A CHANGE AND A CHANCE.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXVIII, Issue 20924, 14 July 1931, Page 14

A CHANGE AND A CHANCE.

By L. G. MOBERLEY. Author of "A Year at the Outside," "The voice, cit., ctv..

CHAPTER IX.—(Continued). Has it ended ?" Flossie inquired Sapiently, "or are you in the middle of some sort of novel experiment, Why,_of Course, you must still bo in the middle. You can't tell me you are going on playing disconsolate widow in some respectable, Early Victorian sort of house? You couldn't do it, Hilda, old thing. Flesh and blood would never stand it, at least your flesh and blood wouldn't. You'll have to come down off your perch." " I have to get down now and then," Betty laughed back, " I come to town lor a breather."

"Heavens! Y'ou must want it. Are you going back to the Riviera ? Was the stunt a success ?"

• "In a way, yes. Things weren't too bad—but—l shan't go back at present." The astute Flossie observed the other's tantalising manner, but made no comment ♦—only reflecting inwardly: " Somehow made the South of France too hot to hold her—wonder what she did " —aloud, che said with nonchalance: " Oh well, fresh fields and pastures new iwill suit you just as well—probably better."

v ' probably better," Betty echoed-dryly. "And are you coming to the Drainpipe to-night?" Flossie asked, naming a wellknown, but especially, savoury night club, " things are still humming gaily enough Jihere."

Betty shook her head. " Nothing doing," she answered, " this child's lying low—more or less. My fish such as they are—can't be fried in night clubs for the present. Too conspicuous—bring me into the lamplight too much."

" Ho, bo, little Hilda James been rousing suspicion, has she ?" Flossie laughed, and rising from the table, stretched herself with the lazy movements of some big feline beast; and picking up a comb from a weird collection of articles upon a table near by, proceeded to draw it through her tangled locks. " Lying low for a time, eh ?" she asked, her. dark eyes glancing sharply at her visitor, " you always were a bit of a dark horse, Hilda —and that's the truth." Betty shrugged her shoulders. " No question of a dark horse,", she said easily,-"I have various little ideas in my mind, which will mature better if I am not in. the full glare of the footlights. That's all." "Oh, that's all, is it?" There was significance in Flossie's tones. " Well, my dear, I don't want- to pry into your affairs, I'm not one of the prying sort. Live, and let live, is my motto, always . has been. If it pleases you to pose as the sorrowing and respectable widow, pose away—l shan't queer' your pitch. Our pitches are so different, aren't they ? We shan't interfere with each other." "We certainly need never interfere; your job wouldn't suit me, and mine wouldn't suit you," Betty said carelessly, "we needn't clash, Flossie. I only looked in to-day, to ask you whether you could put me up, if at any time I want a bolt hole, and feel I must clear out of my present respectable surroundings. It's a very remote contingency, but if it should happen, could you put me up for a time ?" " With pleasure, love," Flossie laughed, her strong white teeth gleaming as she ►did so, " you know my ways, you know what to expect. Come along, if it's ever convenient. I have no secrets from you, old dear, and I don't suppose you have any from me." She was not looking at Betty as she spoke the words casually. Had she- been looking at her she might have noticed a strange expression in the other's eyes, an enigmatical little smile on her lips; but both were gone before Flossie's eves met Betty's. "Then that's that," Betty said brightly, I shall turn up here, if I'm in a tight place." " Are you likely to be in a tight place?" Flossie looked inquisitive. "One never knows! Tight places have a way of coming suddenly into one's path. I like to be" prepared, that's all. For the moment, things are quite serene and smooth; but you never know." " You never know," that was the thought that knocked at Betty's mind; the thought tinctured with faint fear. Only this morning, as she walked across Waterloo Station, a man had looked at her, had loooked very hard, with a certain perplexed half recognition in his glance. And the • woman who, perforce, went through life with all her senses on the alert, knew that the quietly dressed man who appeared- to be merely waiting for his train, had the experienced eyes of a .member of the G.I.D. She had been under no delusion about his identity. She had Been equally aware, that, given a few more minutes of steady contemplation of her, a glance of full recognition would have replaced that glance of puzzled questioning. And she was taking no chances! If danger threatened, if danger even remotely threatened, she would be beforehand with it.. Flossie Dempster s rooms should supply a bolt hole for her, if the worst came to the worst —and, as she had said, one never knew. Arrived back at her hotel, she found Derek Maltland waiting for her, a rather impatient Derek, who looked at her with a certain hungry yearning in his eyes, and Bpoke with a" certain irritation in his yoice. " I thought we planned to meet here at three," he said, " and it's long past four." ,

She held out a hand, with a pretty expression of penitence. " Oh, Derek, do forgive me," she said, her smile driving awav the frown from his face, " I, couldn't help myself, really I eouldn't. Do you imagine 1 would wilfully keep you waiting?" She laid a hand on his sleeve, with a childish, beguiling gesture, and her eyes were full of tender raillery, " I wouldn't be so horrid. But when I got here, I found a most urgent note from an old friend, who is ill and in trouble, begging me to go and see her, and I simply hadn't the heart to refuse. I hadn't the heart." She said it so gently, with apparently such genuine contrition, that the man beside her forgot his irritation, and laughed. "Never mind, my dear. Very sweet of you to go and see your sick friend. I'm sure the sight of you must have done her good. Now that you are here, though, what shall we do?" What would you like? Picture gallery? Cinema? What?" The memory of those keen eyes at Waterloo shot into Betty's mind; —concerts and cinemas were dangerously public places; the scent, once found, might not be lost again. She must take no risks. "Do you know what I should love better than anything," she said, with eager fervour. " I have heard so much about Kew Gardens. Could you take me ■there —to—to see the flowers? I should go love to go to Kew Gardens,— they must be beautiful, and I should love to go—\ivith you," she added very softly.

CHAPTER X. SIRS. NESTLEY CHATTERS. " I can't really imagine what I should have done without Miss Denison,' Mrs. Nest-ley was saying in her soft vague voice, " she has been a right hand to me, more than a right hand; if she had been my nearest relation, she could not have done more for me, or helped me more.' " Miss Denison gives one the impression of being most absolutely reliable,". Lan Robertson answered —his glance turned towards the lower end of his garden, where fluid Btood talking to the old gardener. ,

(COPYRIGET.)

AN ADVENTUROUS STORY, FULL OF DRAMATIC EPISODES.

"I only saw her once or twice, and only spoke to her once. Hers was not the type of bqauty I personally admire, but , she was very pretty —extremely pretty, in fact, more than pretty; and I'should think she would be very attractive to a certain type of person. She had a most unforgettable face. Poor old Carstails was mad about her." (To be continued daily.)

" You have said exactly the right word," Mrs. N'estley exclaimed, " she is reliable, —as reliable as a rocjt. You know quite well that anything sho undertakes to do she will carry through to the very last atom. I took to her the first moment we met at Lindthal." " Then you are not old friends?" A slight accent of surprise showed in the other's voice. " No, oh no, we are not old friends. We were onlv staying in the same hotel at Lindthal—such a charming winter sports place, Mr. Robertson. I'm sure I would always recommend it to anybody. And we had delightful people in our hotel—a really nice party of us. Only when. Mr. Maitland left, the party in a way broke up, and then 1 was sent for, and all the gaiety seemed to go out of things. And that dear girl offered to come here with me, because she saw how terribly I dreaded coming, alone. Between ourselves," she lowered her voice, though Enid was well out of earshot, earnestly discussing the cultivation of carnations with old Raonl, " between ourselves, I can't help feeling something has happened between her and Mr. Maitland." "Happened?" lan spoko rather sharply, and cursed himself for a fool, because his pulses gave an absurd leap. " Yes —pernaps I oughtn't to say anything, only—after all your kindness, cannot feel you are a stranger to us; and of course I don't mean that I am betraying a confidence —Miss Denison has never confided in me. I don't think she is the sort who confides easily in others.^ " Certainly not a chatterbox lan reflected grimly, while Mrs. Isestley babbled on: " But everybody at Lindthal could see that she and Mr. Maitland were tremendous friends; —we really felt that they were almost more than friends, or that they would some day be more. He was recalled to England—l think he is something in the law—and—somehow I have a feeling, from little things I noticed—that his letters tailed off, or changed, or —or something. And since we have been here, she has had none from him at all, that. I do know for certain." " Perhaps it was only a passing friendship," lan answered, and his heart again gave one of those absurb little leaps. " Well, I don't know. Wo all thought*, Mr. Maitland was immensely attracted. We were all sure it was far, far more than mere friendship. Miss Denison's aunt—such a nice woman, a Mrs. Redesden—had a little talk with me one day about it. She said that of course her niece was much too reticent to discuss the subject, even with her, but she felt sure Mr. Maitland was on the verge of proposing. And now—well —the dear girl has not seemed so gay and lighthearted as sho used to be. Something has hurt her. lam sure of that. " Something has hurt her"—the phrase lingered in lan's mind after Mrs. Nestley's plaintive voice had ceased speaking;—and Enid had walked up the terraced path to join them. " Your old gardener is a character," she said, with the smile which lan was already beginning to find dangerously attractive, " he has such a delightful way of putting things. He tells me the plants get ennerves by the mistral. I never thought a plant could be ennerve : d—if I may coin a word." " Oh! but it can," lan hastened to explain, " a mistral takes all the starch out of plant life, just as it takes it out of human life. I hope my old ruffian has given you the hints 3 r ° u wanted about carnations."

"He has told me quantities. _ I am not sure how his hints will work in England; but I mean to pass them on to my stepmother, who is very keen on carnation growing. I feel as if I should like to stay here, and grow them in this nice lotus land."

A little gleam shone for an instant in lan Robertson's keen eyes, as he watched the girl's face, turned away from him, looking across the wooded hills to the sea.

" Are you sorry to be leaving it ? " he asked —and she shook off her wistfulness, and looked at him with a smile. " Yes, very sorry—sorrier than I could have imagined possible, when we have been here such a short time. Do you think the police will ever find out anything about the affair at the villa ? " she added, in a lower voice, as Mrs. Nestley moved away to the studio, where their goods had been deposited, pending the arrival of their cab. Mrs. Nestley had declared she could no longer bear the atmosphere of the villa, and as soon as Monsieur Sauvage had finished his interrogation, the English ladies had crossed the road to Robertson's studio, where he insisted upon giving, them lunch and entertaining them, until their departure in time to catch the night train. " Who can say ? " Robertson answered Enid's question with a lift of the shoulders, " the French police are very patient, very persistent; and as I said before, Monsieur Sauvage's clutches are apt to hold tight anything they have once grasped. But all the questioning of Suzanne Rocher has elicited nothing, and as you know though they did find a secret drawer in that bureau, it was empty."

" X do wonder what was in it—r-some-thing important enough to make_ that dreadful woman come to my room in the middle of the night. What-puzzles me, is, why didn't she take whatever it was out of the bureau, when she had the house to herself ? Why wait till somebody was sleeping in the room ? " "My interpretation of that is, as I said before, that she never dreamt that particular room would be used. She reckoned she would sleep in the room which, after all, I occupied. It never occurred to her that I should sleep at the villa at all. That upset all her calculations ! "

" Do you believe that Mrs. Carstairs murdered her husband? "

" Appearances are rather against her. She disappeared a few hours after _ his death, and as far as can be ascertained she took with her a very large sum of money, and a good deal, of jewellery. On the other hand—in all fairness one must remember that in disappearing as she did, she practically resigned all the.money left her in her husband's will. I understand he left everything of which he died possessed, to his wife." "Then why should she have murdered him—if she did do it?" lan's shoulders went up again. " Who can say ? How can one account for the actions of a woman like Mrs. Carstairs ? I should be sorry .to have to answer for anything she might have done." " Was she very attractive ?"