“THE THIRD MAN.”

King Country Chronicle, Volume XXV, Issue 3374, 6 October 1931, Page 6

“THE THIRD MAN.”

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CHAPTER V. Three days later Ayesha Bassington sat in a northern-bound train at Central Station and gravely conversed with her uncle as she awaited the signal for departure. The girl was dressed in black, but even this sombre hue could not detract from her charms, while the tragedy Itself, bringing with it the unwonted gravity, gave an air of added grace to her face.

The train was a fast one and not crowded. By great good fortune the girl had managed to secure a firstclass compartment to herself, for which she was thankful. The thought of boisterous companions was Very distasteful to her.

Suddenly there came to their waiting ears the shrill whistle of the guard. Inspector Bassington hurriedy kissed the girl and silently pressed her hand. No word was spoken—there was no need of conversation. These two understood each other perfectly.

With a sigh, the girl listlessly picked up a magazine as the train slid from the platform on its long journey, but she could not fix her mind on the printed pages. She gazed out of the window on the sunlit panorama which flitted rapidly past, but she gazed on it unseeingly.

As in a dream she heard the door of the carriage open and shut at Strathfleld, but it was not until the train was nearing Hornsby that she became aware of another occupant of the compartment. It was a man and he was gazing at her profile in undisguised admiration. Ayesha stared at him and he had the grace to blush slightly. Then she turned her eyes away and resumed her unseeing contemplation of the landscape. Suddenly a quiet, whimsical voice broke in on her thoughts. “Excuse me, madame,” it said, “but have you any objection to my smoking? Not a foul pipe or an obnoxious cigar, but a small cigarette." “This is a non-smoking compartment,” she said, in a low voice, without looking at him.

“That v s so,” he replied, in a voice of wonder, as if he had just discovered the fact. “Sorry. I suppose I must forego it,” he spoke, regretfully. Ayesha turned and looked at him. She saw a humorous glint in his eyes and wondered what was amusing him. She was in no mood for promiscuous train acquaintanceships, and decided to put this stranger in his place at once. “You may smoke, if you wish,” she said, “but on one condition.” “And that is?” he inquired, eagerly. “That you refrain from addressing me or annoying me further,” she said, icily, and looked out of the window again. The sudden movement dislodged the magazine, which fell to the floor. The handsome stranger hastily retrieved it and handed it to her. She thanked him in distant tones and placed it on the seat beside her. Then she became aware of the fact that this man was making weird signals at her. What could he be playing at? As if in answer to her thoughts, he whiifped a pencil from his pocket and wrote a few words on a piece of paper which he passed to her. She took it and read:

“Since I am forbidden to speak to you, I write. May I borrow your magazine ? It will hold my attention and help me to refrain from annoying you.’.’ She crumpled the paper in a ball and threw it on the floor, but handed him the book. He did not attempt to read it, and she again became conscious of his gaze. She deliberately turned her back on him. When the train crept out of Hornsby she stole a look at her companion and noticed that he had changed his seat. Up to this time he had been sitting at the window facing the engine, and on the left while she sat in the same position but on the right. Now he was sitting on the opposite seat and facing his former position. It was while the train was rushing down the incline from Mount Colah that it happened. Without any warning there was a tremendous crash. To the girl’s horrified eyes it seemed as if the opposite wall of the compartment was rushing to meet her. Involuntarily she ducked her head, but something struck her and she knew no more.

It seemed as if hours had passed before she regained consciousness, with a head that throbbed terribly. She was lying on the side of the railway track and —and in the arms of the preposterous stranger. All around her was a scene of desolation. Men hurried to and fro rescuing the injured. She tried to wrench herself away from this man, but her senses were muddled and, after a few efforts, she closed her eyes and remained passive. Presently she felt herself lifted in a pair of strong arms and carried a short distance. Now she was alone. Dazedly she sat up and looked around her, slowly realising that she had been in a train smash.

To her came a kindly stranger who inquired how she felt. “You were lucky, Miss, ’ he said, when she informed him that she felt better. “Your gentleman friend, had you out of that compartment in a trice and just in time, too. The carriage is a wreck and was the only one that caught on fire. If .you had been there alone you would have been ashes now."

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She shuddered at the thought and felt ill. Her companion was still talking.

“He’s down there, now, working like a dozen men, helping ’em pull the rest of them out. We hit a goods train coming up the grade head-on. It was lucky for us that she was only going slow or there would have been a hell of a mess —begging your pardon for the expression,” he said, and left her. She struggled to her feet and began to walk towards the engine. Heaps of splintered wreckage surrounded her. From a hurrying official she learned that a relief train was ready to take the passengers on to Newcastle, and, with a sigh of thankfulness, she made her way towards it.

She was half-way there when she felt a light touch on the shoulder and swung round to confront the stranger. In his hand was her suitcase, slightly battered. He offered it to her dumbly, but with a gentle smile. “I don’t know how to thank you," she began, and then broke off in slight confusion. He nodded.

“You —you, may speak,” she said, and blushed.

With an air of proprietorship he took her by the arm and hurried her to the other train and helped her aboard. They were able to get another compartment to themselves, but Ayesha felt embarrassed. Noticing it, the man did not trouble her, nor did he speak until the relief train had begun to move. Then:

“I trust you are unhurt? ’ he inquired solicitously. She nodded.

“Good,” he said, tersely. “And you?” she asked. “Quite 0.K., thanks, Miss . . .” “My name is Ayesha Bassington,” she replied.

“I’m William Smith—Bill, for short,” he returned, and smiled.

She blushed in some confusion and mentally hated herself for it; why, she could not say.

“Are you any relation to the —er — late Mr. Justice Bassington?” he inquired, diffidently.

“He was my father,” she replied, in a low voice.

William Smith drew a deep breath

“I really cannot tell you how sorry I am for having annoyed you earlier in this exciting day,” he said. “I could not, of course, have known . . . anyhow, your dress should have . . . excuse me, Miss Bassington, I don’t know what I am talking about!” he broke off shortly.

“Please don’t apologise Mr. Smith,” she said, gravely. “Any offensiveness on your part is quite atoned for now.” “Thank you, Miss Bassington," he said, simply, and did not speak for the remainder of the journey to Gosford, where he quitted the train.

It was with an air of embarrassment that he oJTered the girl a cup of tea a few minutes later. Ayesha felt in great need of the stimulant and thanked him for his thought. It seemed to break the ice, for, after the train had set out on its non-stop run to Newcastle, they were chatting like old friends. It was the first time in Ayesha’s life that she had been on such friendly terms with a member of the opposite sex, and a stranger at that, but a railway smash is a great ripener of acquaintanceships, especially if one is saved from injury by one’s acquaintance.

Ayesha’s dominant feeling was one of regret as, some hours later, the train steamed into West Maitland station. She did not wish to see the last of this newly-made friend. The same thought was in the mind of William Smith. .He told himself that he did not ever want to lose sight of this interesting girl, but he had to. He had to put her, of all girls, right out of his life.

“You will have friends to meet you, Miss Bassington?” he inquired. “Yes, my Aunt Ethel. She lives at Lorn,” she nodded.

“I, myself, expect a friend to meet me —a curious little gentleman, but here we are at Maitland. lam glad to have been of some small service to you, Miss Bassington. I knew your father.”

He suddenly wrenched open the door and, before the train had come to a standstill, he was gone. She ran to the door and saw his form heading swiftly towards the barrier, and then temporarily lost interest in him i\n greeting her aunt, who stood on the platform eagerly scanning the train, which was hours overdue. “Oh, Ayesha, I’m so glad you came through that terrible accident all right. I knew you would be on that train. Troubles never come singly. What with the murder of poor, dear Horace, anything might happen to us these days. I shall get murdered in my hed, I know I shall. There must be a curse on us Bassingtons.”

Ayesha smiled. "But, Aunt Ethel, you are not a Bassington any longer. Added to that, you have a husband to protect you.” Aunt Ethel made a noise which, in another and commoner person, would have been termed a snort. ‘‘Your uncle James Silvertone could not protect anyone,” she said, acidly, as she led the way up the station steps to the luxurious open car which waited outside. Just outside the station in Church Street she observed William Smith in conversation with a little, rat-like individual who seemed to be remonstrating with him on some matter.

“I fell you, sir,” she heard him say, “you arc a fool to come ’ere in daylight like this. Someone might spot you easily. Good Lord, guv’nor, ain’t you got no sense at all?" She could not hear the low-spoken reply, but she watched the ill-assorted pair as they walked towards a large, closed car standing just in front of her aunt’s. Then she received a shock which left her pale and trembling. A man quietly slid from behind a row of waiting taxis and approached the other car. She saw his hand grasp William Smith by the shoulder and swing him round. Quite clearly she heard the stranger’s level tones:

“John Hammersmith —I want you 1 ” Quick as a flasTi, “William Smith” swung round and planted a fist squarely between the stranger’s eyes. He fell backwards into the gutter and at the same moment the car sprang forward. The man was on his feet again and rushed to her car. “I'm from the police,” he said. “Sorry to trouble you, but I want your car. Follow that taxi, quick!”

Mr. Silvertone’s -driver twisted round in his seat and looked at his employer. In that lady’s eyes was a gleam of excitement.

“Hop to it, Peter,” she cried, and the car darted off. The stranger in the seat near the driver.

Up Church Street the two cars drove furiously. Turning to High Street the front car narrowly averted a collision with a startled youth on a bicycle, but kept on, swung into Belmore Road, raced across the bridge over the Hunter, and along Bolwarra Road at top speed.

The car in front had a lead of several hundred yards, but this gap increased steadily. The following car was slowing down.

“What in hell is wrong with the contraption,” yelled Plain-clothes Constable Nettleton, in Peter’s ear. “Petrol supply failing’,” said Peter, philosophically, as the car came to a stop.

Nettleton sprang to the road and looked about him. Not another car in sight. With clenched fists he glared after the retreating motor containing John Hammersmith, murderer, and groaned. “Why tlie blazes don’t you keep your tank filled?” lie blared at the unflustered Peter. “Orders,” said Peter. “Only must have enough juice in to cover the trip contemplated. In this case, from Lorn to station and return.” Aunt Ethel approached the raging detective with the intention of calming him. “I always practise economy hi these matters . . ." she began. “Blast economy,” roared the detective. “There goes a damned murdering scoundrel and I can’t catch him. Hey, you!” he suddenly bawled to a young man who came panting along on a motor-cycle. “Give me that machine!” “Why should I?” demanded the youth, indignantly. “Police,” roared Nettleton, as he deftly jerked the youth from the saddle. Within a moment h-e was mounted and away on a chase that looked hopeless from the start. “Oh, Aunty,” said Ayesha, with tears in her eyes, “I hope he doesn i> catch him!” “So do I,” said Aunt Ethel, grimly. “I’ve never been spoken to in my life like that. I’ll report him to Inspector Rippingale I”

(To be continued.)