The Evil Chateau

Matamata Record, Volume XVI, Issue 1446, 31 July 1933, Page 3

The Evil Chateau

By SYDNEY HORLER.

CHAPTER XIX.—THE JACKALS. Szulc, whom some said was an Armenian Jew, others a bastard Greek, and yet others the product of a Roumanian father and a Tartar mother, twisted his fat lips. “So that is the girl, hein?” he asked; “she Is pretty.” “Yes —that is the girl,” replied his host. The Count de la Siagne was in an awkward position. This man, unspeakable as he was, headed the Syndicate for whom he worked, and in whose councils he occupied a certain, if lowly position. These men who controlled untold millions between them and whose schemings were so potential that each manoeuvre caused fresh history to be written, had condescended to use his Chateau as a meeting-place in which to elaborate their latest plot destined to throw the whole of Europe into a fresh deadly convlusion of war. It was merely a concession; the place had suited their purpose. He had invited the girl because he desired to show his employers how clever he was —to be able to produce in person the actual agent whom the British Government had entrusted the work of spying on them. What a coup I The presence of Felicity Howard brought complications, however. He might have known that a girl so beautiful would assuredly bring complica-

SERIAL STORY

(Allgßights i Reserved)

tions —especially with Szulc —Szulc, whose relations with women were notorious in every underground hell In Europe. . . . “Yes, she is very pretty,” said the sallow-skinned millionaire-intriguer, “to-night she shall be brought to me. You hear that, Count?" 'He said the title with an open mockery that stung de la Siagne like a whiplash. The bloated opulence of the speaker said as plainly as words, “What do I care for your title, or any other man’s? I am better-known and more powerful than you all for I am—SZULC!” “I will see to it,” answered the man who would cheerfully have killed him if he h id dared.

He cured himself now for his folly. He had forgotten Szulc, that monster of sensuality. Szulc would attempt to rob him of what he had promised himself. Before, he had had merely his mother to fear, and, terrible as she could be when her full passions were aroused, he had never doubted that issue. But Szulc was a problem. “If you will excuse me now,” he said politely. Szulc made a guttural sound which may have signified assent. His host left the room quickly. If he had stayed, his feelings would have got out of control. For a man of his rank to be treated so —it was maddening. He composed himself as he heard

the tip-tapping of his mother’s stick along the corridor.

“Mademoiselle Howard has returned, Antoine,” the Comtesse said; “how fresh and charming her voice sounds! 1 heard her speaking to Xandra.” The silvery treble was febrile with excitement. Her small body shook.

“Mother, you must control yourself,” replied the Count. His voice was severe. “Nothing must be done lo arouse her suspicions.” The Comtesse laid her hand upon his arm.

“It is not like you, my son, Lo speak harshly. You, who know how heavily time hangs on my hands now that I’m blind. Get your secrets from the girl by all means, but leave her afterwards to me ...”

Even the sin-sated, crime-rotted soul of the Count de la Siagne revolted. “The girl belongs to me—understand that,” he replied sternly; and, thrusting his mother aside, he walked away.

He felt possessed by a fever; he had to see the girl. All through the hours of the Conference that day— | when the members of the Syndicate ( had discussed the fates of nations just | as though they were pieces being mov- i ed on a chess-board —her face had 1 haunted him. Strange that the one ’ real passion of his life, crammed as it had been with emotional affairs, j should concern a girl who had consti- ; tuted herself an enemy. An enemy! Yes, she was that privately as well as professionally. For all the control which she exercised, her native antagonism showed itself at times. It was then that he knew she hated him. “Mademoiselle 1” She had come upon him so quickly

round that bend in the corridor that, master of poise as he prided himself

upon being, he was momentarily startled.

“That ride!” she said* it was glorious! —I shall never forget it. Do you think, Count, your mother would consent to accept a small present from me?”

“I am sure she would. The Gomtesse, like the rest of us, is human enough to like receiving presents.” j “I hope, then, that she will approve of the bottle of perfume which I have brought her from Grasse.” In that moment, Antoine de la Siagne might have been said to change. Extraordinary as the emotion was, he found himself wishing that he was a different man. This girl looked so cleanly exquisite, so delicately pure, so virginally fine that—that . . . But, of course, it was madness, and he was a fool. What did he want with scruples? And how could he afford to have them? “My mother and I have been lonely (Continued in Next Column)

without you,” he said. “Not having any other company?" She thought she would provoke him. Mademoiselle.” A laugh sounded behind the speaker. And there, grotesque but horrible to look upon was —Szulc. (To. be Continued.)