HEATHER OF THE SCUTH.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXI, Issue 18897, 20 December 1924, Page 25 (Supplement)

HEATHER OF THE SCUTH.

BY ROSEMARY REES. Author of " April's Sowins."

(Copyright.) CHAPTER XI — (Continued.) Stephen amused her by telling h that in the early nays of the line, whe almost all the subscribers except his fatln were Maoris, there used to be a perfei rattle of receivers taken down when ar conversation began anywhere. " I'll bo extremely flattered if the gei oral public wants to hear anything I ha\ to say on the telephone," she told Jiin " I loath using it, and every idea I eve possessed, goes out of my head when begin a conversation." " You must take lessons while ynu'i in New Zealand," answered Creed. "Th is the sort of thing you hear when you'i waiting anxiously to get the line int town, to send an urgent business wire: " 'Is that you mother V " 'Yes, dear.' " 'How are you V " 'Pretty well. I didn't .sleep too we last night. Those sparrows are buildin just under our window in the gutterinj Father's going to get the big ladder t( night and pull down the nest. You ha a good day for the washing didn't you ?' " 'Yes.' " 'Did you get all the blankets dry " 'Yes, all except the two big ones o the double bed. Did you make the quint jam V " 'Yes, two dozen pots. You know th apple jelly I made last week ? It doesn seem to have jellied very well.' "'Did you put in enough sugar?' " 'I think so. It's the same ol recipe.' " 'Perhaps you put too much water.' " 'Perhaps I did.' " 'Baby's looking so swe«t this morr ing.* " 'Bless his heart! 1 wish I could sc him.' " 'So 'do I. lie said Da-da this more ing!' "'Well! What do you know abou that ? He's a wonder, that child: I alway said he. was.' And so on, and so on, ft) over hall' an hour." Lois laughed, and assured him tha next time any ring came she would b one of the 'listeners-in.' Since the show one of the most, con stant calls in the evening from Wairiri for Weka Flat, had been from Mavi Hill. Heather knew quite well that a the other end of the line, Mavis was long ing to ask, "Is Billy there?" and knew too, that Mavis' poor little heart was tori by conflicting emotions. Envy ot Heather that he should be there with her. and jo; in the feeling thai she was at least gettinj nearer 1" Billy if it were only by mean of the telephone. Heather almost invari ably found some pretext on which to sent Billy to the telephone if lie, happened t< • be at Weka Flat. From Mavis, and fron others, the Burnsides soon had a full true (or perhaps partially true), nu< particular account of Mrs. Merrick Stroud; her clothes, her attitude t< Stephen Creed, and many other items- o interest concerning her. Both Mrs Burn side and Heather tried to remind the tele phoning friends that all they said wa: quite audible at Maranui if any one then happened to be at the instrument, at tempting to get a number from the ex change. Under these circumstances, it was im possible for anyone to forget Maranui and Stephen Creed, Heather told herself as, the day after Billy's departure. sin made her way down across the paddock: in the direction of the river. She wa: driving old Ginger harnessed to a sledge and she was setting forth to collect log: for firewood, from the river bank, acros: the road opposite the Weka Flat gate. It was a very hot afternoon: already the grass in some of the paddocks wa: beginning to look shrivelled and dried ii patches and there was a haze of smoke from some distant bush fire in the air. Not a soul in sight! There wasn't a soul anywhere in all the world except herself, Heather felt at present. Why was life so terribly lonely ? No, it wasn't life, it was Weka Flat She opened the gate, drove her strangf equipage through, crossed the road, anc gained the thick sand and silt of the river bank, where logs, big and little, anc heaps of brushwood lay in great masses just as the winter floods had left them. After gathering the logs, she would ti( Ginger up and have a, swim, she deter mined; and then changed her mind. II wasn't worth while—nothing was wort! while. She was miserable, lonely, wretched, restless! Everyone else woulc be making preparations for the Christina! festivities, and* she and her mother would be alone! Not even Billy to cheer them up ! At any rate she had her piano. No, she couldn't play now— that seemed to increase and accentuate her loneliness. For the first time her music had failed her. It was different in Paris! Oh, to get back to study! To hear all the great musicians. Was this life—buried here in the back-blocks—to be hers for ever? Must she relinquish all her cherished ambitions ? She hadn't yet given up hope of someday, somehow, getting back. Yet to-day it wasn't the ache of unsatisfied ambition that troubled her. Jt was something else; some feeling si.:: could not—or would not—acknowledge. How lonely the afternoon sunshine looked, lying" there on the distant hills! At. Maranui, she supposed they were playing tennis— or Stephen Creed and Mis. Merrick-Stroud were out together riding somewhere over the hills through the fern, and the flax, and the tea-tree, and the hush. They were always together, people said. She blenched her little teeth, and fcaid she didn't care who was _ with. *Rio: . . . Didn't care if anyone in the World bad some companion to talk with. and to laugh with, and if she, Heather, were the only odd man out anywhere! .Well, Mrs. Mer-rick-Stroud must be hard up for a cavalier if she could put up with Stephen Creed ! As the thoughts chased one another through her brain Heather was busy pulling at the logs, and loosening them from their bed of sill ; choosing the most solid and least bulky for the boiler in the washhouse, and for the kitchen stove. It was hot- and .-.he was tired—and she hated this work- and she was sorry for herself. Yes, she kne'w self-pity was weak, and abominable, and despicable—but she didn't care! Phe was sorry for herself — sorry—sorry—sorry! And she was lonely horribly lonely! Why had Billy gone? Mrs. Merrick-Stroud had Stephen Creed to talk to and to ride with. She wondered if the husband of this unpleasant Englishwoman was lonely too. Poor Mr. MerrickStroud ! She'd newer seen either of them, but she felt sorry for him also, .is well as for herself! Oh, how lone!;.' she was! How lonely! And then hearing the sound o* horse's hoofs on the sand near at hand, she raised a very hot little face from the log—at which she had been tugging valiantly, and which was now reluctantly deriding to leave its comfortable bed- and beheld Stephen Creed ! " Then lie isn't with his Mrs. MerrickStroud," was her instant reflection. Some pleasure was unaccountably in the thought and. to her amazement, some pleasure in seeing here before her (he figure of her enemy. I'd have welcomed the. Kaiser himself this afternoon." she said to herself: but to Creed she said nothing at all. An hour before.. Stephen had not thefaintest inea of riding over to Weka Flat Lois had announced her intention of having an undisturbed siesta in the garden hammock, and her husband hud gone oil with his rod. to try for trout in the river (somewhere beyond the woolshed. Creed himself had been talking on station matters to Gillespie, who had come up to the house to see him. 'That mare's well enough to go back now," Gillespie had remarked " I'll take him over to Weka Flat to-morrow." Stephen had made no reply to this, but when Gillespie had gone off in the direction of the cottage he called Trimble, and I old him to catch Juno, and to saddle another hack, and to bring the two horses round to the front of the house. And here he was now, riding across the strip tf sand—giass-giown, and dotted here and there with ten. tree, tossing toi-toi, and tuning flax— lay between the road

and the river. He was leading Juno beside his own horse, and as he came nearer to Heather he raised his hat, and pulled up. For the first time, the man was aware that there was something infinitely pathetic about the little flushed face looking up at h.rn. She was standing beside a pink-flowering briar bush, and a thorny branch had left a scratch on one cheek: there was a faint smudge of river mud on the other: and the scratch and the smudge together gave her so much the look of a child that Stephen's heart contracted swiftly with a queer feeling of pity, and tenderness. The little hands encased in the big gloves—a reminder that she. had not yet relinquished all hope of a pianiste's career—and the half-raised log beside the sledge—evidence of her struggle with tasks far too heavy for her strengthtouched him more than ho would have liked to confess. He remembered seeing somewhere the picture of a broken, ragged fairy, trailing back to fairyland after som* dire misfortune. The poor little fairy had worn the same expression of childish pathos as the girl before him. He demounted and walked up to her. Perhaps his own softened feeling coloured his imagination, but it did not seem to him that her eyes showed so much defiance, and resentment, as had been apparent in their blue depth on former occasions. "I thought it belt -;r to bring the mare over myself," began Creed. " I think she's really right now, but it would be advisable to keep her under your own eyo for a week or two. Don't turn her out far away from the homestead yet awhile. She won't be fit for work for some months, but if you're short of a horse—" " I'm not," answered Heather. " Mr. Winter has lent me Troubadour." She stood upright beside the half raised log, a prey to conflicting emotions. She wanted to whip up her resentment anew against Creed: she ought to thank him for his care of Juno : she hated to feel under any obligation to him: she wished that he i, light give her some excuse for anger: tviid yet at this instant, her dominant sensation was one of relief in the very fact of his proximity. However hateful he might be, she told herself he was after all a human being, and the sound of his voice, and her own, had the effect for the moment at least of dispelling the overwhelming loneliness of the river, and the wide, unpeopled vallev, and the distant hills. He hud twisted the bridle reins of the two horses over the dead stump of an old tree, and had moved over to the log with which she had been wrestling, on his approach. "You want this on the sledge?" he asked. The old feeling of antagonism rose once more within her, but he had swung the log out of its resting place and on to the sledge before she could speak. " I'd rather you didn't trouble," shesaid stiffly. " I'm quite able to do this. And I have some rope here—l can take Juno from you now." He looked at her steadily for a moment, and then picking up a rope which lay beside the sledge he knotted one end of it. round the mare's neck, arid slipped off the bridle by which he had been leading her: then mounting his own horse he raised his hat, and roae of in the direction of Maranui, without, another word, and without a backward glance. And Heather, standing there watching him as he cantered off along the road by which he had come, was conscious of some horrible and unaccountable sinking of the heart. It overwhelmed her once again—that awful sensation of loneliness Much as she loathed Creed, she could have put up with his presence, so she told herself, for a little while, because the presence of any human being would servo to mitigate this mood of hopeless desolation. And again he had managed, somehow, to put her in the wrong. She had uttered no word in acknowledgement of his care of Juno! Even in one's dealings with one's enemies, one shouldn't behave like a mannerless oaf! The poor little mannerless oaf felt her lips trembling. Why was she so weak as to care what Stephen Creed thought of her ? She assured herself she didn't care; assured herself that she wasn't miserable; didn't mind if everyone else in the world was gay and happy and looking forward to joyous Christmas gatherings, and that only she and her mother would be sad and lonely! And so. absolutely determined that she would pity herself no more, she roused Ginger from his slumbers in the sun, and having fastened Juno's rope to the harnessed horse's headstall, she set out across the sandy waste that lay between the river and the gate of Weka" Flat. She might have posed for some symbolic picture of primitive toil, and human endeavour, as s she walked beside the lurching laden sledge: the two old patient beasts plodding on before her. But there was no Millet nor Holbein there to see her: only the empty landscape, and the wide blue sky; the smoke hazed sunshine, and thistle down, blown on tin warm west wind, over the valley from the hills. CHAPTER XI J. HEATHER TO THE RESCUE. Christmas and the New Year holidays were over, and the Hon. Mrs. MerrickStroud was still the subject of much speculation in Wairiri. A certain number of Creed's friends had motored out to Maranui to call upon her, and she had been introduced to others when Creed had taken her and her husband over to Pahia, to see a polo match in which he was playing. Wairiri was a kind and friendly little town, and usually not backward "in expending hospitality to strangers; arid in this case curiosity had been aroused byLois' frocks and personality, and th-s air )f belonging to a world of which Wairiri, n general, was ignorant. Stephen Creed was one of the most eligible young men in the district, and others with marriagable daughters were not averse to making „Mrs. Merrickjtroud's presence at .Maranui a pretext 'or taking young women out to the station—ostensibly to meet the visitor from England, but in reality to impress upon Stephen the advantages of matrimony if ie entered into partnership with one of heir bright and fascinating girls. 'That all these maidens were both bright md fascinating Lois freely admitted rut she found that their attitude of be-' icving nothing of mVK .j, importance could wist outside New Zealand, and their lack »f interest in. i.ad ignorance of, matters ititside their own country, was apt like ome of their voices. at times to jar I bough the Merrick-Strouds bad motored Mo \\a.ri,-, with Step:,,, more than once, md had attended various tennis parties « the district, both Lois and her bus and frankly admitted that the quiet de at Maranui was what pleased them nost. Paul, who was practically living : ,i the ope,, air-out all day in the sun lime and sleeping on one of the verandahs j 1 night-was really feeling a Rreat (|( , a , Monger than when he arrived a few weeks previously. He was able to ride for airly long distances, to drive himself bout in the car. and to fish for hours ,'ithout feeling unduly exhausted. Though : e was convinced that this was merely a base of bis illness, ami in fact a fictitious 'length, it at lea-< made life pleasanterml there were days when he could not' onseientiously say he was not drugged < y the sunshine, and (bo colour, and (he i ■mguorous hot summer weather into i omething resembling happiness. It was on one of these days, when aving taken his lunch in the 'small or' '• e was fishing the pools in the river near , » Weka Mats, that Lois and Stephen 1 ding horn' after seeing cattle drafted a ie out-station at the bark of the run ' mnd themselves on the -rack leading , own to the river, where the Merricktrouds. the. morning after their arrival j 1 ad had their first glimpse of the real' canty of the bush. Wasn't it somewhere about here thai i on brought us that day after we'd seen re shearing?" asked Lois. ! Stephen nodded. " Just along here to , ie right." ! "Couldn't we find that little fairy dell £ain, by tin: creek among the ferns i " Of course we could, if you don't mind i siting off and walking." " I'd like to walk for a few moments." ' he swung herself d-iwn from her saddle , id Stephen, after having tied up the arses, led the way through the bush. ' Lois, in her light riding coat, breeches c id top boots, always looked at her best. be was essentially a woman whose figure I as the joy of tailors and costumiers, tall ' id with a certain boyish slenderness and C

grace, and she had the supreme advantage from a woman's point of view of never appearing unkempt or dishevelled. After a day's hunting, a hard afternoon's tennis, or driv-ng her own car for hours in the sun and dust, Lois still retained her charm and distinction of appearance. " Lois, why do you never lose your hairpins, or get "red in the face?" a woman friend once grumbled. " You're the most indolent creature alive in some respects, and yet without any apparent effort you can outshine the rest of us at any sort of sport, and keep your hair tidy into the bargain. You're one of those aggravating admirable Crichtons. I hate you for it! But most of all I hate your absolutely immaculate appearance under all circumstances. I'm certain that when the last trump sounds your winding sheet won't have a fold out of place, and your hair will be just right, when the rest of us will have tumbled up all anvhow!"

_ Lois now, though they had been riding since early morning in the hot sun over the ranges, through country bushed, burnt and half broken, was still, as ever. well groomed and fresh looking. When they came to the fern-enclosed hollow beside the creek, and she flung herself down on the soft leaves with her back against the fallen log, the only .sign of the heat's effect upon her was that her smooth dark hair clung a trifle damply to her brow, under her wide-brimmed riding hat. reeling off her gloves, she raised her hand, and tossing aside the hat she lifted the damp strands of hair with her long, wellshaped white fingers. " It's glorious here!" she said, with a somewhat wistful sigh. " Too glorious to disturb its peace and serenity with our own poor foolish little frets and sorrows."

" What frets and sorrows have you ?" asked Stephen. He had followed her example, and was stretched out too on the soft carpet of dead leaves, and mould, and growing ferns, his shoulder pressed against the log. "A cigarette?" .She took one from his case, and allowed llim to light it for her before replying. The hot afternoon sunshine lay on the bluffs of the river beyond, and the wind stirred in the high tree tops, where the birds called to " one another; but here beside the murmuring creek in the forest depths, with the green ferns shutting them in as in a leafy bower, the man and woman were sheltered and alone. I'm human," Lois answered at las'. "and therefore I .share .villi all humanity the inner conflict." " You're still quoting your old friend, Freud!'' " Oh, 1" shouldn't dare to call him a friend! I've only the merest bowing acquaintance with him! But I suppose the little that Fve read of what he and others call the new psychology—which 1 imagine is a good deal like the old psychology in a new frocs.—colours my thought." " And the thought is—"

" The thought is, that very much ol what, they say I feel I must accept as truth; and, like many other human beings, 1 sometimes find the inner conflict harassing and cruel. Civilisation imposes so many restrictions upon us; it's not only convention ... I don't think that weighs very greatly with mc—the things Mrs. Grundy might say of me I mean — but there's something that lies behind convention. It often seems to me that there's nearly always some solid soil of truth from which the most seemingly senseless convention has sprung, and in which we'll find it has its roots if we'll only dig deep enough .... it's some sort of duty to our neighbour. It's the serial ties at. war with our primitive desire.-,, and our instinct to grab at whatever pleases us. that produces our conflict." " The social ties ? " No, that's the wrong phrasing. 1 mean consideration for others: and the ties that, bind us to our fellow creatures, and that can only be severed with pain to l mil and pain to ourselves, in witness ing -heir pain. Civilisation lias Hindu it impossible for us to be quite call.-us ami regardless of others, and, too, it has fosterer! needs in us which the primitive instincts alone can't satisfy." She laughed. "That's slightly involved isn't it? Bui if you don't understand it I. can't make it any plainer.'' " 1 think 1 understand." Stephen had in his mind a picture of Merrick-Stroud, sealed somewhere in the shade of a willow tree, along the river bank. You think I'm speaking of Paul " Aren't you ':" " Yes .... but not only of Paul . . . of mys'.'f. I vr.r.t to be loved. I'm not alone in that, desire. 1 suppose it exists m every human being, except the most gross who ask no more than animals askjust the satisfaction of primitive appetites. Love to each individual must have its own meaning. It's all self to some, and selfless to others. I'm becoming somewhat platitudinous I'm afraid, but put up with it for a moment! I'm struggling to make my meaning plain." "What is your meaning? Stephen had not moved, and his voice was well under control. " The love a man professes Tor rue must hold certain qualities, or it could never satisfy rue never hold m •." " Lois!" Creed, his voice a little shaken turned to her, ami pressed his bund over hers, where it lay beside him on the log. She made no movement, either to free herself or to return the pressure. Her hand lay inert and passive beneath his, and when she spoke, her voice, unlike his, was perfectly steady. "Neither you, nor Paul, possess the feeling for me that could compel my interest, Stephen. That's my little tragedy." Creed removed bis band, and sat back, his shoulders square against the, log. " Was it necessary to have begun this conversation then?" he asked.

" Yon mean that I'm perhaps declining something that has not been offered ? Yes, I'm aware that since we arrived, you've never by look or by word led me to suppose that the interest you used to feel in me still survived ..'... And yet I have known, Stephen." " What have you known ? " "I've known that 1 possessed some little power over you, a power to disturb. If I'd been a man, you'd have given me a good sound friendship. But "sex is the rock which wrecks our ship. We're neither friends nor lovers." " That has rested with you." "I. know, and I'm thankful that I wasn't too blinded by passion not to see the chance of shipwreck—l don't mean social shipwreck—that .voukln't trouble me much--I mean shipwreck of my own soul. We should have hated one another after six months together, Stephen ! " " It's easy to make positive statements of that sort, when you've no intention of putting them to the proof!" " I want your friendship won't you forget that .Cm a woman and give it to me ? " " How am I o forget that you're a woman ?" Lois lips moved in a little twisted smile. " You'll soon forget it when you reallv love." " You think I don't love you ? " " I know you don't. Sex attraction alone, isn't- love." Creed moved impatiently. "You're so wise perhaps you'll tell me what love is? " (< She shook her head a trifle sadly. " I can't do that. 1 only know that vou would givo mo passion without tenderness; Paul gives me tenderness without passion while I ask a passionate tenderness, and like the great majority of women, both married and single, I'll go through life without it." She rose, and throwing down her cigarette, she crushed it out among the dead leaves with the toe of her riding boot. " I should very much like to see a bush fire, but I've no desire to destroy this beautiful spot. Give me. up my hat Stephen dear! Let's start ail »sh—you and I—l want your friendship, even if* I don't deserve it." " Why don't you deserve it? " " 1 could have ended our . . . our—no I won't call it flirtation, 1 hate that word —our mutual interest long ago if I had chosen. But 1 couldn't resist the temptation of playing with fire. Your admiration ministered to my small, vain soul. Forgive me, and take me as a friend . . . . won't you?" She smiled, frankly and naturally, at him, and Creed after a moment, took her outstretched hand. He felt sore, and chagrir'nl, and yet at the back of his mind In stTie dim obscure corner, lurked a little feel, :ig that might almost have been called reli ;f. He was free! Those words never ~dually formed themselves in his consciousness, but something seemed to mitigi.to the

smart of dismissal, and had ho asked himself what that something was, he would have been at a loss for an answer. But Lois, smiling and talking naturally, and easily, -.s their horses splashed through the river in the afternoon sunshine, was conscious of an aching head, and an aching sense of desolation. She had Spoken the truth when she said she knew that after six months she and Creed would have lftited one another; but the temptation to take that six months, and risk the future, had been stronger to her than ai'vone would ever know. Merrick-Stroud, after casting in the waters below Weka Flat for some hours without success, hnd at last struck a strong fish. He waded into the shallow water playing it. oblivious of all elso as he rewound the slackened line or listened to the whirr of the reel as the fish plunged off once more. Though he had secured a fair number of fish on other occasions from this same river, be had never up to the present time, had such a lengthened struggle as that upon which be was nowengaged. And though it was one of keen enjoyment, lie began In feel as time went on, that the fight was becoming a littletoo much for his strength. He knew, however, that the fish was tiring, and that a very short period would elapse before ho would laud his prize. He had his gaff ready, and then in the very act of securing the big trout, he slipped, missed his footing, and fell. In an instant, those treacherous rapids of which Stephen ('reed had warned him, had seized h's gaunt frame—turning it this way and that, and hurrying it down to tin- stretch of deep water beyond. Merrick-Stroud war, a good swimmer, and would have had strength enough left to strike out when once lit? felt the current sweep him beyond his depth, but in some way as he fell, his loot had caught in tin rod, and a tangle of line now bound him fast. For an instant, he floated, his face upturned to the blue sky above. Well, here was death ! An easy death! Death in the sunshine without pain or horror. Everyone talked of death by drowning as the simplest, and pleasunte:.* metiiod of taking, one's departure from this mundane sphere. Bui after all one had no guarantee that it was a pleasant means of exit- nor that after the exit things would be much easier than in this earthly life, He'd longed for this solution so often, and now that it had come, why did he find his heart still strongly protesting against annihilation? Ho didn't want to live and yet. The running river carelessly turned the body of the helpless man once more; and now In- no longer looked up to (he blue sky above, but floated face downwards, quietly and peacefully. On past the willows, and the high silted banks, past the flowering briars and the waving tea-tree, one tiny atom of humanity for whom nature in her vast indifference had neither thought nor pity. (To bo continued on Saturday uwii.)

" I've kept you waiting. I'm not generally late for an adventure." Her voice thrilled him. In the studio her beauty had obliterated all other sense but that of sight. It was a deep voice, yet with a little harsh note in it that was fascinating. Carfax told the waiter to serve dinner immediately and to pour out the wine. " How did you know this was going to be an adventure ?" "Everything's an adventure, isn't if?" " When one is young, yes." He waited until they had begun to eat and the waiter' filled their glasses, then he raised his: " To youth and adventure," he said. " What, a lovely toast." She put the wine to her lips. " Now you must tell me, the reason of this meeting." Carfax visualised Mansfold walking up and down--the pavement outside; Dysart waiting impatiently at Southampton. "1 was with a friend of mine the other night at the '03 Club in Gerrard Street. the fellow I was with was the son of one of my best friends. He thought he recognised you and wanted to speak, but had no opportunity." " Opportunities are easily made. What was his name." " Dysart. Sir Vane Dysart." He looked at her closely as he spoke. She mot, his eyes frankly, and without the least hesitation said: "I don't know the name. Hut I remember now seeing you both. lie rather interested me; we bad never met before, of that I'm certain." Hippo turned away with a sigh—of regret? of relief? lie hardly knew which. She had spoken the truth, "that he knew and he was sure he had not found Mansfold's daughter. For a long time there was silence. Dolores was obviously enjoying her dinner. Carfax watched her out of the corners of his eyes. She fascinated him—not only because she was lovely, not only because bo saw grace in every movement she made or because everything about her expressed elegance and refinement, combined u'ith an. atmosphere of intelligence and freedom which could only have been found in La vie de .Boheme —but also because of the likeness-she bore to the photographs he had seen of Lala. " The lady to whom you bear such a strange resemblance is Sir Vane Dysart's fiancee," Hippo said at last. She put clown her knife and fork and leaned back. " Is that why he wanted to speak to me ? What fun. Is he very deeply in love '.' Why didn't, you bring him '.'-but perhaps it's a good thing you didn't, for 1 might really be like her and fall in love with him. He looked interesting, though there was something about himweakness is hardly the word — something as if he had missed his opportunities, not found his proper niche in life. Hippo refilled their glasses. "You are a very remarkable young woman. I didn't bring Sir Vane with m* because at present

Mansfold is known throughout the business world as the Argentine King, and is reputed to be one of the five wealthiest men in the world. One of his gifts to his daughter is a marriage settlement of five million dollars." For a long lime Mansfold stared at the photograph in the newspaper, until Cartax began to feel uncomfortable. When at last he put it down, his face had assumed its normal expression, save for a slight tightening of the muscles about his " , "" 4 .'' ""'< « '™'< of fierce determination m Ins eyes. }{,> raised the glass the waiter had ought to his lips, and bowed a little ironically, to Dolores: ' " I congratulate von." '.'On what?" The harshness in her voice was suddenly emphasised. On being such a brilliant, actress" Mo. glanced round as if to make sure they could not, be overheard, leaned across the table, Ins eyes fixed on hers. "Do You think it's worth while throwing away'the love of a good man, and a million pounds, for this foolish play-acting?" Dolores began to'laugh, cheeked hersell, glanced at Hippo, then, with fingers that were not quite steady, lit „ cigarette " I don't understand." " Vane and your mother are at Southampton, hoping to gain news (if vou there J am staying alone at the Hit/. ' Will voi'i come back with me there, just for" an hour? I promise not to detain vou longer against your will. We can't talk here." He got up from his seat and turned to Hippo. ■ "Perhaps vou- won't mind leaving us. Colonel Carfax. 1 can imagine you're puzzled, and vou have » period light, as Dysart's oldest friend, to demand an explanation. Vou shall have it to-morrow. Hut J would like you to leave us now." Hippo took his hat and coat. He had no option but to go. He said : Certainly," then looked at Dolores; her eyes were fastened on Mansfold. She was blowing little rings of smoke between bellips. " If you want me, if 1 can be of any service, don't hesitate to send for me," Carfax said. He was speaking to both of them. He walked away quickly. Mansfold watched him out of sight, then turned to Dolores. " Have you finished your dinner '! Then shall we go ? Forgive me if I startled you 1 will explain everything at the hotel." " Nothing startles me. I know what you want. Of course, it's impossible." Nothing';; impossible.'" He was eager now. no longer dazed. "At least come and hoar what 1 have to say." A moment she hesitated then slowly rose. She picked up the newspaper and again looked at the photograph of Laia Mansfold. " Very well, I'll come with you and hear what you've got to say." Mansfold paid the bill, then, calling a cab, drove Dolores to the Hit/. Hotel. A lift took them to his private sittingroom. (To be continued daily.)