SERIAL STORY. "The Fortune Telling House"

King Country Chronicle, Volume XXIX, Issue 4772, 14 November 1935, Page 3

SERIAL STORY. "The Fortune Telling House"

By ADRIAN DE BRUNE.

Author of “The Dagger and Cord”; “The Shadow Crook”; Gray’s Manor Mystery”; Etc., etc.

CHAPTER X (Continued). • "Who the devil are you?" The farmer flung round on the young man. " I'm talking to .:. ." "A lady." Sam's voice was very mild. "I thought you had forgotten that? " " I'm talking to my daughter. . ." " Your step-daughter—«nd a lady," corrected Sam.

"I'll . . ." The man stuttered with rage. " Damn you, 1'11..." "Surely not before a lady—and a lady journalist?" The newspaper man's voice was very cool. " I might also inform you that you are interrupting. Miss Cantle is working for the Express, and has to get her copy to her editor without delay." !For a moment Sam thought the man was going to attack him.. He stuttered with rage, exploding in short cackling noises that were indistinguishable as words. The riding switch he carried in his right hand moved up ominously; yet something in the young man's careless, yet watchful, attitude, signalled caution to the infuriated brain.

" Get home—you." . The farmer turned to his step-daughter. "And get this—this damned newspaper nonsense has to stop. I'm not going to have you trespassing about the country in riding breeches with a lot of city fools."

Sam flushed; his grip on the back of his chair tightened, until his knuckles stood out whitely. His glances went past the farmer and he saw Skirlington standing in the dining room doorway. " Skirlington," said Sam, still in the same cool voice. " Will you be so good as to inform me Who this oaf is?"

" I'm Jess Markham)." The farmer strode further into the room. " Who're you? " "lam Sam Laske, and I represent the Sydney Daily Post, if that information is of service /to you. , More, I am down here on business; on a story connected with Darrington House— if that further information is also of interest."

"Darrington House? " The man stared. "What story can there be about that house that is of value

to a newspaper? I own it." " That, alone, is a story," answered Sam gravely, and the two journalists, crowding in the doorway behind the Bart sniggered. "It may interest you to know, Mr Markham that a man was murdered there last night." "Murdered?" Jess Markham's ruddy face blanched. He strove to regain his former aggressiveness. " I don't believe it! " " Then I will assure you Mr Laske is speaking the truth." Sergeant Adson, big and burly, pushed past the throng in the doorway into the room. " I am Sergeant Adson, of Southbury, in charge of the case." "But. . . " Markham paused suddenly. " Who are these men ?" He pointed to the two journalists in the doorway.

"Sydney journalists," replied Adson shortly. His voice showed his dislike of the farmer.

" They've been trespassing up at the house." The farmer's red face assumed a deeper hue. "I won't have that! " He swung again to Sam. " If I catch you up there, I'll . . ." "Run for your life, completed the newspaper man contemptuously. " Shoo, boy! There's daylight ghosts there! His tone changed and he stared straightly at the farmer. " Let's understand each other, Markham. I shall be at Darrington House, and so will my brother journalists, as often as we like, and the police permit. Get that! You state you own the house. That is a lie. I'm not going to mince matters with you. You are lying, and you know you are lying. You've had your own way with the Darrington estates for years; well, that ends, now. Unless .. ." Ha looked round for Leslie, but she had disappeared. A quick glance out of 'the window showed the girl crossing the waste lands before the hotel, toward the farm gates. Sam was puzzled for a moment, then again faced the farmer.

"Get this, Markham, and I don't like your attitude toward other people. You're a natural bully, and it's time someone called your bluff, and put you in your place. You don't own Darrington House, and you know that. What do you own, and what

you've bullied others into ceding to you, I don't know. But, if any of us have any trouble with you—df we hear of you bullying Miss Cantle, I'll have a few inquiries made in the city. I can get all I want from Mr Peter Darrington's will, and your lato wife's will, and the registered lease of the estate —and I think that information, in the hands of a good lawyer will prove particularly uncomfortable—for you." Flushed with passion, Jess Markham stepped towards the journalist, his whip raised. Sergeant Adson moved forward, stopping before the farmer Sam, not finished with the man, side-stepped and again faced his opponent. "Take my tip, Mr Jess Markham," he said levelly. "Keep out of this. You've enough to do, with your farming—and your accounts. Perhaps you understand what I mean now—you don't seem to be able to absorb much unless it is very straight speaking, though. Any trouble from you and I'll see you get your share. That's a promise!" "And I'll backs Ma* Laske," said Sergeant Adson, frowning. "And I'm standing in on this." The Bart, moved into the room. "We've had quite a lot of trouble in this district with you, Jess, and now there will be no more. Take things easy in future, or you'll tumble into trouble that may break you. I know sufficient for that!" "Three cheers for the Australian Journalists' Association," called Medley, softly from the door.

"Cock-a-doodle-do!" crowed Keston, in the dining room, behind Medley. He raised his pot of beer high in the air over the heads of those before him. "Here's health, Jess. Good health—and may you have the sense to dodge trouble when you see it coming!" CHAPTER XI.

For more than a minute Jess Markham stared at the circle of hostile faces surrounding him,, amazement at his futility giving place to realisation of his impotency. Still he stuttered, blustered, then became silent. During the years he had lived at Barralong he had come to consider his will law. He had found that if he blustered and fumed, in most cases others gave way to him, for the sake of peace. Oh the few occasions when he had met with deliberate opposition, he had used his natural brutality to enforce his commands. Now he found himself opposed by four men who did hot bluster, or raise their voices; who did not show signs of being aggressive, but who insisted on their rights in common law and fairness. They made no talk of physical violence—that he would have understood, and met. The statements they made were logical and passionless—and he had an uncomfortable conviction they would be carried out in their entirety. He felt as if he had reverted to the days of his youth and again stood before his father—-»tongue-tied through an hereditary obedience. Jess Markham was the son of a Gippsland farmer of the old school. His youth had been spent in the discipline of the small farm, varied by broken excursions to the local school, where he learned a smatter of what pleased him during the intervals when he could be spared from the farm work. In his home he had been taught that his father was not only judge, but executioner, and that there was no appeal from his will. He grew up to believe that his lot in life was to labour from before sunup to sunset, and to be grateful for the food and clothing, supplemented by a few grudgingly doled shillings when he went to the township. He knew nothing of larger communities and little of the value of money. Credit to him was that doled out to his parents by the local storekeeper. He saw his mother bowing before the will of the household autocrat, not daring to buy the material for a new dress, or even a yard of ribbon, without express permission from his father. He watched his sisters take their share of the farm work, until bullied into marriages of submission with neighbouring farmers who met with parental approval. During the days of his adolescence, he dreamed of the future, when he, too, would own a farm, and direct the lives of those who lived and worked with him. On the rare occasions when his father deigned to converse with him as man to man, he learned that the farmers were the backbone of the country, and suffered many oppressions. More, -he gathered that farmers were of two classes. Those like his father, who worked hard on the lands, and those who farmed through managers, themselves residing in the cities, where they were in close touch with a nebulous body called "The Government," who gave to their friends what they refused, in common honestly, to the "real" farmers. About this time he gained from his father the concession of running stock on the family lands. He had a natural aptitude for the work, in spite of having to do it after his father's work on the farm and finished each day. Gradually he added to his

holdings, until he found that he had stock and capital sufficient to occupy a small farm he leased in the district. With capital and the knowledge that he was a landowner, came the desire to see more of his country. His father was agreeable to look after his interests while he visited Melbourne. But, Melbourne did not satisfy his aspirations. He wanted to see Sydney, the greatest city on the island continent. Brooking no opposition, he went to Sydney. In the capital of New South Wales chance brought the young Gippslander in contact with Peter Darrington, then reaching to the sum of his years. Peter Darrington took a great fancy to the strong, straight-limbed, rosycheeked country lad, who bore with him always the scent of the fields and bushlands. Darrington took him to his home and introduced him to his daughter and son-in-law. Gradually he was admitted to the interminable discussion on the Darrington lands and, at the request of the Darrington family, visited them. He coveted the wide spaces that were lying idle, yet could not immediately conceive means whereby he could obtain them. Two years after Jess Markham visited Sydney, Peter Darrington wrote to him on a suggestion of his daughter that the Darrington estates should be leased. Jess answered the letter by immediately journeying to Sydney and offering himself as lessee of the property. His offer was promptly accepted, terms very advantageous to the young farmer were quickly arranged, and young Markham took up his residence at the old Darrington House, putting into repair such of its vast rooms as he saw necessary. Peter Darrington's death suggested the plan that gradually grew in Markham's mind. He saw the owner of the lands he coveted, a slender frail woman, with one female child. He knew his strength and ruthlessness. His family training had taught him that females should not expect to own land. Contemptuous of the woman's weakness, he married her, believing that when she was his wife he woula have no difficulty in forcing her to make over to him the title to the Darrington lands. With Cantle he met unexpected difficulties. In all matters, except the succession of the estate, she bowed meekly to his will. But on that one question he found himself confronted by an inflexible will. The Darrington lands must pass to a Darrington —and the sole remaining Darrington was her daughter, Leslie. Years of ceaseless arguments sapped but the woman's strength, not her will. She died, and Jess Markham found himself in no better position regarding the estates than before his marriage. He was but the lessee of the lands, and the owner was a frail young child—and a girl child at that! Within a month of his wife's death, a deen hatred of the child welled in Jess Markham's heart. Unable to bear the sight of her in silence he sent her to a cheap Sydney boarding school. Yet still his hatred of the Darringtons grew; he hated the house they had built, and determined to build a house of his own. The house built, he married the daughter of a farmer in the Southbury district. Marriage, the sundering of all ties that bound him to the Darringtons did not abate the growing hatred of the family. When the wife" conceived of a son the envy and hatred grew unbearable. All his thoughts .tended to supplanting Leslie Cantle with the son of his body. But now he found an obstacle of his own making. Absence had faded the fear the girl had formerly held for him, and in school life she had grown independent and selfreliable. He ordered her to return to his new house, and she refused, staying in Sydney and obtaining work.

Markham was alarmed. A degree of cunning caused him" to seek the girl and offer something he believed to be apologies. Leslie, bred in the Darrington faith, was willing to patch up a truce, so that she would have liberty to visit the cradle of her family; yet she persisted in the courses she had set for herself, and finally won a position on the Sydney Daily Express. Much of this history, Sam Laske had learned from Leslie, during the talks he had had with her that day. Something he had learned from remarks the Bart had dropped, when speaking of the farmer. More, he gathered during the present talk with the man.

Now he faced Markham in a cold fury that showed only in the tenseness of his lips and the hardening of the lines of his face. The verbal storm slackening, he looked about the room for Leslie, then remembered he had seen her speeding across the road, toward Markham's home. He turned again to the man, to find that now all thoughts of violence had disappeared from the farmer's mind, and his one idea was to retreat to the vastnessess of his farm land.

"You come on my lands, and I'll sue you," threatened Markham, still trying to force a bluff. " I'll have you in prison, you. . ." "Now, Mr Markham!" Sergeant Adson placed a pacifying hand on the big man's arm. " That's not the way to talk. Darrington House is in charge of the police at the moment,

and not even you will be allowed there until we have solved our problems. Mr Laske found the murdered man. . "'

"Why don't you tell the truth—that he murdered him ? " shouted the farmer, his anger blazing now. "Oh, I've heard that story." He turned to Sam,, shaking his riding whip in his face. " You can't get away with it, you young blaggard. Murdered the man for a billy of gold—and that's my gold. I'll tell you! I own every stick and stone on the Darrington property. That gold's mine! " He swung to face the police officer. "And let me tell you this, Adson; you go straight into Southbury and fetch me that gold. I'll not trust it in the care of your police. You'd steal it—you'd ..." " Bluff! " Sam interjected, with cold anger. " All right, Markham, I'll call your bluff. You've said a lot, but you've learned nothing—not even when to hold your tongue. I'm telephoning my office, asking my editor to send a reporter to the Register-Gen-eral's offices to get that information. I'm going to have properly attested papers sent down here to show that you do not own one single foot of Darrington land, or house; that you've forfeited your lease by non-compliance with its terms. Now, get out, and if there's one more peep out of you, or you interfere with Miss Cantle, and I'll have you arrested for threatening assault, until I can have your mind inquired into and see you locked up as a dangerous lunatic."

Jess Markham's sudden and angry movement toward Sam was checked by Sergeant Adson and the Bart who together stepped in front of the fur-

ious man. With a motion to Sam to remain silent, Adson gently urged the now foaming farmer from the room.

" Great! " Keston threw himself in the Morris chair. "What a scene, I say, Sam, I wouldn't indulge in anr night walks in the vicinity of Barralong, if I were you. Old farmer Markham will nail you, if you do—and I haven't any wish to write up the sudden and mysterious death of a brother journalist. Say, what a temper!" " Oh, damn him! " Sam swung savagely on his friends. "I'm going to do just what I threatened. Mac shall send someone down to the RegistrarGeneral's, and then you'll find what I've guessed is true. Markham's just a common swindler. He's got it written all over him." " Plenty of 'emi about, m'boy," said Medley lazily. "And they all eat littie girls—dozens of 'em, though they prefer widows and orphans. Solomon Birder was a connoisseur—or should I have said, epicure—in that line. Swallowed hundreds whole, I believe. Still, that's other people's business, not mine. What I've on hand is the Jay Bird, his famous pot of gold, and his murder. Now, what about it? " " Yes, what about it, Sam? " Keston turned to his newspaper comrade. " You lead on this story. What's our next move? " Sam turned moodily to the window, and did not answer. " Back to Darrington House, I suggest," continued Keston. "Walk?" inquired Medley. " Sam's got a motor bike." Arthur Medley started to whistle:

"Daisy, daisy . . "." he hummed, after whistling a few bars. 'No, Jack, m'boy, if you think you're going to sit on my knees, or I on your bony carcase. . . " " Sam can walk," suggested Keston, in an injured voice. " Sure, you don't think I want you as close to me as all that!"

Sam Laske turned suddenly from the window. " Sam Laske won't walk. When Mac" sent you here he should have sent you in a proper means of conveyance. That's the worst of that old fool. He thinks all places are Sydney streets with a 'wait here for trams' sign on every corner." " Shut up that squabbling, you two," ordered Medley. " Jack, have you forgotten Tinker Jones—who got that moniker through tinkering all his spare time, and more, with his old bus. W]ell, he's in Southbury—news editor of the Daily. What about borborrowing the Bart's car, running into Southbury and borrowing Tinker'* microbe car ? "

" That puts to-day's work on Sam's shoulders," objected, Keston. " It's there already," snapped Sam, without turning from the window.

" Oh, if he feels like that! "Keston ' spoke judiciously. " Yes, I could see something, for once, that had not a disagreeable likeness to wheat—and more wheat—and wheat. Say, just a few bricks and mortar, on end, and perhaps a shiny brass rail before a city pubbery." He glanced at the moody back blocking up one of the windows. "What is to become of Sam, though?" , (To B© Continued.)