will, it would be idiotic to endeavour to spoil his chances. After all, there was Billie Romaine. If Billie agreed to marry him he could hardly take her from hei present home to a small London flat. He must keep on the right side of Haigreaves, if only because of that. “Well, well, Hargreaves,” he said. “I’m most obliged by what you have told me, and we’ll forget about your request for money. If you care to tell me anything, you may be quite sure that I will keen it in the utmost confidence and that you will be in no way the loser thereby.” Hargreaves stroked his bony chin and thought for a few minutes. Then he said: “Look, here, Mr James, provided that that’s understood, then I don’t mind telling you the truth. I’ve always liked you, sir, and I feel that you’d be happier if you knew what I’ve got to tell you.” “Come, out with it, then, out with it!” said Jimmie impatiently. “Well, the fact is, sir, that Sir John has made you his sole heir to everything. There’s nobody in it at all beside you, not even Mr Reuben Gales. ■ James Fairfield gave a low whistle. This was wonderful. Though he had no intention of currying his uncle’s favour in the hopes of being in the will, nevertheless, it was a supremely welcome thought to know that the beautiful old house and the lands would belong to him. Visions of Billie Romaine, walking between the clipped yews in which proud peacocks were now going to roost, thrilled him warmly. “Hargreaves, yo.u old scoundrell” ho said. “You shall have that fiver! ” And Hargreaves, having told what was, perhaps, the second greatest lie of his career, murmured thanks. “You’re quite sure?” asked Jimmie presently. ‘‘l don’t question you, of course, but it seems odd to me that my uncle should have favoured me in that way. “Of course, that was before the ■bight club affair, sir,” replied Hargreaves. “You heard about that, did you? inquired Jimmie. “Yes, sir,” said Hargreaves. “Sir John tells me much.” A little later James Fairfield took his walk in the grounds of Beggar’s End. There was much to occupy his thoughts, for, if what Hargreaves told him was true, he was indeed a lucky beggar. He looked back upon his old independent attitude with a certain amount of scorn, for there was no denying the fact that to be the owner of Beggar's End was to be a fortunate man. Further, Sir John had a house in town, and if, as Hargreaves had said, he was the sole heir to Sir John ’3 estate, then 33, Barton Street, W., would also be his. It was a pleasant thought. He dined in solemn state that evening with Sir John, and found himself going out of his way to gain the favour of his uncle. Ho tried afterwards to blame himself for insincerity, but. always there was the thought of Billie Romaine among the clipped yews! It excused much! Meanwhile, Hargreaves and Mr Bumpus had had some conversation in the butler’s pantry. “I’m afraid ho doesn’t seem to be any different,” observed Mr Bumpus in a 'lachrymose manner. “He’ll be starting his old game again soon. Infact, I hardly dared lift up the cheese dish to-night in case he had put a rat under it.” “Ah, well,” said Hargreaves, “it was two years ago since he did that. No doubt he’s learnt a bit more sense by this time.” “Doesn't sound like it, by the way he spolce to me,” said Bumpus. “However,,!’lll willing to give him the bene- . fit of the doubt, seeing as there’s not much likelihood of him ever having Beggar’s End as his own. That would be more, than I could bear, to see that young rapscallion with this place at his mercy. . . . rind I should be sorry for t-hc wine, cellar after a few of his bachelor parties. He lessened .t enough after the last time he was hero when Sir John was away.” “He left enough for you, anyhow,” put in Hargreaves. “I see the second half of that bottle of Madeira is gone.” “You’re assuming too much,” said Bumpus with dignity. “I have only been down, the cellar once to-day.” “You must have stayed down ,a nice long lime, too,” said Hargreaves. “Anyhow, as 1 was saying,” went on Mr Bumpus whcczily, “I’m glad the young man isn’t going to take over Beggar’s End. I do wish you wouldn’t interrupt me when I’m speaking—and I might toll you Sir John was complaining to me at dinner that them Venetian glasses weren’t polished half like they should be. That’s up against you, young man. However, I won’t labour the matter . . . Yes, I’m glad •Mr James isn’t coming here.” “I wouldn’t be sure about- that, old bird,” said Hargreaves. “You never know what may happen.”

“What do you moan"’’ asked Bumpus with alarm.

“I just mean this,” said Hargreaves. S' ‘ ‘ That I kno w a bit more about Sir John’s private mind than anybody else, though I’mi not going to breathe a word about it. I could tell you a lot of things if I liked. In fact, if you

knew the truth you’d treat me with a little bit of respect.” Bumpus pulled out a large red handkerchief and mopped his brow, which had suddenly gone clammy at a thought which had entered his mind. “You mean —you mean —do you mean —that you are in the will? I thought Sir John has been getting a bit queer once or twice lately. “I call that an insult,” said Hargreaves “but I’m used to that. However, I shan’t always be persecuted. You’ll fr et a surprise one of these days that’ll very nigh make your whiskers drop off.” , , Bumpus continued applying the red handkerchief. He had heard of great men doing strange things in their wills. Could it be that by some freak of the brain Sir John had left Beggar’s End to his under-butler?

CHAPTER V. A RABBIT INTERVENES. “iomig man,” said Mr Bumpus to iiis unuei-butler, ’‘l should be much obiige a H - vou ' v °uld tell me what is Ut me back or your minu.” •-sorry, X can't tell you, old uu, repneu Hargreaves witli a inclining smile, .‘'but you can take it from me mat if Sir Jonn poppeu oil a good many people would oe surprised besides yourself. i'll say no more, except mat wnen you start bossing ine about and talking about cleaning tiie crests on the dish covers and polishing tne glasses, that you're not talking to an ordinary man.” • • Dear me, dear me, said Mr Bumpus, “vvnat is the world coming to '! first there’s Mr J ames here, racing about tne place and calling me names, and now mere’s my under-butler Holding threats over me.” Suddenly Bumpus pulled himself back with an effort. “Look here, young man,” he added, “I don't care what happens when Sir Joiin dies; till he dies, you’re underbutler, and jL’ju Mr iSumpus, the head butler. ” • tt “And wine-taster,” put m Hargreaves, “However, I won’t argue about it. It must be getting late.. I suppose we shall be having a little brandy before we go to bed?” There was a glint in Mr Bumpus s eye as he replied, “Well, young man, 1 had meant to have those glasses polished to-night, to save doing them tomorrow, but seeing that you’ve mentioned brandy, then we’ll have some brandy. The cellar key is on the nail.

It was on till) morning following this conversation that James Fairfield took a walk in the neighbourhood of Beggar’s End, adjacent to Melton Grange. On his last visit he had not become on sufficiently good terms with Billie Romaine as to allow him to write and inform her of his present visit. Nevertheless, she had created such an impression upon him that during the intervening two years he had never forgotten her. The same might have been said of Billie and only the termination of Fairfield's visit by a sudden fit of anger on the part of his uncle prevented the two appreciating just what they meant to each other. The end had been very sudden. Sir John had returned unexpectedly from London, and had found him giving a party to various bachelor friends whom ho had asked up for a week-end, unknown to his uncle. The scene had been as painfuL as it was short, and had ended in Jimmie leaving by the next., available train. He had wondered if lie should see Billie and explain, but decided that since he was leaving Beggar’s End under a certain amount of disgrace, it was better perhaps that he should not see her, especially as he was aware that there was enmitv between the two houses. To wliat "extent this enmity went he had not been aware until his recent interview with his uncle, when the latter had ordered him to have no relations with the Romaines.

James Fairfield had given no promise that he would not see Billie, and on this sunny morning he was deliberately haunting the lanes about Melton Grange in the hopes of meeting Squire Romaine’s daughter. And ho met her. He had just crossed a stile leading into some fields, when he saw Billie two fields ahead, surrounded by no less than five dogs. She made a pleasing picture, one to rejoice the heart of any man who took delight in - the countryside and the things that were of it. She appeared a veritable Diana of the uplands. She was coming in Jimmie’s direction, and he got down from the stile as she approached. ‘‘ x though you had disappeared!’ she exclaimed as he advanced to meet her. “What do you mean by going off as you did two years ago without telling me anything about it?” “I didn't think it interested you quite so much as that,” said Jimmie. ‘‘ As a matter of fact, my old uncle decided that I was no longer worthy to remain under the ancestral roof of Beggar’s End. He did, however, show me the parting kindness of looking up the next train from Floody Wyngates and ordering Glcasby round with the dogcart —you see he can be kind when lie likes.” The girl laughed, and sent a thrill through James. The keen morning air had brought a rich colour to her checks, and her fair hair seemed to fight prettily to escape the confines of a plain felt hat, in the band of which a tuft of partridge feathers were placed nonchalantly. Beggar’s End with Billie Romainc! What.a thought! “I expect you’d been up to no good,” said Billie, pushing away two ,lo"s who were endeavouring to snatch the stick she was carrying. “Anyhow, vou’re back now, and I’m .jolly glad—it’s dreadfully dull up here.” .“That’s nice of you to say that,” responded Jimmie warmly. “I agree with you; it’s rather dull here.” “Yes. the trouble is that father and Sir John hate oath other for all they’re worth; at least, Sir John hates father; I'm not sure that it’s altogether mutual. ’ ’ “T don’t suppose for one minute that ir is,” said Jimmie. “I know my uncle well enough to understand if he gets a Vice in his bonnet it’s there for good. ’ ’

“Well, lie’s evidently forgiven you for whatever you did. He apparently isn’t immutable,” laughed the girl. “I didn’t do very much,” confessed Jimmie. “I only had a few friends in to liven up things while he was away—and, in any case, he hasn’t forgiven me. He got me up here in or-

der to give me a lengthy reprimand for having got my name in the paper through being in a night club.” “Fast man,” commented Billie. “I didn’t think you visited such places. Haven’t you * any thought for your soul?” Her eves twinkled as she spoke, and Jimmie laughed. There was something infectious about her humour which he could not withstand. (To be continued.)