BIRDS OF PREY

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXXIV, Issue 22701, 13 April 1937, Page 15

BIRDS OF PREY

CHAPTER X.—(Continued) Aware that Dalto'n was still watching her, Joyce allowed no sign of lier surprise to show in her face, and was satisfied that Dalton himself had no idea that he had been spied on. Dalsa,w the interview was over. " You've got me guessing, Jovce," he said, " but I don't mind telling you I m not satisfied. I believe I'll go and get a drink and think it over.'' A sudden idea flashed through Joyce Is brain. Dalton was bound to meet Dench sooner or later, and it seemed to her that the meeting had best take place under her own eyes. She would then be able to see if the " butler " could pass muster. She had not really any doubts on the subject. " \ou can have one here, if you like," pbe said, and put her finger 011 the bell. " We have a new butler," she added, ir. reply to Daltou's look of surprise. Dench might fcimost have been waiting outside the door, so quickly did lie appear. " You rang, ma'am," he said, and Joyce answered, " Yes, Jenkins. Bring Mr. Dalton some whisky. The decanter is in the cellaret in the dining room." Dench, the perfect butler, vanished as silently as he had come, but when Joyce looked at Dalton she was startled at the expression 011 his face. CHAPTER XI. DENCH VERSUS DAT/TON The puzzled expression which had been on Dalton's face ever since Joyce had bluffed him so completely by telephoning to the prison had vanished, and his pale, prominent eyes were alight with a queer glow as lie stared at Jovce.

"That man," lie exclaimed. "Who is he?" Then, >all of a sudden, he laughed, and Joyce did not like that laugh at all. " I've goti it," ho chuckled. "By gosh, it's all clear! That's the convict, and you've put him in the butler's clothes." He shook his big head. " Say, Joyce, that Mas a mighty fine tale you spun about knocking a lag down on the Taviton Boad, and it was a great bluff sending the warders after him. You've bluffed them, but you can't bluff your Uncle Grant." A dreadful dismay came over Joyce, a feeling as if her whole world was tumbling about her ears. It seemed that in some way, though how she could not imagine, Grant had recognised Dench as one of the escaped men. Even yet she did not quail, and Dalton himself felt a touch of admiration for the dauntless front she still showed. "Joyce," he went on more mildly, " I hand it to you. You nearly put it over me, and it wasn't your fault you failed. But you have failed, and you might just as well own up. You've run yourself into real bad trouble, and I'm the only one who can help you out. You've got to square this with me."

Joyce felt like a trapped bird, with the hand of its captor closing on it. She had not the faintest idea what to say or do. Then, in the nick of time to rescue her from her hopeless position, the door opened, and in came Dench carrying a silver tray, on which were the decanter, a syphon and glasses. Moving with that curiously silent tread which is the hallmark of the perfect servant, Dench lay the tray on the table. I'e must have sensed the air of tension in the room and seen the dangerous gleam in Dalton's eyes, which were fixed upon him, yet he did not show the faintest sign of nervousness. And, although Joyce was convinced that he was doomed to be dragged back to prison, and that she herself would probably share his fate, his • mere presence gave her a sense of comfort. Dalton broke the silence. "Got a right nice job after your night out, eh, Mr. Jenkins?"

Joyce's" face was as white as paper, Instead of replying, Dench merely fixed his eyes upon Dalton and gazed at him calmly for a few seconds. Then, still without speaking, and with the same quiet deliberation, he walked to the door, opened it and held it open, at the same time glancing at Joyce. There was no mistaking his intention, and in response to his unspoken wish Joyce left the room. Dench closed the door behind her and went back to the table.- " Your drink, sir," he said. " Shall I pour it out?"

Dalton's experience of life had been a pretty wide one and there were few aspects of its shady side with which he was not acquainted, but Dench's coolness was so complete that it fairly staggered him, and a horrid suspicion began to dawn in his mind that, after all, he might be mistaken. Although everything fitteqf perfectly into the theory he had formed as to this man being one of the two escaped prisoners, yet he had no definite proof that such was the case. He had never seen either of the escaped men, and there was no doubt about Joyce having actually gone to Taviton to fetch her new butler. Could this, perhaps, be the real Jenkins, and was the convict hidden somewhere else?

While these'thoughts flashed through his mind, his eyes were on the other, swiftly appraising him. In these days a prisoner's hair is not cropped, as formerly, so the new butler's .wellbrushed head did nothing -to give him away. His face, it is true, was brown, but no more so than that of any heafthy man who is fond of getting out of doors asj. much as possible. His clothes were impeccable and lie was wearing ordinary indoor shoes. But Grant Dalton's keen e.ws fixed rapidly on the one feature which betrayed the other—his hands. They were clean. Dench had had plenty of time to see to that, and he had soaked them in hot water and cut and cleaned his nails.

Even so, they were not the hands of a butler, of a man who does indoor work. The skin on the knuckles was burnt dark with sun and wind, and the hands were broadened and hardened levond any concealment by the use of pick and shovel. Also, the nail of one finger was still blackened from some recent injury. , Dalton felt convinced. He grinned. " You're one big bluffer, Mr. Jenkins, but yon can't put it over me."

Dench's oalm remained unbroken. Ho lifted his eyes to JDalton's face and regarded him with affixed, unwinking stare. " Why should I put anything over you?" he asked. Grant Balton grew angry. " Quit your stalling," lie said harshly. " First Mrs. Nisbet, then you. I won't stand for it. J know who you arc and just one word out of my mouth and back you go into prison " "But you won't say that word?" the cnlm tone rather than the words themselves added fuel to Grant's wrath. " And why won't I say it?" he demanded. " Because yo'u's go, too—" Bench paused an impressive moment, then repeated his sentence. " Because you'd go, too—Hawk Halstead!" CHAPTER XII. 5 PHILIP MEETS HIS MASTER If Dench had driven his powerful fist into Grant Dalton's stomach, the effect could hardly have been more complete. The tall, stout frame of the man seemed- to collapse, his jaw sagged and he took a step backwards dropping heavily into the nearest chair.

(coprniGiiT)

By JOHN GOODWIN Author of " Dead Men's Shoes," " Without Mercy," etc., etc.

STORY OF INTRIGUE, ROMANCE AND CURIOUS SITUATIONS

Dench did not move, but stood looking steadily at iiis crushed opponent. The only sign of his triumph was a faint sardonic twist of his firm lips. -By degrees Grant revived a little and raised his head. " Who are you?" lie asked in a hoarse whisper. The same dry smile hovered on JDench's lips. " i thought you knew," lie replied. Dalton tried another line. " Why do you call me 'Halstead'?" he demanded. " My name's Grant Dalton."

" You may be Grant Dalton for what 1 know. ' Halstead' is the name you worked under when you were running that faro joint up at Gold City in the West—''

" What —what were you doing there ?" Dalton asked.

" Watching you for one thing," Dench answered, drily, A trace of colour returned to Dalton's pallid cheeks. " Oh, you were one of those dirty narks set 011 by the police," ho said, harshly. , Dench showed 110 sign of confusion. " Maybe I was, maybe I wasn't. Anyway, I was there the time you skinned Softy Wilson." Dalton stiffened. "What right have you got to say I skinned him? He gambled and he lost. That's all there was to it." "All," repeated Dench, slowly. "Then if that's so, how came it that he was picked up dead in the snow that night in the alleyway outside your place?" " Are you suggesting that I killed him?" asked Dalton indignantly. A look of scorn crossed Dench's face. "I don't believe you've got the guts to kill anyone, but it was your hired gunman, Black Alec, who shot the poor fool, to stop his squealing." " You've got 110 proof," said Dalton, defiant! v.

" I could get plenty if I wanted to. But there's more than that, Halstead. Supposing 1 mentioned cell thirtyseven in the Central Prison, Montreal ?" For a second time in their brief interview Dalton curled up. He wilted and lay back in his chair glaring at Dench. Then his eyes fell on the decanter, and stretching out a shaking hand he seized it and tipping out nearly half a tumbler full, drank it, neat. Dench watched him cynically. "Lucky for you, this ain't a dry country," he observed, but Dalton did not answer.

Whatever that reference to the Central Prison meant, it was'evidently enough to make Grant realise that this man had the whip hand. All his plans to hold Joyce were knocked endways, and so great was the shock that his usually nimble brain seemed for the moment to be paralysed. He could not begin to think of any way in which to deal with this new menace.

The sound of the door opening made Dench wheel swiftly. The. newcomer was Philip Dalton who closed the door behind him and look suspiciously first at Dench and then at his father. "Where's Joyce?" he asked. "I thought you were talking to her."

"He was," said Dench, softly. Philip glared at Dench. "Who are you?" he demanded roughly. " The new butler," replied Dench. " The new butler," repeated Philip, frowning. "Then don't you know enough to say 'Sir' when you speak to a gentleman?"

" Yes," said Dench, with a ghost of a smile playing on his firm lips. "I make a point of that when I am speaking to a—gentleman." Compared with his father, Philip was a fool, yet not so much a fool as to fail to sense something unusual in the atmosphere. He could see that his father was not himself, and it was quite plain that this new butler had a personality which butlers do not usually possess. He was furiously angry, but at the same time distinctly uneasy. "Who is this fellow?" he demanded of his father.

The elder Dalton hesitated, and it was Dcyich again who answered. "I've told you. I'm the new butler." " I don't believe you're anything of the sort," retorted Philip. "Then who do you think I am?" asked Dench, and his smile drove Philip nearly macl. " You're an insolent brute, whoever you are!" he raged. "And if you don't get out of the room I'll kick you out." Dench did not move. He was not nearly so tall as the younger Dalton, but he had an unpleasantly solid appearance which made Philip realise that he was not going to be shifted easily. Yet Philip could not well back down, and he took a hasty step towards Dench. But his father who, all this time, had been sitting dumbly in his chair, knew that a scrap was the last thing that must happen, and intervened. "Leave him alone, Philip," he ordered, and Philip pulled up short, staring at his father. "What does this mean?" he demanded in a voice that was hoarse with passion. "Why do you take his part? Who is the fellow?" "I don't know who ho is," said Grant, heavily, "except that he's one of the lags who did a bunk from prison."

Sheer amazement almost robbed Philip of the power of speech. "A lag," lie got out at last. "You mean this is the man whose clothes I found in the garage?" He paused, then light broke on him. "The 0110 Joyce has brought home." His rage turned to joy. "Then we've got her all ends up!" The silence that followed Philip's remark was disconcerting; he looked at his father and got no comfort from him, then turned his puzzled eyes on Dench. "1 might have known you weren't a butler," ho said scornfully. "What's your name?" ■»,„ "Jenkins will do as well as another," returned Dench, carelessly. Philip's anger boiled up again. "1 don't want any more of your lip. You'd better remember that a word from me and back you go to prison." Dench smiled inwardly. It was the second time ho had heard this threat. "But it's a word you won't utter," replied Dench. "You flatter yourself," sneered Philip. "I don't. If you doubt me, ask your father!"

Philip was the sort who cannot stand being puzzled or mystified, and his voice was pregnant with rage as he demanded of his father the meaning of it all. "it looks as if you were scared of him," he added with a sneer. "1 am," said the elder man, grimly. "I've good reasons to be. He was at Gold City five years ago. He knows my name—and yours."

Philip went deathly white and staggered slightly. He was very badly frightened. In a man of his typo fear added to rage makes him dangerous. All of a sudden his hand flew to his hip. Dench was watching him as a cat watches a mouse, and was on him before his fingers could close on the butt of his pistol. In Dench's iron grip, Philip was perfectly helpless, and before he knew it, was disarmed, shaken till his teeth rattled, and flung down into the nearest chair with a force that jarred every bone in his body. Dencli stood oyer Philip. "Don't you ever try any game like that again, Philip Halstead," he said, and the glint in his greenish eyes was deadly, "for next time you'll be a hospital job." Philip glared up at the other, but did not try to move. He had never had such a handling in all his life, and it had taught him that Dench was his master. Grant Dalton had risen to his feet and for a moment looked as if ho would come to his son's aid, but the pistol in Dench's hand made him think twice. (To be continued daily)