SECOND CHANCE

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXXV, Issue 23083, 7 July 1938, Page 22

SECOND CHANCE

By HOLLOWAY HORN Author of " George," " Two Men and Mary," etc., etc.

CHAPTER VlH.—(Continued) "I had to look you up, John," she went on when Mrs. Gaddesden had left them. "Why?" he asked coldly. "For old times' sake. We're at tho local theatre." "I know. I saAv you." "We've never met since ..." "Since that day at the Old Bailey. I saw you in Court. I hear that I have to congratulate you. I'm afraid 1 haven't done so before." "What on?" "Your marriage." "Oh, that," she said, and laughed. Mrs. Gaddesden came in with the cup and saucer. "Thank you, Mrs. Gaddesden." said Ferguson. "There's nothing else you'll be wanting?"

"No. She's probably rather annoyed that you aro here, though. It wouldn't seem quite proper to her." "Oh, that," she said contemptuously. He glanced at his watch. "You'll appear at the second house, I suppose?" "I don't know. The houses are rotten here, anyway. It's the infernal pictures! The people aro spoon-fed. They can't stand an interval oven if it's only a few minutes. You mean to stay on here?" "I hope so." "Pretty dull, won't it be?" "I've got used to dullness," he said with a smile. "Poor boy!" she murmured. "I used to think of you!" "Soz you!"

"I wish you wouldn't adopt that stupid, cynical tone. I hate it!" "Sorry. I suppose I am cynical. But surely it's understandable?" "Not with me. Your smash did for me, too, remember." "Particularly with you," he insisted. "There aro genuine things in life, though. Genuine, loyal people. People worth while." "Will you believe mo when I say that I wish 1 had waited for you?" she asked quietly. "If you say so. It would bo rude not to, wouldn't it?" "I do say so. And it's true."

"No, thank you " "Ring if there is," the wise woman said and left the room, shutting tho door behind her. "You've a very comfortable place here. The last time I had tea with you was at your flat in Red Lion Square." "1 remember it " "Well, how am I looking?" she de-

manded. "Much the same." "You're looking younger." "Thank jou. Do you mind if I continue with my meal? Perhaps you'll have some of that cake?" "No, thanks. I'm dieting. But you go on. You don't bear me a grudge becauso I'm married?" "Not in the least." "You're not interested." "No. Why should 1 be?" She shrugged her beautiful shoulderß: "You used to say you were fond of - )» me. "Curious, isn't it?" he said with a

"It would have been excellent publicity. Can't you see the headlines: 'Actress meets criminal at prison gates and marries him I' " "I've told you I hate this cheap cynicism." "That wasn't cynicism, Lucia," he smiled. "It was irony. Still. I'm glad you came here to-night." "Why?" sho asked in obvious surprise.

"Because it showed me that the old life is dead. That it doesn't matter in the least." "You mean that you don't love me? I'd gathered that," she said quietly. "I do not. It's incredible to me that I ever did. You're as beautiful as ever, hut I seem to see more clearly. And beauty—superficial beauty, anyway—just doesn't matter. There are other things far nioro important." She thought over this a moment be-

smile. "That wasn't very gallant of you," she said, angrily. "Look here, Lucia, what is it you want?" Ferguson asked as he helped himself to another fillet of plaice. "I wanted a chat with you," she said quietly, with head slightly averted so that her profile was in evidence. "You know, you amuse me," he said. "What made you marry that nasty little rat-like husband of yours?" "I often wonder. You'd gone. You let me down and I was disillusioned and depressed. I thought he could helD me in my work—he was an agent at the time." "He's been many things in his time." "And still is," she said bitterly. "When this tour is over. I'm through with him." "That's your affair, isn't it?" She nodded. "You've changed." she said.

fore she said: "It was my husband who suggested that I should come here tonight." "Why?" Sho shrugged her shoulders: "I fancy he thought 1 could get the hiding place of the emeralds out of you." "Why do you tell me this?" he asked. "Because I've made a strange discovery to-night " "Oh?" he said doubtfully. "Yes. You won't believe it. You'll probably laugh. But I love you. It is funny, isn't it 9 " "It's certainly a strange statement." "You don't believe it?" "I don't quite see why you should lie to me. I can't see any object in it." "In the old days you were just like a dozen different men I knew. I thought that you were going to make money and that was all I wanted."

"Of course I have. A man cannot co through what I've been through without being changed. It makes him see things and people more clearly—far more clearly," he added. "Meaning me?" "If you wish to place that construction on what I said. I cannot prevent you." "But you were fond of me . . . once." "I thought so at the time. I see you're still wearine the ring I cave you. Remember how that infernal lawyer kept on about it?" She nodded: "I nearly screamed," she said. "Not you!" he smiled. "You were enjoying it!" "John!" she protested. "That's the beastliest thing I've ever had said to me." "Isn't it true?" he asked. "No!" "Then I did you an injustice." "You never wrote to me . . . afterwards." "One's literary activities are limited ♦ . . there," he said with a smile. "But you could have written." _ "There was nothing to say. You were sittipg in court with the man you married' shortly afterwards ant", his attitude toward you was, even at the time . . . proprietary." "He doesn't matter. I've only loved once in my life." "I know that. You were in love with yourself, Lucia." "I wouldn't have come here to-nieht if I had known that this would be your attitude," she 6aid angrily. "What did you expect my attitude to be?" "A reasonable one," she said quietly. "I know that judged by ordinary standards I'm a washout where you are concerned—that I didn't stick to you—but I've only got erne life and it all ''seemed too hopeless!" "I don't blame you." , "But you do! I can see that you do! And yet I loved you," she went pit more quietly. "I've always loved you." "You said .that very effectivelv. Lucia. But you didn't 'put it across.' as you say on the stage. "Ah, well!" she sighed. "I know. The smash didn't do me any good: you realise that?" "In what way?" "People thought that I was the cause, that you had wasted the money on me." "You know that I didn't." "But people thought that I was behindit. I was cold-shouldered. My contract at the Imperial terminated. Thev paid me, of course—they had to—but they wouldn't give me another job." "But you had another job in London. Someone here saw you in it."

"I gathered that." "But you're not the man you were. You're a different person." "To a great extent," he agreed. "To a very great extent," she said. "What a swine 1 was." she added with a sudden bitterness. "I've no hard feelings, Lucia. I didn't expect you to act other, than you did." "I should have stuck to you! If I'd loved you then as I do to-night, 1 should have." "This is all very embarrassing," ho said uneasily. "Yes. The tables are turned, John. In the old days you loved me, remember. Ah, well," she went on as she stood up, "I may as well be going. You're got your revenge, if you wanted it."

"I didn't. As far as the hiding place of the emeralds is concerned, I don't know anything abouf it." "He's got a bee in his bonnet that you do." "Well, I don't—l assure you." "Good-bye!" she said. "I hope that you have better luck. Don't think worse of me than you must." "We've both been perilously near the rocks, I'm afraid," he said. "You'll miss them," she said. "And I'm glad you've found loyalty in someone else. You always were loyal. Who is she?"

"No one in particular." "There is," she said quietly. "And I'm glad. It's funny that I should have come here to-night to try and blu/F you into telling me where the emeralds were and ended up by giving Sternberg away."

"It is," he agreed. "There will bo a first-class row when I get back."

"I'm sorry about that. But in any case you couldn't have succeeded, because 1 really don't know anything about them. If J did I should hand them over to the polico." She watched him quietly for a moment. "I shall remember you like you are now," she said. "Here in this room. Good-bye, my dear." She turned to the door and he followed her into the little hall. He opened the door for her and she passed out into the misty night without a word. From the open door he watched her as she hurried away until the bend of the road hid her from his sight, vuiotly ho closed tho door. In a way trio act was symbolic. / Mrs. Gaddesden came in to clear awav a few minutes later.

"I was understudy and appeared a few times only at the end of the run. No, your smash finished me as well." I thought it would at the time." "I'm sorry." "And it led me into the greatest mistake of my life —marrying Sternberg." "But you knew what vou were doing. You knew he was a wrong 'un." "But he'd pulled up. He was going straight at the time. And I thought he could help me." "In any case he's never been in prison," said Ferguson bitterly. "Well, that's that." he went on as he got up from his chair. "Mrs. Gaddesden looks after me wonderfully well." "If she's listening at the door—as she probably is—she'll be pleased." "I'm quite sure she isn't. By the wnv. ottouldn't you be on the stage now?" | "Yes. But I'm sick of it all. T told Teddy that I was coming to see you and that he conld play the part himsolf if he wanted to. Tho understudy'll be glad of .the chance anyway. And she's ({.lite good." "Life's a funny thing, isn't it?" ho said as he sat down by the fire. "Very funny!" she said quietlv. almost as if she were speaking to herself. "I'm working in this town, as Sternberg has probably told you." She nodded: "He's in a very uglv moor! about you." "Why?" Again she shrugged her shoulders: "T don't quite know. Something to do with >u emerald necklace." Ferguson smiled. "Apparently lie was behind the burglary at Murray's house that week-end. One of his varied activities.'' "He's through with that sort of thing now."

"So slices gone, 1 see," she said. "Yes." "She looked like an actress," she went, on with an almost inaudible sniff. "She is an actress," he said. "She's the leading lady this week at the Theatre Royal." "An old friend of yours, she said she was. "I've known her several years," he said non-committally. "It takes all sorts to make a world," she said, at which he smiled, but remained silent. * * * • * Lucia Desrnund's face was white beneath her careful make-up as she hurried through the dismal streets and she reached the theatre before the first house was out. She had some time to herself before her husband came in. "Well. Any luck?" "Not a bit," she said. "He wouldn't tell you?" "Of course, he wouldn't," she snapped, "I told him why I had come, if you must know." What d'you mean?" ho demanded in an ugly tone. "What T say. I told him you'd sent me to bluff the secret out of him." 'What did you do that for, you fool!" "Because 1 felt, like it. And because it was a particularly dirty trick, even for voii." What's bitten you? You were all right when you left here." 1 in sorry tor him. If ever a man in the world had a rough deal, he's the man." "Rubbish! He was a fool. And he's paid for it like fools always do." "Don't boast too soon. Knaves can come a mucker as well," she said. "You trying to make a row?" lie asked. "Xot particularly ."

"T think he'd better be. Has he given up drugs, too?" She looker] round startled. "She isn't listening, is she?"

"I believe he's tolrl you about those emeralds," he said, and a cunning look

(COPYRIGHT)

A moving human interest story of a man with a past, and a woman's devotion.

made the expression of his face even more rat-like. "Then believe it," she retorted. He crossed to her and grasped her wrist. "Did he?" lie snarled. "Let go! Yon brute!" she cried. "Did he tell you?" he insisted. "No! L told you he didn't. He doesn't know I" "He does . . . blast him!" he said as he turned away from her. "Ho made mo feel . . . oh . . . contemptible!" she cried. "What d'you moan?" "Mean, horrible! He's worth a hundred of you I" "This is a different story,'' he said, nnd once again that cunning look was in his eyes. "Clear out!" she said. "If you want me to go on at all to-night." "Course I want you to go on," he 6aid, in a different tone. "Anyway, I'm through with you," she retorted. "We've heard that tale before." he said with a gnn. "This time I mean it," she said, quietly. "At the end of the run we go different ways." "Look here; what's been happening to-night? You were okay when you went away from here," ho asked anxiously. "No, 1 wasn't. But I am now." "Something's happened to-night," he said, and his bead-like eyes were on : hers. "Yes. Something did," she said. "But J you wouldn't understand it if [ told ■ you. .So 1 shan't tell you." "You double-crossing me? Like you did him ?" "No. But you leave him alone or I will." There was an ugly look on his face. "There are two who can play that game," he said.

"Jf you don't leave him alone," she said calmly, "I'll go to the Yard and tell everything 1 know." "Who wants to touch him? I don't," he said. "And you'd better not!" She turned to the mirror in front of her and in silence he left her dressing room. But it was perhaps as well for her peace of mind that she could not see the look on his face as he went along the corridor to his own room. CHAPTER IX. RATS USE POISON Rats are difficult animals to cope with. Cornered, even a rat will show fight, but they like to work in the darkness; it is equally true of human rats. Teddy Wilson was in a corner. He was convinced that Ferguson had the secret of the emeralds tliat would put him in Easy Street, but he also felt that Ferguson and the secret were alike escaping him. He knew that it would be exceedingly unwise to attempt to approach Ferguson again in Mossford—Garrod had made that clear and he dare not risk an open break with the police. But rats are cunning animals. Since his wife had seen Ferguson her attitude to him had been uncomjiromising'y hostile, and for this he naturally blamed Ferguson. He thought out his plan carefully. In the neighbourhood of Trevowes' office and stores there are various establishments into which a man may slip for a "quick one" during the lunch hour, or even, particularly on Friday evenings, on the way home. One has not a word to say against these hostel- (

ries, nor against a man slipping into them for a quick one if he wishes to. But they provided Teddy Wilson with just the opportunity he wanted. He was adept at getting into conversation with people lie met in such places, and his job was easy; he wasn't selling anything but giving it away. "So you're at Trevowes'?" he said to two of the men he had met. "That's very interesting. Have another?" They would. "1 know a fellow who has joined the firm—a month or so ago. Goes under the name of Ferguson." Ears were pricked up. "Not a bad sort of chap," the rat went on. "And many a good man has seen the inside of a gaol besides him." "Do you mean he's been in prison?" they asked incredulously. "Three years. Embezzlement. His

name's Ferguson Hallett, as a matter of fact. Don't let it go any further, of course. Wouldn't do him any good and he's probably running straight now. Well, I must he getting on. Cheerio!" And with that he sauntered out to another house of refreshment and scattered further evil seed. "I wonder if it's true?" one of the men asked in almost an awed tone, when he had gone. "He seemed to know all about it. Come to speak of it, I remember Maynard talking about this chap Ferguson. He came down from London. A pal of William Trevowe's." "I did hear that William Trevowa sent him. Just fancy! A goal-bird! And in Trevowe's too! Hallett, he said his real name was."

Poison, subtle and deadly. Half-a-dozen seeds dropped almost at random and no one could hazard what the crop would be. "Heard a mieer yarn from a chap I met in the Three Pigeons," someone would say that evening where two or three were gathered together. "About that chap Ferguson in the Sales Department. He always seemed a queer sort of bird to me." And so on. With many "Would you believe its," and just as many "Better not say anything about its," the news spread in a widening circle, and, naturally, did not lose in the telling. But on the Sunday Ferguson was mercifully unconscious of the subterranean influences at work. He walked through the wood to the Mill and beyond the church at the end of the valley to the main road. Half a mile along this was a field path which led to another small village and thence, completing a wide detour, he could return to Mossford.

It was a lovely walk, and he reached number five pleasantly tired. Mrs Gaddesdcn went to the chapel of her choice in the evening and Ferguson was alone in the silent house. He had an excellent hook, but the printed page, that evening, failed to hold bun His thoughts wandered, although it was a good book. Lucia Desmund. Had she been serious as she talked to him in that room? He doubted it, knowing her. She wasn't consciously lying, but she Avas one of those people who can adopt a pose, give it every semblance of reality. She probably believed in it herself for the time being —but it remained a pose. In any case she belonged to the past —to the past that, was dead. He looked round the little room. There wore a hundred personal things which made it bis owfi—bis home. Again be had the feeling that it was an anchorage—that, outside, the sea was rough, perhaps dangerously rough. There were the hooks he was gradually gathering, his pipes, a tobacco jar which Mrs. Gaddesdcn had given to him. A humble place, but he was grateful that it was n home. A smile touched his lips for n moment as he remembered the tumultous ambitions of other days. All he asked of life, now, was to he allowed to live in peace. That of course, is what the great majority of humanity really want, whatever their religion or race. (To be continued daily.)