THE ARCHITECT-BURGLAR.

Northland Age, Volume VI, Issue 34, 18 April 1910, Page 8

THE ARCHITECT-BURGLAR.

By THE HON. MRS. ARTHUR • HENNIKBR. No one who bad happened to observe the figure of Mr. Bromley Brown wandering round his garden on a certain mild April morning would have imagined him to be suffering from an acute sense of regret for wasted opportunities. From the top of his bald head to the toes of his shiny boots he might have stood for a model of middledas* prosperity. His grey suit, if it accentuated the round proportions of his figure, was of fashionable out, and he held a panama bat of finest Btraw In the square hand, on which a diamond glittered In the spring sunshine Behind the terrace, over which figures of the impossible animal* in stone kept watch at each oorwat, stood his new and elabo-

ratal?-furnished bongalow, aggressive and aineb decorated. Mr. Bromley Utrown's room in tha Tower overlooked a stretch of pine woods, a small lake which shone with steady brightness under a fringe of larches, and a far-away range of rising | ground He did not often glance at the view, bnt it pleased him to know that it was undeniably finer than ' even that commanded from the windows of his neighbour* General Compton, whose family had owned acres of surrounding heather and firs for generations past. Mr. Brown took one last stroll on the lawn, and as be slowly ascended the steps on tb the terrace the parlonrmard laid the newspapers on a table outside a bow window. A girl’s figure leaned out, and a young voice called to him.

"toby do you look so solemn, para, dear ? What a perfect day It is ! Warm and sunny enough for l June.” The lines on Mr. Bromley Brown’s face relaxed. "I was thinking," he said, impressively, "of bow very little material comfort signifies, and how few of us are satisfied." "I don’t in the least agree with you there, dear," said Valentine, v.ho was eminently practical. "I have built this bungalow," continued Mr. Bromley Brown, "as a place to rest in after a life spent in I the dullest of all occupations—-money-making. Bnt lam aware that thousands of men wonld both have enjoyed the occupation and. welcomed the peace of this healthy spot. I ido neither. 1 was destined by nafture for something widely different." i s 'You say that because you have done nothing lately but read those fooMsh novels"—here she pointed a small, scornful finger at a book lyirng open on the table—"since you had influeiaa, papa, dear."

"I beg you pardon, Valentine. I ! know I may not look it, bnt since my earliest days, as 1 have often told you, I have had a curious, wild craving for adventure—for some excitement outside the deadly routine of a bumness life. It is hard"— and Mr. Bromley Brown raised nls voice in querulous expostulation—"that here am I, a man who has made a considerable fortune in a special cough lozenge, but who all tbrongti his boyhood has vainly wished to be a pirate, and who now-” —he waved bis hand in the direction nf the bungalow, then towards the smooth shaven lawn —" would most gladly give up all this luxury to be a successful detective."

Valentine laughed, and leaned still furtm r out of the wftidow. Bhe, for her part, was absolutely satisfied with the fair face worn by the world around her. She watched a fat blackbird as he shuffled along by the golden border of daffodils ; sbe rejoiced to know that the air was musical with the voice* ot larks, to see that the sun glittered on the pool below General Compton’s bouse, and turned its casements into twinkling diamonds. A man went slowly down the green drive by the pool, his arm swaying to and fro as he sowed grass seeds. The earth Beeraed to sing a song of renewal and hope, of love and sunshine. How good it was, only to bTeathe and to live ! Other people might have thoaght that life would be none the less pleasant to Valenttne, because her eyes were large and grey, and her cheeks rosy like the bloom on the toughs of a cherry-tree. But the did not take much account ot these advantages, nor of the fact that she was the only child of the prosperous bouse of Bromley Brown. Hot father took ofl his gold-rim-med glasses and Laid down his newspaper.

"Ha, this is most curious !’* said be. “ What a splendid chance if one could only light upon him, the plausible scoundrel ! The shrewd young villain !" Valentine turned her grey eyes on his shining, crimson face. "Listen to me, Val.',” he cried. "You remember the general told us last week that the Murabys and the Jellicoes had both bad their pantry windows forced open ?" • "Did he ?’’ I don’t think I was listening." ' The Mumbys lost a lot of plated tvnrs. 1 know that he keeps his silver in the bank, and lets his friend* use those horrible thick •coons. Ami poor old Jellicoe had th-it hideous centrepiece, given him by the cricket club, taken. Now it transpit ts that in all probability til*- burglar, or the moving spirit of the gang, is u young man who has been sketching bouses m the neighbourhood. He professes to be making architectural drawings, and by so doing finds out ail manner o! details. " "That’s certainly very original." "Original 7 1 should ttiink so I infernal y sharp, 1 call It 1" Mr. Bromley Brown hero proceeded to read Aloud an extract from the newspaper. "The • Architect-Burglar '—lor by this sobriquet this accomplished cri-

minal is now known—has been seen, it is believed, not long ago in this neighbourhood, although probably he is now many miles away from the scene of his late exploits. He is described as a young man of gentlemanlike and military appearance, with fair hair and moustache, an> wearing clothes of fashionable make."

Mr. Bromley Brown was soon absorbed in meditation. He pictured himself, resolute, terrible, cunning, hounding down this distinguished criminal, bringing him to justice * afttrwards in court, replying with telling sarcasm to the cross-exami-nation of the prisoner’s counsel, and/ lastly, complimented by the judge on the lucid, admirable way in which he had given his evidence. Life was no longer sordid and prosaic : it was palpitating with romance. fie fed asleep to the accompaniment of the lark’B semg. and dreamed that he was the chief of police in Rassia. Waking up with a start, be heard the dock strike twelve. "Gracious me !" he cried aloud.

With his waking eyes he still seemed to see the female Nihilist ot his vision pointing a revolver *at his head He stretched himself, and walked sadly across the lawn towards the hedge that bounded his garden Below him was the riband of white road, pine- bordered. Mr. Bromley Brown started, but much more violently this time. Then he rubbed his face and eyes with his handkerchief, and uttered a low exclamation.

A few yards away in the road he saw the figure of a young man, tall, fair—yes, and of unmistakably soldierly appearance ! And he was sketching ! A thrill ran down Mr. Biown's spine. He might not be the chief of the Russian police, but was he uot on the eve of a discovery, an adventure, the possible player in a great and dramatic case 7' He coughed, and unlocked the gate leading to the road. In one moment his mind had been made up. He would invite this young man, obviously no other than the Architect-Burglar, with friendly greeting, into his house A hurried word to the coachman would send him, on swift feet, for two of the local police. Another messenger would hasten to General Compton, the sternest of county magistrates, and he would arrive in time to be a witness of the discomfiture of a notorious criminal, and ot the ingenuity and promptitude of his old friend Brown. Meanwhile the young man had looked up smilingly. In answer to the remarks of the old gentleman by the hedge, be said that he had come a considerable distance, that—and this with a very pleasant laugh —well, yes, he was thirsty, and that there would be plenty of time to finish his sketch after luncheon, and that he thought, it a most kind suggestion of his questioner to Invite him to have some.

Mr. Bromley Brown, whose cheek had now lost much of its usual ruddiness, walked with set lips, and a curious, enigmatic expression oo his face, up the stone steps on to the terrace, and the yonng man, smiling and unconcerned, followed him into the drawing-room. For one Instant Mr. Brown glanced nervously at a silver box and candlesticks on Valentine’s writing-table. Then, murmuring an excuse;, he ran, panting, to the stables ; in a choking voice despatched the astonished coachman for the police, and a helper, with an impressive message scribbled on a card, to Gen , eral Compton. On his return he found the Architect-Burglar laughing over a favourite book of Valentine's, the "Diary of a Nobody," and they two talked —Mr. Brown, for his part, with a curious absent-mindedness—of books and diflerent forms of humour. The parlourmaid interrupted them to say that some cold meat was ready, and the two men proceeded to t.he dining-room. The guest seemed duiy grateful for a whisky and soda. "That’s a beautiful old cup." he remarked, pointing to a piece of silver of Queen Anne date in the middle of the table.

Mr. Bromley Brown’s expression of mingled triumph and sarcasm passed unnoticed by the cheerful young visitor, who talked for some time with intelligence and knowledge on the subject of old plate. Mr. Brown was becoming so agitated that be began to walk up and down the room.

“And these are lovely spoons," observed the Architect-Burglar, with appalling coolness. The clock struck one, and he rose quickly to his feet. “‘Thank you a thousand times for your hospitality," he said, pleasantly. "I am afraid I must be off. You see, I am sketching for duty, not pleasure." Mr. Brown gazed at him aghast, but not without admiration. He felt that this must indeed be one of the most remarkable criminals now at large. "Don’t hurry, pray," said be, nervously. "Have a glass of, green Chartreuse."

"You are too kind," said his guest. There was a sound of steps at the door, and a voice outside, which sounded like a word of command, said : "Where is the man ?" The door was Hung open, and a tall, soldierly figure stepped quickly into the dining-room. " Well, Brown, what’* all this

about ?" General Compton, young and alert for his years, stared at his friend with a pair of very keen eyes under white eyebrows. "You told me it was some very urgent business," continued the general. Then his eyes fell on the young man by the lurther window. "Bless my soul, Rfetcourt. I didn’t see it was yon la the comer 1" "Yes : and how are you, general?" said the young man, advancing with a cordial smiie. Mr. Bromley Brown felt a srfdden

I cold perspiration on his forehead. He was entirely usable to utter a word.

"Mr.—Mr.— M said the young man, "was to kind as to ask me to have a whisky and soda. It is so wonderfully hot for April, and I’ve been out doing thifc blessed topography io< the last four hours."

"Ah, then you don’t know each other ?’’ said the general. "Brown, this is Lord Estcourt, son of my old friend whom I’ve often talked about, you know. He is working like a nigger at the college’’—and the speaker pointed towards a distant view of a large white building miles away beyond the grove of pines. "Estcourt, this Is Mr. Bromley Brown, one of my best neighbours." Mr. Brown felt as if some one had struck him a violent blow on the head. He was giddy as he stiffly extended an icy hand towards the young man.

“•Papa ! Papa 1" A fresh young voice came echoing from the garden, and in another moment a young girl ran into the room. Lord Estcourt was just recalling to mind a well-known advertisement :

"Bromley Brown's Cough Lozenges are the Best ! They wiß cure a cough of tong standing, arising from no matter what cause," but the girl’s face caught his attention. It was fair and flushed, and the large grey eyes shone star-like under her broad black nat.

"Papa, there are two policemen here ! They say they have come for some one ! What does it mean 7" "Oh. only about the chickens that were stolen, my dear," said her father, miserably. "But there are no chickens 1 You know you wouldn't have any, because you said they spoil the garden." “Did I say chickens ?" Mr. Bromley Brown's dreary expression was that of a victim being led to execution. ‘"Of course, 1 mean the forced strawberries, Valentine, my dear"

The young man was still gazing at the lovely, puzzled face of his host's daughter. "Your father has been s© kind to me, Miss Brown, he. "1 am struggling over military drawing, and in daily terror of being ploughed. But this morning 1 am going back to work invigorated and rested, and full of courage." She blushed as her eyes met his smiling blue ones. "Ob, you are studying at the college ?" "Yes. I wonder—would you and your father care to come over and see it some day ?’’ "Oh, that would be delightful, papa, dear,, wouldn't it ?’’ "Yes, indeed--indeed, it would.” Mr. Brown was still feeling halfparalysed "Good-bye, Estcourt, my boy,” said General Compton. "I have got to have a word now with Brown on some most important business about which I came down.” Lord Estc, rt drew a little uearer to Valentine

"‘You will drive over very soon, then, Miss Brown ?"

"Thank you. lam sure we 6hall enjoy it ever so much !” "Then we won’t say good-bye, I think,” said uc, as he took her hand.