INTO THE MISTS.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXIII, Issue 19384, 20 July 1926, Page 18

INTO THE MISTS.

BY E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM.

CHAPTER XlX.—(Continued.) Amberleys left the room, and Paule prepared to follow his example. " There's nothing 1 can do, I'm afraid," he said. " You'll make my excuses to Lady Honerton and Lady Judith, if I don't see her. I'm very much obliged to you for an excellent shoot. Sorry this should have come to disturb you at the end of it." " That's all right, Fault l ," Joseph rejoined. "Glad, you could come, sure. If there's no news 1 shall he up in town to-morrow, if it's only to go and tell them what 1 think or them at Scotland Yard. It's disgraceful, positively disgraceful!" striking the table-, with his fist. " Nearly twelve months ago my own son disappears from this house, walks out straight from this table in his evening clothes, and from that day to this nothing has been heard of him. And now his cousin, gone almost the same way. We vo the worst police system in the world. "Have you wired Samuel's father.'' Paulo inquired. " Not vet." his host admitted. " He's in such a feeble state that I'm really afraid of the shock for him. I shall probably go and see him myself, to-night. A pleasant journey to you, Paule!" Paule, making his preparations for departure, found much confusion in the household. Joyce, thoroughly serious for once in her life, accosted him as he stood upon the broad steps of the entrance porch. " Have you any theories, Sir Lawrence ?" " None whatever. My idea was that he had gone for an early morning walk." " What about his bed not having been slept in ?" she reminded him. " I didn't know that till afterwards. Perhaps he slept half the night in an easy chair, then decided it was too late to turn in, had a bath and went off for a walk. I've done such a thing myself before now." " It isn't like Samuel," she pronounced. " The young man was naturally unlike himself last night. He came round to tell me his good news. I may be permitted, I hope, to wish you every happiness, Lady Joyce." Thank you. very much. It's a queer start, isn't it?" "It certainly is. However, I don't think you need be so greatly concerned. T don't look upon his disappearance very seriously." " Perhaps it's the best thing that could have happened, so far as Samuel and I are concerned. I've been over a year making up my mind to marry him, and now that he has been snatched away I feel that life has suddenly become a blank. He's really riot a bad sort and I should hate to think that anything had happened to him." " Nothing serious has, I am convinced. I hope when we meet in town," Paule went on, watching the. approach of his car. " we shall all be able to smile at this morning's disquietude." Futoy, immaculate in his black livery, brought his long grey car round to the front entrance with a workmanlike sweep. Paule drew on his gloves. " I am making rather an unceremonious departure. I have not been able even to see Ladv Judith to say good-bye." " Judith went off to the garage half-an-hour ago, and I haven't seen her since," Joyce told him. " I'll give her the usual messages, if you like." " Thank you very much." " Which way are you going up ?" she asked him, as he stepped into the driving seat. " Newmarket and Royston, I think," he answered. He raised his cap and swung off down the avenue. Judith, from the garage, saw him flash by. She turned to the man in keeper's clothes who was standing by her side, holding a motor-bicycle. " There goes Sir Lawrence Paule, the first of our departing guests," she pointed out. Rodes touched the switch of his bicycle and pushed it clear of the door. " Are you going to follow him ?" Judith asked eagerly. " Yes," was the terse reply. "But why? What can you possibly learn from his movements?" Rodes started his engine. " Lady Judith," he said, " I can only remind you of a time when you spoke to me at .the top of St. James' Street. You advised me to discard facts .and trust to instinct and imagination. I haven't the least idea why, hut I have quite made up my mind to follow Sir Lawrence." " You will never catch him. He confessed to having averaged fifty between Newmarket and here when he came down." "I can.do as much as that," Rodes declared, " and then accelerate a little if I want to. I haven't kept this bicycle here for some months for nothing, Lady Judith. Nor have I played at being an under-keeper for nothing," he added ruefully. " Every bone in my body aches this morning." " Never mind, Mr. Rodes. You looked very nice." " You're positive," he asked, " that no one else in this household or among the guest knew anything about me?" *' Not a soul." "Not Sir Lawrence, for instance? I have kept carefully out of his -sight." " I am convinced that Sir Lawrence has not an idea that you were in the neighbourhood." He mounted into the saddle and started off. Already miles ahead of him, his quarry was gradually opening his lovers: CHAPTER XX. Paule, who had driven slowly, through the Park, to avoid the deer, who were continually crossing his way. increased his speed*in the lane, dividing his attention between the road in front and the mirror on his right, . Once he spoke to Futo\v -"There is a motor-cycle crossing the Park, Futoy," he said. " Look round and tell me which way it turns on leaving the lodge gates." ■ • - - " It follows us, master," he announced. Paule slackened his speed a little, until a small black object appeared in the centre of his mirror. " Were there many motor-cycles in the garage, Futoy?" he asked. " Only one, master," the man replied. "His lordship dislikes them very much and has forbidden them in the park. This one belonged to one of the beaters, a stranger to the neighbourhood. Lady Judith was talking to him this morning." They were nearing the spot where the lane merged into the high road and Paule had apparently been preparing to turn toward Norwich, his announced route. At Futoy's words, howevsr, he slowed down still more, looked steadfastly ahead of him and then swung round to the right. "Is it a powerful motor-bicycle, Futoy ?" " It is the best I ever saw, master." Paule glanced at the black sneck in the glass. It was certainly drawing nearer. He touched his accelerator slightly. The road was good but winding. At Fakenham he had almost to pull up in the narrow street down to the railway, and from Raynham to Swaffham again speed was almost impossible. The small black speck was always there. Paule looked at it, frowning. He reduced his pace a little. The motor-bicycle came no nearer. From Swaffham to Brandon he drove carefully, passing through Brandon so that even the policeman on duty gave scarcely a second glance at the car/ It was a still November morning; the roads were drv for the time of the year. As they neared the village of Barton Mills, where the road merges into the main thoroughfare, Paule, leaning forward, increased the speed of thecal- until the black :>peck in the mirror became almost invisible. He turned the corner and suddenly began a slow application of his brakes, bending over to ! Futoy ' and giving him brief directions, j As they crossed the bridge to the road by the Inn, Paule brought the car to a standstill, busied himself for a few seconds ! with the seat which he had vacated, and slipped into the yard of the hotel. Futoy, with the driving wheel in his hand dashed off in second speed and was cut of sight in a moment/ while Paule

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entered the bar parlour and stood at. the window. In less than two -minutes the impatient hooting of a horn was heard and immediately afterwards ' Rodes on his motor-bicycle swung round into the road and headed for Newmarket, following the car which was now little more than a speck in the distance. Paule watched both until they were out of sight. Tho twelve miles an hour warning through Newmarket brought the car and the motor-bicycle within a reasonable distance of one. another, but outside the town,' along by the racecourse and galloping ground, the car once more drew away. Rodes, who had owned a motor-bicycle for less than a year and hated it, groaned as lie leaned over his handles. Nothing was happening as he had expected, and yet he was loath to abandon the chase. The next twenty miles oi' perfect road heknew would be all against him. Yet he rode steadily on. Every bone in his body seemed aching, every nerve on edge. He kept his mind fixed upon his (ask, however, and ignored his discomfort. He drew a sigh of relii-f when his quarry turned off toward Royston. Nevertheless, for another half-hour the car kept its distance, and nothing that he could do seemed able to lessen it. The railway gates stood open, and the car seemed to take the crossing in its stride, Rodes, with clenched teeth, following. The perspiration was streaming down his face, the hands which gripped his handles felt numb. There was a mist in front of his spectacles. Every now and then with care he had to remove them with one hand, and make an effort at wiping them. At Royston the car passed through the bottle-neck contraction by the Inn at such a pace that the policeman whose back had been turned for a moment, shouted angrily ;■ fter it. Rodes, too, came in for his abuse, but he gained a little on the hill toward the downs. For a few more miles the speed seemed to be ever increasing. They passed some racehorses on the Common as though they were standing still; Baldock in a few minutes became only a memory, and then came, at last, relief. Half way to Stevenage, Rodes, rocking in his seat, became conscious that the car in front was growing larger. He took off his spectacles for a moment, and gave a little gasp. It had drawn to the side of the road, and was stopped. He shut off his own engine and made a clumsy descent. Gripping one of the handles, he stood leaning over tho saddle in the middle of the road, gazing into Futoy's impassive face. "The gentleman needs something?" Futoy asked cheerfully. "Where is your master?" Rodes demanded. " Not with me to-day," Futoy replied cheerfully. "I drive the car alone." " Your master started with you from Honerton Chase," Rodes declared, wheeling the bicycle up to the side of the car. "It is quite true. He forgot something. He went back." Rodes looked at the hat lying in the bottom of the car, and the deep seats, and knew at once how he had been tricked. The very fact, however, that such deception had been indulged in, was like a tonic to him. " When did your master leave the car?'' "I am good English servant. I do not answer questions about my master." " Look here," Rodes said, " you speak English quite well ?" " I speak English perfect," Futoy replied. " Then listen," Rodes continued. " I am a policeman. I am from Scotland Yard. I have followed you in pursuit of my duties. If you would avoid trouble, tell me where y6ur master left the car." " That talk not very good," Futoy objected. " I know nothing about the police. I do as my master orders. My master returned because he had forgot something." " Are you fond of money?" Rodes a3ked bluntly. " Good money I love," Futoy replied. " Bad .money I spit upon." "What do you call bad money?" " Money which comes from those who ask me questions about my master." " I don't mean a little money, I mean a great deal of money," Rodes "continued desperately. " I am not English," Futoy said. " There are many other things in .life besides money. My master save my life in Bankok." Rodes wiped his face again and lit a cigarette. ".You leave motor-cycle somewhere, I drive you to London. My master not mind that," said Futoy. " Thank you. lam not coming to London just yet." Futoy touched his starting pedal. "I wish you good morning, mister." Rodes watched tho car once more disappear. He was fatigued, yet dimly exultant. Somewhere in the distant loomed the shadow of new things. CHAPTER XXI. The morning papers were a little guarded in their reference to this second mysterious disappearance in the great millionaire family. News so puzzling as to baffle even speculative propositions was exceedingly difficult to handle, but they made a vigorous attack upon the police system of the country. The fact of Samuel's engagement on the night befoie his disappearance added piquancy to the already sufficiently dramatic problem. Meanwhile Samuel Fernfiarn, senior, lay ill almost to death at • Brighton, and Joseph carried with him everywhere a new expression, half-furtive, half-anxious. Ho was for ever seeking the sympathy of stronger men, asking for their advice, trying to borrow from their more equable poise. Paule was one of his victims. "Speculation has become entirely unprofitable, Lord Honerton," he said,' one afternoon, when the latter had sought him out in the laboratory, and interrupted him in the midst of an interesting experiment designed to materially cheapen one of the famous Fernham productions: "If anyone can solve the mystery of the disappearance of these two young men it will have to be the police, unless you care to employ some of these outside private detectives. We people have our work to get on with." "Just one word in your ear, my dear Paule. We can slip into your room for a moment?" "For five minutes," Paule replied, his eyes fixed upon the retort he was watching, "I cannot leave this place. After that I am at your service for a minute or two. They must have this formula in the main laboratory this afternoon. We are days behind in the mixing department." " Quite right, my dear sir," Joseph assented, with a touch of his old manner. "Business must be attended to. I will wait." He passed through the inner door and, in about (en minutes, Paule joined him, wiping his hands carefully. He threw the towel into a corner of the room and, without seating himself, waited coldly for his visitor to announce the nature of his errand. Joseph had lost all his pomposity of manner. He was almost cringing. I am sorry if I'm taking up your time," he began, "but I have no one to speak to nowadays. Rachel lies perfectly still, her eyes wide open, but she never speaks. I see her lips move often, and I know what it means—she is praying. She eats and drinks enough to keep' herself alive, drives for an hour in her ponv carriage, always toward the rebuilding of that, cottage, and the rest of the time she knits—knits always, silently. When I speak she does not hear. I'have had to come away from Honerton, or I think that I should have gone, mad.'' "There is your daughter." I "Tt was of Judith that I wanted to speak to you. She is as uncommunicative as her mother, but it is in a different way. 1011 spoke just now of private detectives. Well. Judith has one nearly always at her side. He was at Honerton all through the shoot inc. He was actually there the dav Samuel disappeared. He and Judith spend hours going round the countrv together." (To be continued daily.)