OUR SERIAL STORY

Hawke's Bay Tribune, Volume I, Issue 176, 12 July 1911, Page 9

OUR SERIAL STORY

TRIPPED AT LAST.

BY

HEADON HILL.

[ CHAPTER XIIi. | “THE COAST IS CLEAR.’’ (Continued.) Mr Grey-stevl had t<hc short sketch of sea-front nearly to himself, for the fishermen who had Iteen out all night had gone home to bed, and the groups of loungers had not yet assembled tor their daily work of staring at the sea. The inspector, like most landsmen, was smitten witih the usual conceit of being intensely nautical in his tastes, and he made a critk-ai survey of the craft straining at their moorings. of the smaller rowing boats under the sea-wall, and . of the nets spread out to dry in the morning sun. When he had exhausted the nearer objects of interest he unslung his glasses and focussed- them on the few vessels on the horizon, finally bringing them to bear on the most prominent feature in the seascape—the islet on wfik-h the massive pile of the Slate House stood in leisurely over the great .rambling solitary slat--. He let lus gaze range structure, and then paid attention to its surroundings. In all his experience he had never seen such a place before. Brighton, Ramsgate. Hastings, and tlie liike, were aJ.I familiar to liim, memorable as the ’‘earths” at which he had run to ground many notable criminals; but this little sandy island, rising from deep water not half a mile from shore, had no counterpart at any of those populous resorts. Suddenly Mr Greysreel's gaze cry- | stalJjsed. and the binoculars, which , had flitted from object- to object like I a be gathering honey, remained sta- , tionary. directed at the end of the 'stnail pier. That low, black-hulled I craft. with tlie polislied mahogany I deck-house, tied up to the lanciingj stage. iv ;l , un<iiie.st.ional>iy,-i motorI kuiiK-li. and motor launches were very I much in Mr Greyste.-Ts mental pnrj view just at present. Plymouth was J only forty miles away, and the lannoh : might easily have reached I’orthruan since three* o’clock the previous afteri noon.

Tlie next moment the inspector lettered his glasses and began to laugh at himself. “It’s tlie unwonted atmosphere—being a bit out of my element—that gave me that start,” he muttered. “If I was looking tor a chap in London who had done a. bolt in a hansom I shouldn’t sit up and fillink every time I saw an empty cab waiting outside a gentleman's house. I’H wager that motor-launches are pretty nearly as plentiful hereabouts as hansoms are within the radius.”

• He snapped his glasses briskly into ! I their sling -ease and walked on, rather i J annoyed with himself. The denizen j otf cities is as shamefaced over a local ; j blunder in the country as is the pro- ) vincial tripper who rinds that he has mistaken the House of Commons for the Zoological Gardens. But at the quay steps Mr Greysteel espied a young man sitting in a boat, and he could not resist putting the question, I after a polite “good-morning”— | “Whose is that picturesque house •on tlie Island yonder?”

“It belongs to Ixnd Trevose, sir, but it’s let at present to Colonel Cremlin, an army officer from India. I’m going aero.ss t-liere now—to take a servant-maid that's been engaged to help in the kitchen.” tas the civil answer. And Bob Langston, for it was he, accompanied the information with a grin at having isolated his sweetheart from the attentions of Kelly.

“I see they've got a motor-launch there,” observed the inspector.

“Yes.” replied Bob, “t-he Colonel was telling me the other day that he had ordered one. He’s got a daughter, an invalid young lady, and he tliought it would be handy for her to cruise along the coast in.” “So it would, of course. Die party is here for some time, I suppose?” “For the rest of the summer. The Colonel gives it out that they’re likely to com** every year if the air suits the sick girl.’’ Mr Greysteel thanked his informant- and passed on. convinced of hie folly in getting excited about the motor-launch. This one had been quite openiy procured lor a meritorious purpose by an Indian officer who was the tenant of a. peer. A comIxination more removed from the darksome ways of the Lambeth Terror it would be difficult to imagine. (To be continued.)