Serial Story

Hawera Star, Volume XLVI, 9 April 1927, Page 8

Serial Story

CHAPTER XVIII

(Continued)

“Rumpus, old friend!” Hargreaves announced, “They aren’t half in a stew about that will!” “I’m not surprised” observed Mr. Rumpus. “And what about Sir* James? How is he taking it? I trust that the death of his uncle will have sobered him a little, and we shall have no repetition of his previous behaviour. You will remember, 1 think, that he once likened my face to a pound of steak.”' “That’s right,” agreed Hargreaves. “And you haven’t altered a bit. Now, about Sir James, I Haven’t seen him since the discovery. That solicitor they’ve got in there, Mr. Naylor isn’t half a devil —put me through it properly all because I Hummed a hymn when 1 was in the room.” “Well, you’d no right to hymn humsI mean, hum hymns-in the presence of your betters,” said Mr. Bumpus severely. “I always used to hum hymns when 1 had the honour of serving at the ‘Duke of Wellington,’ ” retorted Hargreaves. “That’s got one in on you, old ’un, before you start to talk about Duke of Burnside what you worked for.” The conversation was interrupted by the sound of Sir James Fairfield’s voice in the Hall. “Hargreaves!” he called. “I want you!” “Yessir!” answered Hargreaves, disposing of his madeira with alacrity. “Where’s the will gone, Slippery ” asked Jimmie when the under-butler met him. “I haven’t had it, sir.” said Hargreaves.”' “But you know where it is, all the same.” This was rather too direct for Hargreaves, and he turned a shade pale. “] hope you’ll excuse me, sir, when I say that you’re absolutely wrong. I don’t know where it is—leastways, perhaps not for certain. I think you’d better try elsewhere, sir.” There was no doubt"about Hargreave’s meaning; he was referring to Billy ltomaine, and Jimmie Knew It. “So you think that, do you,” he demanded. “1 wouldn’t say that, sir, but you rather upset me a bit when you said that I knew where it was. I should like to take hack what I said sir. At the same time, I think that Sir John kept it in that desk where I saw Miss Romaine when she broke into the house.” “You’ve not told anyone else, have you ?“ “Not a soul, sir.” “Well don’t said Jimmie. “1 don’t care whether the will’s found or whether it isn’t, so long as her name is kept out of it/’ “I quite understand, sir,” murmured the under-butler. “And of course, if I can find any way of getting hold of the will, I shall do so and let you know sir/’ “That’s right, Hargreaves” assented Jimmie. “Yes, sir it would make a lot of difference if it were found —not only because of the money, but you’d know' that Miss Romaine had nothing to do with it.” “It would mean a. good deal,” agreed Jimmie. “By the way, I’m going round to see Miss Romaine this evening, I think it’s quite time that this quarrel between the two houses was finished.” A little later, Jimmie went round to Melton Grange openly and asked to see Miss Romaine, “I’m sorry, sir,” said the Romaine’s butler, “but Miss Romaine is not at home you’re Sir James Fairfield, I believe?” “That’s right,” said Jimmie. “Perhaps you will kindly tell me where she is.” The butler advanced a step, so that none inside the house could hear him speak. “I’m sorry, Sir James, but even we don’t know where she is. There’s some mystery somewhere.”

CHAPTER XIX. A SURPRISE FOR MR. BTJMPUS. It was with astonishment that Sir James Fairiield heard the news from the butler at Melton Grange. “I don't quite understand you,.’.’ he said. ‘‘You mean that Miss Romaine has actually disappeared, that no one knows where she is?” ‘‘So far as 1 know, sir, that’s the case,” replied the butler, whose name was Jones. ‘‘Then perhaps you’ll ask Mr. Romaine if he can see me.” “I’m very sorry, sir, but Mr. Romaine is out. \ T ou see, sir, he’s rather busy at the moment.” “When will he be back?” asked Jimmie. “I couldn’t be sure,” replied the butler. “I think he’s gone to Melehester in the hopes of finding Miss Romaine —I think he’s seeing the police there.” “In which case he will be back late this evening,” suggested Jimmie. “That’s so, sir.” “Then give him a message and say that I’ll call round again later.” As he walked back to Beggar’s End Jimmie tried to find some explanation of the astounding fact which had been imported to him by Jones. What, he asked himself over and over again, was the mystery which surrounded Billie? If only lie could discover the reason for the quarrel between Mr. Romaine and his uncle he felt that he would come near to understanding things. Perhaps when he saw Billie’s father later on he might gain some information.

On his return to Beggar's End he found his cousins in solemn conclave. Mr. Naylor had retired to his room.

“We are just wondering what to do in case the will doesn’t turn up,” announced Mr. Gales. “It’s going to be verv awkward.”

“Very,” agreed Jimmie. “1 suppose nobody knows what’s in it?” “I was just going to ask you the gfime question,” said Gales. “I thought perhaps uncle might have told you when you were staying here a little time ago.” Jimmie smiled. “I’m afraid uncle was not in a particularly confidential or expansive mood,” he said. “I managed to get his back up.” Montagu Darwell gave a “Haw! Haw!”

“You generally managed to do that, Jimmie' —what? Shouldn t do it, my boy; shouldn't do it, my boy, when there’s money about. Still, thei’e you are—you’re one of these artist lads, and I suppose you don’t care.” “Not a lot,” assented Jimmie. “Gad!” ejaculated Darwell. “I wish I could sav that. However, I suppose it’s just as well, for 1 don't suppose the old cock has left you anything.” “Come, come, Montagu!” reproved Mr. Gales. “How can you refer to your respected uncle in such terms, when lie’s only just been buried? ‘Old coc-k,’ indeed!” “Well, how long has he got to be buried before I can call him ‘old cock’?” asked the irrepressible Montagu. Reuben Gales snorted.

“I refuse to show levity on this occ sion,” he said, as though levity were otherwise one of his habitual moods. Then he turned to Jimmie. ‘ ‘We were talking about Hargreaves before you came in,” he said quietly for he had a fear that perhaps Hargreaves might be listening at the door. “We don’t like the way he spoke to Mr. Naylor. Mr. Naylor wants us to sack him.” ~ “We’re not going to sack him, said Jimmie shortly. “No, we can’t sack Hargreaves!’ exclaimed Montagu. “He knows such a lot.” He laughed inwardly as he said the words, little thinking that his opinion was sincerely echoed in the others’ minds.

Each had carefully thought over the problem of Hargreaves, and it was plain that at the moment the butler held the whip-hand. Each of the relatives was under the impression that the whole of Sir John’s fortune lay in his or her hands, and there was the possibility—as Hargreaves had slyly suggested—of his finding the will. Yes, Hargreaves would have to be very delicti telv handled.

Later that evening Jimmie went round again to Melton Grange. It was many years since he had seen Mr. Romaine; indeed, he had only met him on one occasion before. He was glad to learn from Jones that the> master had returned, and presently he was shown into a’ room and asked to wait until Mr. Romaine would see him. In due course Mr. Romaine appeared. He was a man of about sixty, with a distinguished bearing, austere and erect, with well-cut features, with a short white beard . and equally white hair which glistened attractively in the light of the chandelier which hung in the room. He had all the courtesy of the old aristocracy, and bowed slightly as he entered the room. “Sir James Fairfield, I believe ” Jimmie noticed that, despite his courtesy, there was no hint of a 'Smile upon his face; but whether this was due to his own troubles, or to the fact that Jimmie was a Fairfield,-he could not- decide.

Mr. Romaine bade Jimmie resume his seat, whilst he sat in the chair opposite and pressed the bell. “You’ll take, a little.wine, I think?” he said, as Jones appeared and received instructions.

When the butler had left the room, Mr. Romaine began:

“Now, please tell me your business, Sir James. It’s rather late, is it not?”

“I apologise for the hour,” answered Jimmie, “hut I called previously, and y T ou were out. As a matter of fact, I can hardly tell you what I’ve called about. As you know, my uncle is dead and it’s useless for me to say that I was not aware that you and he were on bad terms.”

“That’s so,” observed Mr. Romaine, waiting for Jimmie to continue. “Well, I don’t know wliat it was all about,” said Jimmie. “I tried to find out several times from my uncle, but he wouldn’t tell me.”

“And you hoped I would supply you with the* missing information?”

“Weil, I had hoped that, as a matter of fact,” confided Jimmie, “but I’m not going to press it. If you’d tell me, however, it would take a great deal off my mind You see, we’re two of the biggest families about here, and it seems to me lamentable that there should be any difference between the two houses.”

“I agree, but we cannot help the past,” said Mr. Romaine. “I have no feeling against yourself, personally, but there are things which make it impossible tor us to fraternise.” Whilst he spoke, Jimmie was wondering whether he should mention the subject of Billie; after all, that was really what he had come for. Presently he said: “Well, I’m sorry to hear that, sir, because I had hoped that we could have healed the breach, and I had other hopes too, sir.” Mr. Romaine raised his eyebrows questioningly. “Yes, other hopes, sir,” repeated Jimmie. “1 am acquainted with your daughter, and —pardon my putting it so plainly—l am In love with her.” For a tew moments Mr. Romaine was silent. “You surprise' me,” he said at iast; “you really do —it’s most unfortunate.” - “Well, .1 was going to ask your permission, sir, to speak to her in due time.” “And that permission I am afraid 1 cannot give,”- answered Mr. Romaine, pleasantly, but quite firmly. “In any case, I am afraid that I’m concerned in quite another manner with my daughter at present. I am sorry to have to tell you, but Miss Romaine left here two nights ago, and—and we haven’t seen her since, nor do we know where she is.” Jimmie affected amazement at the news. “1 am most sorry,” fie said. “I trust you will give me an opportunity to the extent of my powers in bringing her back to you.” “Certainly, should the occasion arise,” said Mr. Romaine, “1 will call upon you. 1 presume you know nothing about her disappearance?” “Nothing whatever,” said Jimmie. “J am surprised at your news, because I thought- that you and she were exceptionally good friends.” The old man’s eyes moistened slightly. as lie gazed over Jimmie’s head. “Yes,” he said. “We were" good friends. We had a little difference on that evening, and now she’s gone, where or. how, I cannot say. 1 lear that she’ might have got into bad hands, though I can’t think of anyone who aould wish her harm.” “Nor I!” agreed Jimmie fervently. Then lie added:

“Might I ask what steps you are taking, sir, to i trace your daughter?” “Well. I have seen the police.at Meichester,” admitted the old man quiet-

K- • and then, as though regretting his words, and suddenly appreciating the fact that lie was talking to a Fairnetu, li6 said: ’ .. “I would rather, however, not discuss the matter with you, Sir James. 1 have no wish to be discourteous, but I think it would be better if things remained as they were between our house and yours —it would avoid complications.” . . T . “As you please, Sir, ’ said Jimmie. “Vi don’t quite understand what you mean by complications. 1, personally, have no wish to see the quarrel continue.” . . , . Mr. Romaine made a gesture almost of impatience. , . “No! No!” he exclaimed. “1 can explain nothing, and now you must allow me to retire. I have had a very worrying day.” A little later Jimmie was on Ins homeward way between Melton Grange and Beggar’s end. Mr. Romaine s mention of complications remained clearly in his mind. What could the old man have meant. He had hoped to have at leas’t gained some inkling of the difference between the two houses, but he came out of Melton Grange as he went in, his mind mystified and his heart disappointed. He spoke to Hargreaves on his return to Beggar’s End. _ “I suppose you know that Miss Romaine is away?” he asked the under butler. ■» . “Er —I—or was not aware of it, sir, said Hargreaves; . “otherwise, Sir James, I would of course have mentioned it when you todl me you were going to see her. She s gone for a holiday, I suppose, Sir James?” ‘‘Don’t know where she’s gone,” answered Jimmie tensely. ‘if you know anything about it, you’d better get it out quickly. W hen you last saw her, did she make any mention of going away?” “None at all, sir. She seemed quite cheerful and bright, so far as I could see; but then she’s always like that. ’ “Did she give you any money?” “Well, she did, sir, as a matter of fact. 1 rather think, sir, that she thought 1 might be of some service to you at this time, and she gave me a trifle.” “Oh, well, 1 won’t ask you how much, ’’’ answered Jimmie. “I just look to you to tell me anything you know, and everything you find out.” “You can be sure I’ll do that, sir, answered Hargreaves with fervour. “It is a great pity that will’s missing, sir. It’d clear up* a lot of things if that could be found. They’re all very eagar, sir.” “l r ou mean my cousins?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Gales especially. I suppose you haven’t thought any more about the murder of Sir John —1 mean, you haven’t fixed on anybody, so to speak. The fact that Hargreaves had made this remark following his reference to Reuben Gales was not unnoticed by Jimmie.

“What do you mean, exactly?” he demanded.

“Nothing at all, sir. Somebody must have killed him, and it must have'been somebody who wanted him to die — there was quite a. few wanting that, sir. Mr. Gales, 1 should' think,' sir, would not be one of them,) though; he’s too ’oly.” “Yes, Mr. Gales is a good man,” answered Jimmie, a twinkle in his eye which caused. Hargreaves to respond, with a smile :

“All the same, sir, lie's very good to me.”

“You mean in tips?” “That’s right, sir; 1 suppose you’d call them tips. In fact, they all seem a bit generous at present,” •. „ , • • “Why 4 do you think they-give you tips, Hargreaves ?” asked Jimmie. “Couldn’t quite say, sir. I suppose it’s because^, they like me.” “That’s it', slippery!” assented Jimmie. “You can be quite sure of that. Meanwhile, how’s old Bumpus? He seems to stick in the butler’s pantry like a tortoise in the garden undergrowth. Doesn’t he ever come up for a breather?”

“Mr, Bumpus is quite well, sir,” answered Hargreaves solemnly. “Well, I want to have a. word with him soon. I’ll see him in the morning.” So saying, he turned to ascend the stairs, and Hargreaves returned to the pantry, where he discovered Mr. Bumpus asleep in his rocking-chair. There was three-parts of a glass of Madeira at his side. Hargreaves finished if. and then patted Mr. Bumpus on the shoulder. The butler opened his eyes dreamily. “What—what’s the matter?” lie asked.

“Pull yourself together, old ’un. You’ve forgotten where you are. You’re in the condemned cell, and I’ve just come- to tell you that the executioner is outside, and that you’d better get your things on!”

(To be continued.)