“The Innocent Accomplice”

Manawatu Times, Volume LV, Issue 6919, 25 July 1932, Page 9

“The Innocent Accomplice”

(BY ETHEL F. HEDDLE.)

CHAPTER ll.—(Continued). A man was coming along the pavement, walking rapidly. Could it be Ted? Ted come back to see if she were safe? Ted? She waited. The figure paused, looked at 'her as if in petrified amazement, and Peggy's heart leaped in her mouth. Of all people—of all men I 'Michael England I

She gasped and would have walked on. But the grave voice spoke benind her, and, as if paralysed, the girl stopped and faced him desperately.

CHAPTER 111. iVllchael Falla In Lovo,

Peggy’s throat was dry. Her dark eyes stared up at the young man in evident terror. He, too, seemed stricken dumb with amazement. ’Then —“Miss Alison, are you—have you—• has anything happened?” He glanced back at the great building behind. 'Were you kept—locked in?” “Y’cs, that was it,” Peggy breathed as if catching at a spar. “I—got locked in. But, please, Mr Michael—please—you—you won’t tell? Get me into trouble?”

He gave a short laugh. His eyes brightened suddenly. It was as if a happy flame lit in his heart, for he had always known that this little girl was his fate. Tie had loved her from the first. It was all he knew. “Of course, I won’t get you into 'trouble. I’ll say nothing.” He smiled again. “But, afte'iNall, it isn’t a crime, Peggy, to be looked in!”

“Peggy.” She gave a little start and took a step backward as if frightened. “I’ll be going on now,” she said, a touch of coldness in her voice. “Good night, Mr Michael.”

■He had always realised he had to walk warily with Peggy. He loved her now all the more for the little cold voice that pushed him off. He meant to win her for his wife—some day, but he knew it would not be easy. There was no false modesty about Michael England, but he read character well.

“I can’t let you say that,” he said coolly. "You can’t possibly walk home alone now. Don’t you know how late it is? And London can be —unpleasant—for a girl alone—at this hour." He spoke, purposely, with detachment.

Peggy seemed to measure him coldly and affrightediy. She had had to tell him. But oh! the bad luck to meet Mr Michael 1 Correct, cold Mr Michael I Who “kept his distance” as the girls all said; so unlike Mr Harold, who could be “stuffy and cross” but was “quite a good sort” in his way. Peggy realised that she was glad it was not Mr Harold! But the dark blue eyes gave Michael rather a resentful look. His tone had been a trifle elderly and magisterial. “I mean to walk with you,” he said calmly. “Well, if you will, .of .course,” Peggy’s little head, tossed, “but I’m quite well able to look after myself—and it isn't so far.” She looked down the street .undecidedly. This strange night London, with all the noise dead, and the-traffic, and the swaying crowd that usually surged and fretted like an unquiet sea—and all the women gazing into “England’s” windows.

■lf only she had been rich and could have said “Please call me a taxi,” in a lordly way! 'But. she had no money for taxis, and after-midnight fares I Hie very thought made Peggy shudder. There was very little in her lean silk bag. Michael -could feel that she looked at him resentfully. She was very pale, and the lapis lazuli eyes were darkly rimmed. She walked with -not, quite the usual spring. Her feet lagged. Michael thought of something as the saw her eyes turn suddenly to a coffee stall at -the end of the road. Some loafers were gathered round it. One or two taxi men, and a man in evening dress, the coat- thrown back. Heavens 1 Was she hungry? In this mood would she resent the suggestion? He -had a sudden idea. He made his tone very brotherly and cool as he said: “1 say-—think it very awful If we stopped here for a spot of coffee ? I assure you it’s quite clean! Excellent coffee 1 I—l was kept late with a sick pal—and missed my food.” “Of -course I don’t mind,” Peggy forgot and gave one of her delicious little laughs. “In fact I—l’ll allow I’d like one myself!” "Splendid!” Michael cried boyish-

ly. She really did forget, for a moment, all the horror of the night as they stopped, and somehow before her in a little, there was a -steaming cup of coffee, and a ham sandwich; and then a bun slid on -to her plate. Michael stood before her and the man, and he ate and drank too. He never did anything braver for Peggy’s sake,, for he' hated sandwiches, and had dined very well at eight o'clock. But she must not be undeceived. Pcggv forgot her troubles for a little till a great clock struck somewhere, when she started and remembered and everything rushed over her. “I must be going -on I -she said, feverishly. “It’s—it’s awfully kind of you. I really was very hungry. And it’s all so strange and amusing! And London—what a -strange London it seems at night I 1 was never out in it before!” She looked -up at the blue sky with the tender masses of white fleecy clouds, and Michael looked at her. He saw she forgot him.

"Doesn’t it -seem -strangle, somehow,” she said, as if half to herself, “to think of all the people—all London—-all the millions! And God knowing them all 1 I said that, to my father, -once. How. could he? And father —be never said -conventional things, said it was ‘a. big. order’—but lie was ■sure, 'like Browning, that all was right with the world.”’ She gave a little laugh, then, as if recalling herself. It -seemed odd to say a -thing like -that 1o grave Mr Michael! It is odd how wc say things to certain people! Peggy considered that, and even heard Michael telling her about a church they passed. lie had seemed quite to understand, and not to think her “odd." She knew Ted would have tersely said “Don , be an ass!”. . . . They noticed everything He could talk well and amusingly in his quiet dry way. With « certain dry humour she liked. He, for one, was dreadfully sorry when

Instalment 3 .

they reached the end of her street, and Peggy faced him resolutely. She was standing by a most unattractive dust-bin.

“Pm all right now,” she said. “I’ll slip in. We are half way up the flats. Mother was to be in Richmond, with a sick friend, so there is no one to be frightened—or shocked,” she gave a little innocent laugh and held out her hand. She had a sudden sense of camaraderie.

“I—l’ll never forget this walk Mr Michael, or night London! It’s so different from the day.” “Yes, it is,” Michael said. He wanted to keep her, still, for a little, under the pale turquoise of the sky. He did not notice the bin. They had come delightfully near. She never looked at him if he passed through the shop. In the office she was remote, and shy, and distant. "When lam in the highlands, fishing—l love fishing—l always say the hills keep me at a distance all day—look down and frown 1 But at night they let you come a little nearer. Even the big Bens. Up among tire heather and the bog-myrtle. There’s no silence like it on earth — the silence of the hills."

Peggy nodded. Then she remembered tho flat again, and save him another quick look. “Good night, Mr Michael. Thank you for my supper," she smiled. “But —oh goodness! How laic it will be before you get home to Lancaster Gate!”

ITe laughed at that. But he decided he could lengthen the night no more. So h'c only stood and watched her pass 'through tho grimy court yard of the flats and disappear into the dark green door in the ugly yellow brick. She had the key she said. He waited till the sound of her light step had ceased and then went off, with a strange, happy smile, and the faint remembrance of a line in “Romeo and Juliet” passing like a stream of music through his mind

“So light a foot will ne’er wear out The ■ everlasting flint.”

Ho walked on then rousing with a jerk. “By Jove!” he said to himself, “I didn’t know I could be sentimental! What would Harold say? The dry old Michael! I used to smile at love's rhapsodies, but I hadn’t met her!”

He was back at the house, slipping the latch key into the lock noiselessly, and lie had gone into the big handsome library. Ilis old father, now alseep, the nominal head of England’s, had had the House furnished by a big Arm after England’s had done its best, and had given orders for “all the best books” before Michael returned from Cambridge. A fire was dying in the grate, A tray with a syphon and whisky stood near, and a box of biscuits. i\{Tchad thought of Peggy and tier hungry eyes. “Poor child,” he muttered. “Poor child I At first she looked scared I Frightened of the empty shop, I suppose.” He sat down for a moment or two to think. Ho could see her looking up at the sky. She had been cold and terrified at first .... Her experience of men and their attentions .... He liked her all the more for the little frozen aloofness. He would go slowly. Get Harold—who did most of the promoting of the staff, to push her on, and get her much more salary—and slowly, slowly—win her. Tire, telephone at his side rang sharply, and, rather surprised, Michael took off the receiver. A doll covered it.—a lady in a pink silk frock, out of the “fancy department” at England's, and lie listened rather -

differently, his mind coming back with a jerk. It was not like Michael, the hard-headed and practical—so to dream. People decided Michael England would “marry well." He looked almost distinguished.” “Yes. 238 Lancaster Gate speaking. Who is it?"

“Can I speak to Mr Harold England, or Mr Michael?”

“Mr Michael is speaking,” Michael said. “Who is it ’ “it’s Bill, sir,” came in a trembling voice. “Oh, Mr Michael! Something dreadful ’as ’appcncdl Oh, sir! could you come up to the shop? I'm speaking from the shop, sir! I've telephoned for the police. I've just come to, sir.” “Come to!” Michael stared into the receiver. “What do you mean. Bill?” Bill was an old pal of his. An old soldier, lame and injured in the war. He had served under Michael. “What are you talking about Bill?” “You got me the job ’ere, sir,’” Bill said, “and it’s to you I’m responsible! I ’ope, sir, as you won’t lay it to me— I —I—they got me, sir, got me—• chloroformed me! I don’t know nothing about it. I was bending over some of the mattresses in the cellars, a-pressing of ’em back, and something went over my mouth, and I knowed nothing till I woke up! And there I was in the cellar, as if asleep, and when I’d woke up and looked and went upstairs ’ere was the jewellery department broken into! And the things gone! Oh, it’s a bad business, Mr Michael! 1 was alone on the job to-night; they knew ii, the varmints. Old Joe being ill! So, Mr Michael, will you please corne on! The police is ’ere fussing round, and driving aie fair dotty!”

“Yes, I’ll come, Bill. I’ll corns at once.” '

Michael very seldom disturbed his father at night. He would tell him nothing now. Harold, ho knew, w*s out of town.

But he stood a moment with a sudden flash of horrified and startled memory. She, Peggy, had come from the shop! Said she had been “locked in.” He could see again her terrified eyes of amazement and recognition when she saw him. Terrified eyes i

Why should she look terrified? As he had said, -it was no crime to get locked in! And she had begged him “not to tell.” As he stood there the whole scene reconstructed itself. He was a man of the world, arid ho knew life. His father had put him into a business—another firm —when he came from Cambridge, to learn it all, to work his way up. He knew life—and guilds—their temptations, their .little weaknesses

{To be continued.)