FIND THIS MAN

King Country Chronicle, Volume XXVII, Issue 4403, 10 June 1933, Page 6

FIND THIS MAN

By AIDAN DE BRUNE.

(All Rights Reserved.)

CHAPTER XIV. For the moment Ivy hesitated; then turned to face her companion. “You were saying?” she questioned slowly. “I am so sorry, Mr Lome. I am afraid I did not quite understand you.”

•Jack smiled. lie had not missed her involuntary start, and wondered what was the connection between the girl at his side and the two men who had just entered the banquet hall. “I was trying to explain my interest in Miss Breton,” he said, patiently. “You see, she is my partner now and

“I . .. Ivy, your partner?” The girl suppressed a de.sire to laugh. She had never conceived a situation like this could develop. “Why, I thought Mr Paul Lome, your brother, was your partner.” “I wish he was," Jack spoke wholeheartedly. “He is the best of fellows ! I’d give my ears to have him with me. But Paul’s set on being a doctor—and he’ll make a fine one. He comes down to the shop sometimes to give me a hand." “And you?” The girl looked at him curiously. “Have you no ambitions?” “Is not ‘Lome, florists’ a satisfied ambition?” He asked gently, yet for a moment a light lingered in his eyes. “You know the old quotation: ‘To make two blades of grass grow where one grew before.’ Is not that worthy?”

“All work is worthy.” Ivy glanced up the hall. It was now filled with little groups of men chatting idly, waiting for the function to commence. “But

“You are disappointed in me?" A slight irritableness shook the man. “Miss France, you are terribly direct. I will answer your question as I never thought to answer that question to anyone. I have . . . had other ambitions, but they had to be set aside. I had to follow the only road open to me.” He paused a moment. “Have I now explained my interest in Miss Breton?”

The girl nodded. “Does she know this?” she asked.

“No,” the answer was spontaneous. “When Mr Sixsmith died I asked Mr Kithner what was to be done. He replied ‘Nothing’.”

“Then you are not willing to take his advice?” Ivy was trying to accustom herself to the fact that a deflinte link existed between herself and this man—a business link. “I did, for a time.” Jack hesitated. “Then I wondered if I was doing right. I heard that Mr Sixsmith had left her only a small token —that he was supposed to have been a ruined man at the time of his death. I knew that was incorrect, for ‘Lome, florists’ is now quite a valuable property. Not only the shop," he added, noting her look of surprise. “You remember, Mr Sixsmith had insisted that we had our own nurseries. I can assure you that Miss Breton need not do a stroke of work, unless she wishes to. I have heard that she is looking for a situation.” “I believe that she has work.” Ivy laughed silently. She looked at the great hall, a monument to her skill as a decorator. “I think that she has work that she likes.”

“Will she continue to like it—stick to it —when she knows that she is a partner in ‘Lome, florists’?” “Why not?" Ivy turned to the switchboard, her fingers on the levers. “Wait, Mr Lome. I think they are about to commence the dinner.” A tall, fine-looking old man dressed in correot, if somewhat old-fashion cut evening attire, had moved to the head of the main table, rapping on the linen with an ivory mallet. The groups about the room broke up, the individuals sauntering to the tables to find their places. “Sir Michael Naurne.” Jack indicated the chairman to the girl.

“Gentlemen.” The old man waited until there was silence. “I bid you welcome here. I hope you will enjoy your dinner. Afterwards, when the more serious business of the evening has passed perhaps some of the gentlemen I see before me will have something to say to you. I believe I shall, myself.” As the chairman sat down Ivy’s fingers depressed the levers. The lights in the vast hall dimmed gradually. From high up, outside the domed ceiling, the lights streamed gradually through the coloured glasses, casting fantastic shadows on the tables and the guests. Slowly the girl brought the lights to their full strength then, with quick manipulation, shut off the white lights in the hall.

From amid massed plants, foliage and flowers in the hall and' on the tables, little lights began to glow, adding their radiance to the lights from the high roof. The tables became a mass of sparkling points of light, some coloured, others taking their colours from the lights that streamed down from overhead.

Along the long line of tables blossoms, banked and scried, moved as if stirred by some interior convulsions. They changed formations, opening out to reveal large crystal bowls of sparkling water in which, gleamed yet more lights. From the bowls jets of water sprang high In title air, to fall in bewildering rainbows again into the howls.

“By jovel" Jack turned to his as-

sistant, a light of admiration in his eyes. “Miss France, you have accomplished wonders!” And so thought the guests at the banquet. For a moment guests and waiters remained spellbound, then burst into spontaneous applause. “You like it, Mr Lome?” Ivy turned to face her unsuspecting partner, a light in her eyes. “I wondered if you would approve.”

“Approve? Why, it’s immense I" The young man could not restrain his appreciation. “ ‘Lome, florists,’ owe you a deep debt of gratitude. For the lime, may one of the partners express it to you?” “Not both of them?” The girl questioned demurely.

“Both?” For a moment the young man hesitated, then grinned, broadly. “I can answer for the name-partner,” he added. “You will have to answer for Miss Breton. I don’t know her.” “Yet you called on her yesterday.” “You know that?” “I told you; Ivy tell me everything.” “And —you reciprocate?” “I try to.” Very demurely. “But ...” He hesitated. “You have now a secret to conceal from her.” “Yes?” For the moment Ivy did not understand. “ ‘Lome, florists’.” Jack laughed. “Why should not Ivy know?” “I want to tell her myself—presently.” “When?” The man did not answer for a moment. The girl repeated her question. “What do you think she will do when she knows?” He answered her question with another. “Why?” Again he did not reply. Suddenly she turned to him. “Jack Lome, you are afraid Ivy Breton might want to interfere in the business.” “She might try to." “Just because her godfather lent M “Invested.” “ . . . . invested money in your business.” She hesitated. “Do you think women are like that?” “Some are.” “You’ve seen Ivy. Do you think she would interfere with you?” “She looks very . . . capable.” The momentary hesitation between the last words did not escape the girl. She flushed, indignantly; then laughed. For the moment she had not realised that Jack was referring to Mary Varney. “I can ... I think I can promise you that Ivy will not interfere.” She spoke emphatically. “Mr Lome, is that half-share in your business really and truly Ivy’s. Does it not belong to Mr Sixsmith’s estate?” “Mr Kithner says not.”

“Is he certain?”

“Mr Sixsmlth signed a partnership deed with me, when he placed the money required for the formation of the business in the bank and approved of the plans I had drawn up. Later, at his request, I signed a new partnership deed, this time with Mr Kithner, acting as trustee for Miss Breton. The partnership with Mr Kithner was cancelled. Thus, the matter comes out of Mr Sixsmith’s estate. The interests in the business now only exist between myself and Mr Kithner until Miss Breton arrives at the age of twenty-five.” Jack spoke slowly and clearly. “Do you understand, now?” Ivy nodded. Her godfather had not left her penniless; he had not died a ruined man. But, why had he scattered and concealed his wealth so strangely?

She had recived that day stocks and bonds for a huge sum of money, from a man she believed was not more than a mere acquaintance of her godfather. Now Jack Lome had come to her and told her that she owned a half share in his business —the business in which she was working as a paid assistant, under the name of “France.” She believed that she could take this partnership, but the money had to go to the estate —it would revert to Mrs Martha Western.

Strangely now, Ivy thought, little of money. Her triumph of that night had set her life on a new plane. She had now work in which she was interested —in which she had won immediate success. She would go on with that work until she had proved herself to this man beside her —until she had proved to him that women were not all interfering busybodies. Then she would tell him that she was Ivy Breton, his partner. Perhaps he would want her to continue with him —to work in the business as hi-s partner. “What is Miss Breton’s share in ‘Lome, florists’ worth?” she asked, abruptly. “About a thousand pounds a year.” Jack startled, looked down at the girl. “Honour bright, Miss France! Not a word of this to Miss Breton, or anyone, until I give you leave.” “Yes,” she answered his look straightly. “I promise you that you shall he the first to tell Ivy Breton." An imp of mischief was dancing in the girl’s eyes as she spoke. Jack Lome should, indeed, be the first person to tell Ivy Breton. lie had told her though he was entirely innocent of the fact. And Ivy Breton, now that she knew, would do what she liked with the information.

Yet in many ways she was hampered by her promise. Jack knew her as Muriel France —and Muriel France must keep faith. In that she was as

bound by her promise as if she was not Ivy Breton. But . . .

Again the sparkle of mischief glowed in her dark eyes. Jack Lome would have to be punished for his remarks about Ivy Breton. “She looked very capable!” Yes, Jack Lome should find her, indeed, capable; so capable that he would have to go almost to his knees to retain her in the business.

Now Ivy was watching the tables in the centre of the hall. The correct and severely-garbed diners; the silent, swiftly-moving shadows of waiters, flitting between the long rays of coloured lights. Her time had almost come. Soon the serious part of the dinner would come to an end. The cloths would be withdrawn and the waiters would retire. Then she could act.

She glanced from the man beside her to the telephone. Why had not Fred Powers telephoned her? Had he left the duty he had promised to perform for her and missed the “unknown”—when he left the night-club to come to the Union Club? That was possible. If he had stayed at his post he could not have missed the man, for Cann Street was not crowded at that hour of the night. Few vehicles went down it after the warehouses were closed. Practically the only traffic was to and from the Palido. If Fred Powers had remained on guard, then he could have followed the man anywhere.

Yet he had not telephoned her. Had he deserted her interests; left her to carry out her purpose alone? But that did not matter, now. The “unknown” was in that room, seated at the table in the place she had prepared for him.

Again her glances wandered over the guests. The waiters were removing the cloths from the tables. In a few minutes they would have removed the remains of the feast and closed the doors behind themselves. Then her opportunity would come. She would spring the trick she had prepared on the man, and watch how he reacted to it.

She had but one danger to face. Jack Lome was still in the hidden alcove with her. What would he say if he discovered what she planned to do? Would he try to prevent her! would he betray her if she succeeded before he discovered what she planned to do? She could not help that. She had to act now as if he were not beside her, trying all she could to prevent him noticing the few simple movements she had planned. Furtively her hand went to the switchboard, to a row of little levers. She knew which one she wanted, without looking back. She moved slowly backwards, until she could reach the switchboard without turning, her eyes passing alternately from her companion to the men around the table. Jack was watching Sir Michael Naurne, who had just risen to his feet. Now was her opportunity. She depressed the little switch and waited. For a few seconds nothing happened. Almost she thought she had failed; then one of the diners sprang to his feet, with a startled cry.

For a brief moment he stood, staring at the bowl of water before him; at the tall jet of water rising from the bowl, to fall back in rainbow hues on the coloured lights in the water. Then, with another cry he toppled forward and sideways, rolling from the table to the floor amid a scatter of broken glass and cries of alarm from his neighbours. (To be Continued).