SLINGS AND ARROWS.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXV, Issue 19889, 7 March 1928, Page 18

SLINGS AND ARROWS.

BY CARLTON DAWE.

CHAPTER IX.—(Continued). So here was another man! He sudiflenly experienced a warm desire to wipe the floor with Signor Corsini, the Italian with She Lancashire accent. Indeed, all male professional dancers were anathema to him.*' But he cauld see there was more behind her hesitancy and ho waited for her to speak, knowing it was bound to come. " Up to the time Corsini left me, yes, every moment can be accounted for; but it was I who entered the house—alone—and found my husband —dead! " '"Well," he assured her, " that's all dear and straightforward." *' But there's more." " More ? " " Bernard was stabbed with an Egyptian dagger which I used for opening my letters." He looked at her; seemed to tear the words from quivering lips. "The police found it." " The clearer proof g . g * if proof .were needed." " But you see . . s Yes, he saw, and was suddenly aquiver with apprehension. He also saw Lord Tynehurst stricken with grief and furious for revenge. " David, what shall I do ? " Once more she had appealed to him and found him incapable of aid. Fewer sensations are more poignant than the knowledge of being unable to help those we love.

" You can do nothing but tell the truth." " But will they believe me?" " They must, the truth being self-evi-dent." ' - . , ... But he knew he was saying a foolish thing; that truth in itself was not selfevident; that there were occasions when it needijd infinite substantiation. Yet in his own way he consoled her, or valorously strove to; would even have minimised the tragic occurrence had he dared; almost made many false steps in his eagerness to reassure her, to instil courage, but fortunately drew back in time. They would see it through. Insensibly he associated himself with her in this crowning catastrophe. "It has shattered all my hopes," she said. He looked at her, trying to read the thought behind this outburst. 'My baby! If I was not fit to have her before, what am I row ?" Not having dreamt of this further complication he was overwhelmed by the thought of it. The lawful guardian dead, the law would in all probability appoint a new custodian. Knowing little of the procedure of the courts, the labyrinthine mazes of the law, he shared the common dread of it. Unsympathetic old gentlemen in wig and gown, portentous, posing as upholders of public morality ! lio, these were not likely to recognise the claims of erring motherhood. The omens were distinctly unfavourable to dancers ■with flaming hair. He spread the tea for her, offered the varied assortment of cakes; prevailed upon her after much coaxing to 6at a little. It almost choked her; never were fresh cakes so dry, so dusty. Yet she did her best to mark her appreciation of his hospitality. Also she appeared to take in slowly her environment and the changed appearance of her host, "Have you lived here long ?" she asked.

" Three years." " It's a very nice little flat." " It suits the purpose of an old bachalar." ~ " And I thought you were a tramp. " So I was, and am, and always will —tramping toward some indefinite go* l -" , < . Again she , saw the whimsical curve of the mouth. "We all are," she said. And then, I've read your books." " Am I forgiven ? " " I liked them very, very much. They're very like you, too." " Isn't that rather a pity ? " " I don't think so." Undoubtedly he was exceedingly pleased at this; felt a momentary glow of singular exaltation. If to be praised by people one does not know is stimulating/ what must it be to hear approbation from Cfirtain lips? But they soon reverted to the one absorbing topic. Clearlv he. saw that she dreaded the ordeal of the coming inquest; and while admitting to no great liking for such proceedings, he made a gallant attempt to instil courage. The coroner was a gentleman, he assured her, and as such would show her every courtesy. Might he come ? " I want you to," sb.e said. I shan t feel so horribly alone." , f " Surely it's not as bad as that. " Oil, I don't know. I'm a sinking ship, David." _ , , , " But you've not. You re a staunch, well-rigged, beautiful ship, and you ro going to make port, my dear, so don t worry." , , T > "It will help me to know that Ive one true friend." " Didn't I dig your garden for you, put the hollyhocks in splints, make Babs a kite una 'do odd jobs about- the house: Well, I'm ntill your handy-man." " Someth ng more than that, she said. The son of David trembled.:

CHAPTER XTHB INQUEST. Babs Mortimer did not dance that night: she did not dance again that month, to the mortification of her numerous admirers at the Nouveau Cabaret, and to that of Signer Corsini in particular. Arturo Corsini, a spruce and dapper little fellow with the lightest pair of heels in the world and a monstrous conceit of himself, had originally appeared in the second-rate music-hallst as one o. a quartette of Lancashire clog-dancers. From them he migrated to the continent, returning to his ■' native land some three years later with a new foreign name, the queerest of new accents, and beautiful marcel waves in his red hair. As an honest hard-working English clog-dancer he might have rotted in* obscurity; as a posing alien he was an unqualified success. From the moment he kicked off his clogs and took to patent leathers and a dress suit he never looked back. Yet in his heart he knew that those despised clogs had laid the foundation of his greatness. How he met Babs Mortimer matters not at all, but having once met her, and danced with her, he recognised her affinity, his other self. AJI his life he had dreamt of much a partner; having found her he devoted his utmost energies to developing the resources of friendship. Not having all his brains in his heels, he bestowed much thought on this new enterprise. And it must be said that as dancers they matched each other perfectly. But to her he was merely a dancer, one who helped her to a sound competancej apart from that she took a most unprofessional view of him and his kind, while he really believed that his dexterity of heel and toe made him a personage. How else • ould he think when he contrasted the obscurity of dingy provincial music-halls with the glare and glitter of the fashionable West End ! Of course he knew something of her story, every one did; it probably added a piquancy, a cachet to her return io the scenes of her former triumphs. He saw admirers approach and suffer a smiling repulse, was himself laughingly dismissed whenever he presumed, and was not a little nonplussed in consequence. Fqr, having a singularly high opinion of his unique merits, he failed utterly_ to comprehend her lack of approbation. Knowing what he was, it was utterly incredible that any one should fail to appreciate bis ascendancy among men. Possible the reason was that she didn't quite regard him as a man; had never regarded as such any of his kind. But this he neither know nor dreamt of. Or

perhaps her idea about men had changed. If experience can teach a fool, -what roust be its effects on one not devoid of intelliM ■ ".C

(COPYRIGHT.) .

Boing an artist, he naturally admired her artistic pose of aloofness, while not wholly convinced of its genuineness. What meaning was he to read in the constant attendance of Sir Harry Marriner, the man for whom she had been divorced 1 A woman, careful of her reputation, couldn't very well countenance the presence of such a person. And now there was the ex-husband! Everybody knew he was the husband; tittered and giggled over the knowledge; made jests in quiet corners; doubtless embellished those jests in private. A most singular development of a piquant incident. Signor Corsini didn't lay much store by the husband; he was one of the chinless brigade who assaulted theatres, cabarets, and night clubs with the ardour and devotion of the truly heroic. But he did hate Marriner, and had a sneaking fear of him. In his secret moments he thought of him as "a gentleman;" called him one, and feared the admission. His polished accent drove the Italo-Lancastrian to frenzy. He was almost afraid to speak in his presence; saw Alarriner's lip curl at the production of Saffron-Hill English; was at times almost tempted to blazon forth the honest North Country burr, his birthright, and the only real thing about him.

And then came the tragedy, and for a time he had something else to think of. As Barbara Mortimer had foreseen, the inquest on Bernard Carmond proved a ghastly ordeal. The little court was crowded with, the curious and a fair sprinkling of police. David was waiting for her at the entrance as she drove up with Peggy Lancing, a friend of hers. Corsini was also there. But his presence she merely acknowledged with a nod. It was to David she gave her hand and a wan smile of welconio, and it was he who accompanied her and Miss Lancing into the court, and to the front bench reserved for the pritcipal witnesses. A quick glance also discovered the presence of Marriner; a sleek, well-groomed presence perfectly detestable at that moment. She bowed to the coroner before taking her seat, a salutation which he acknowledged with a grave inclination of the head. He was a man of middle-age, slightly bald, with keen grey eyes shaded by heavy brows, and a mobile, expressive mouth. Looking at him she was insensibly relieved of much apprehension. All the time the police were telling the story of the tragedy she kept her eyes fixed on him, with now and again a glance at the jury, and he, while listening, was watching her. She tried to pierce his mind, to discover some clue as to his thoughts, and was conscious of failing awfully. For the face never relaxed; he sat there cold and calin as a graven image. She forgot for the moment that this was his ordinary vocation, that he dealt with murders and suicides as others dealt with the common events of life.

Yet she thought the ghost of an encouraging look passed over his face as she turned to him from the witness-box after taking the oath. "You have seen the body ?" he asked in a low, well-modulated voice.

"Yes." "And identify it as that of your husband ?" "Yes." "You are by profession a dancer?" "Yes." "Known as Babs Mortimer?" "That was my maiden name—Barbara Mortimer." "Your husband divorced you ?" "Yes." "There was one child of the marriage." "Yes." The answer came faintly. "The court awarded the custody of the child to the father ?" "Yes." Very faintly was the answer this time. Having gone so far he paused for a moment or two while he turned over some papers. It gave her a breathing space, time to collect her senses, as he probably meant it should. Then he looked up at her with those keen grey eyes. "Now, Mrs. Carmond," he Said, **l want you to tell me everything that happened to you on the ninth, the day of flie tragedy. Please take your time, and tell me as clearly as you can remember." "There is really very little to tell. Leaving my fiat shortly after twelve on that day I "did a little shopping in Leicester Square, and afterwards, meeting my friend, Miss Lancing," (she nodded towards that, young lady) "at the Golden Peacock "

"The Golden Peacock ?" he queried. "A restaurant in Soho," she explained. "About what time would that be?" "As near one o'clock as I can remember." "Arid then ?" "We had lunch together." He nodded. "And after?" "We went to a matinee at the Haymarket." "All very clear," he commented encouragingly. "And then?" "We went to the Piccadilly Hotel for tea." "And after your tea at the Piccadilly Hotel, did you go home." "No, sir. I had given my maid a day off to see her mother in Tonbridge. I told her she could stay the night with her people if. she wished to." "And did she?" "Yes." "And you can remember what yon did after leaving the Piccadilly Hotel ?" "Quite clearly. We took a taxi to Miss Lancing's fiat and rested until it was time to go to the cabaret." "Where you were working?" "Yes." Inwardly she thanked him for using that word; almost believed he used it consciously. Had he said "dancing" it might have sounded like a sneer. "And you never left the cabaret until you returned home?"

"No." "About what time would that be? "Between two and three in the morning probably about half-past two." "That would be near your usual time of returning ?" . "Yes." "And on your return you found — Brokenly she told how she had found her husband. " And you immediately rang up the police 1 " ' " Yes." " That was the very wisest thing you could have done in the circumstances. I presume you have no theory to account for this crime 1 "

" No." " There is no one you know with a grudge against your husband, who might—" He hesitated, his keen eyes under their heavy brows fixed intently upon her. " No one," she said. " Nothing was missing, no valuables of any kind ? " " Nothing.'' " Now, Mrs. Carmond, how do you account for your husband being in your flat ? " "He frequently visited me. In a way we were friends again. He professed regret for our misunderstanding, and wanted me to make it up with him." " What do you mean exactly by that?" " He wanted me to marry him again." This caused a rustle of excitement in the court. Even the coroner's heavy brows elevated themselves the twentieth part of an inch. The jury began to look interested. " Had he a key of your flat? "■ " No." " So that you cannot account for his presence ?" " I cannot." Turning to the table he took np an Egyptian dagger and held it out. " You recognise this as your propert v ? " "Yes." For a moment her eyes closed, her head drooped forward. David Kingsfield, watching, thought she was going to faint. But clutching the rail before her she straightened herself. Interrogatively the coroner looked at her. " I always used it as a paper-cutter,'* she added in a low voice. (To be continued daiij.)