WEB CENTRE

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXXIII, Issue 22350, 22 February 1936, Page 39 (Supplement)

WEB CENTRE

.(COPYRIGHT)

By RALPH TREVOR Author of " Death In tho Stalls.** ** Tho Eyea Through

AN enthralling story of mystery, love and adventure

CHAPTER Vll.—(Continued)

ii j'll turn in for an hour, chief," he said, " an d return to duty before breakfast. I doubt if anything will happen before morning." Meantime, in another part of Carleon Towers, a man lay stretched on 8 bed in a room,that no other guests to the mansion had been permitted to view. . It was well furnished and quite comfortable. Besides the bed, there was a divan under the high window, a table and two chairs. There was a number of quite likeable mezzo-tints in narrow black frames on the walls and tho carpet on the floor was a rich, yielding Persian. Robert Santley lay fighting his nerves. Ho knew that tho ono thing he must not permit himself was panic. A. dozen times ho had told himself ho had been a fool even to think of accepting Vorsada's invitation to the place. But it was little use castigating himself now. The thing had happened. and if it had done nothing else it had served to show Vorsada for once in his true colours. Santley had long suspected the_ man of being an unscrupulous swindler; long suspected that Vorsada had set himself the task of undermining the public confidence in-The Santley Trust, and Vorsada had failed, even by resort to the meanest operations known to the Stock Exchange, and thoso who operate from without its highly respectable traditions. It had been Vorsada's hand, of course, that had manipulated the temporary slump in the shares some little time ago.- In fact, as he had lain there, a great many things of ■which he had only the faintest doubt had been made plain to him. But there was something more than the future of The Santley Trust troubling him now. There was Mary on. If only he cduld be sure what had happened to Maryon, he would have felt easier in his mind. When they had taken him' awav from Vorsada's presence he had implored his captors to tell him what had happened to her. But the men had been as mute as granite. Either they did not know, or they had been instructed not to speak

to him. Almost, continuous he saw the vision of his daughter standing there, with the smoking revolver inter slim white hand. The recollection of it shattered his mental stability. He wanted to rise up from the bed where he lay and shrink his agony to the empty room. That the man was dead there could be no possible doubt. He recalled how he had dropped, hands clutching at his breast, and with the spasm of pain contorting his features. Robert Santley's hand moved mechanically across his brow, as if to wipe away from his eyes the horrifying vision that persisted in lingering there. But he felt that nothing would ever obliterate that vision, and when he withdrew his hand from his eyes it was wet with sweat.

How long he had lain there he did not know. Time meant little to him. It might have been an eternity. So stunned was his bram that never for one moment did he realise that he had only to consult the small gold watch that was strapped to his right wrist. Suddenly his ears caught a sound — the only sound he had heard since that heavy door had closed behind his captors and the key had turned in the lock. He. heard the key grating, not harshly, but softly . . . just the faintest snap of a well-tended latch. His heart beat expectantly. He raised himself on one'elbow, head turned to the door, ey r s throbbing. The door opened softly, noiselessly. The electric lamp that burned above his head cast a . shadow beside the door, but- it was not so deep that he could not make out the sinister shape of iLsnol Yorsada. CHAPTER VHI. Vorsada moved stealthy as a panther toward the bedside, his face an immobile mask, grey as the dawn that had begun to creep almost apologetically through the high barred window. Santley felt himself recoiling from the man, as from something inexpressibly evil. The eyes, always small, seemed smaller still —black slits in a high-boned parchment. His head was sunk forward on to his broad shoulders; his hands thrust deep into the pockets of the dinner jacket he still wore. For a moment he stood, an image of iniquity, gazing down at the man, now half lying, half sitting on the bed. " Feeling better, Santley?'' Vorsada's voice had a faintly sneering quality. \ " For God's sake tell me what has hapipened to her?" cried Santley, struggling into a sitting posture, with hands tightly clenched. " What have you.'done with her? Where is she?"

Vorsada appeared utterly unmoved by the man's emotion. He withdrew

his hands from his pockets slowly, as though he were performing some rite. " Calm yourself, Santley. I had always imagined you to be a man who could control himself under all circumstances. I see that I was mistaken. I see you have not even undressed." His eyes moved to the folded sleeping suit that lay on one of the chairs. That was foolish of you. No man can rest in a boiled shirt." Santley felt that he would like to fling himself on the man; to get his fingers about that flabby throat and squeeze and squeeze until the truth dripped from between his dry lips. " Where is she?" he persisted. " Can't you answer me?" Vorsada smiled. " Yes, I can answer you, Santley, but perhaps not quite in the way you want to hear. Listen to me. I had you brought up here so that you could reflect on to-night's happenings. I regret that your daughter saw fit to intrude her otherwise charming personality into a business matter that could not concern her. Women have a provocative habit of doing unexpected things, Santley. At least, that has been my experience, and I dare say it has been yours also. Sometimes their intrusions are welcome; they break the tension of an otherwise dramatic climax and make us feel foolish. I have known occasions when a woman, opening the door of a room, has projected among the occupants of that room a healing balm; a reminder that we are but human beings and not animals from a lower ethnological strata. Your daughter might have done that for us. It was a pity—a thousand pities—that she should have reacted in tho way she did. As a result, I have lost the services of the most competent private secretary I have ever had; a man who had at the tips of his fingers a comprehensive command of my business affairs second only to my own ability to understand their complex nature, and now, through the impetuosity of a woman, I am bereaved." Vorsada paused, narrowly watching the effect of his words on the man before him. If Santley had not, in addition to being a man of business, been also a sentimentalist, he might have penetrated the web of mockery that Vorsada was so skilfully weaving about himself. Instead of that he realised

that what Yorsada said was probably true, enough. The man Schultz was doubtless a capable aide; difficult to replace. But at the same time Santley swiftly saw that Maryon .was in an even graver danger than Vorsada. It was her life against Vorsada's loss. Robert Santley strove to calm his tortured mind. "I have no doubt that what you say is true, Vorsada, but you will understand mo when I say that I am more concerned about my daughter's welfare." Vorsada raised his eyebrows in surprise. "You are not then interested in her future, Santley P To know that she is well at this moment ... is that all that you ask?" The implication of the man's words smote Santley a blow on the face that momentarily knocked him off his balance. "You mean . . . P" he inquired. "I mean her future. You must remember, Santley, that your daughter has to-night killed a man. In this country there is 'only one penalty for murder. The law. as you know well, demands an eve xor an eye. Now do you understand?" With, a groan of despair Robert Santley rolled over on the bed and remained motionless, his face buried deep in his hands. For hours he had been dreading this moment. For hours he had been hoping against hope that the drama that had been enacted in that room below had not been as fatal as it had appeared. . . . that the man Schultz had not been mortally wounded by the bullet from Maryon's weapon. He realised how that all his hopes were gone. Swiiftly he pictured the girl standing her trial for murder, and that would mean the end of everything. And, what was more, he felt that he was equally to blame. If he had not allowed his self-control to desert him in that critical moment; if he had not moved across to strike Vorsada, Maryon would not now be in danger of the gallows. Robert Santley wanted to die ... yes, he wanted to die ... to die with her. He would tell them . . . tell them he was •to blame. Let them hang him by the neck . . . Maryon had not meant to kill . . . no, not that . . . never. . . .

"You make yourself quite plain, Vorsada," Santley spoke quietly, and with more than a hint of irrevocable resignation. "But there is something I cannot quite understand . . . your object in keeping me here. What difference can it make?" Vorsada sat down on the chair at a little distance from the bedside. For a moment he gazed thoughtfully at tho mentally stricken man. "I think you realise," he began, slowly, "that after what has happened here to-night you are a ruined man?" (To be continued daily)