The Man She Never Married

New Zealand Times, Volume LI, Issue 11737, 26 January 1924, Page 8

The Man She Never Married

By

Coralie Stanton and Heath Hosken

Author* of “ Throe Men Who Came Back,” ■' Sword and Plough,” ” The Beaten Track," Ac , Ac.

[COPYRIGHT.]

CHAPTER XV. ' “The telegram,’’ said Mr Velvet, after pondering deeply, “is probably a forgery like the others.’’ “I don’t agree,” retorted Tony very firmly. “It is just the sort of thing he would send me. and it is signed by an intimate pseudonym which he and l have used ever since we were at apreparatory school iogethei.” ‘‘Quite so. Rut weie there no other persons who knew that you railed Mi Vicars ‘Hengist.’ ” “I suppose a few people/ - not many, unc they would only have known it*, by remembering both of us SO years ago. It is a silly little whim of ours, a survival of our childhood, which we have kept up between ourselves.’’ “Humph 1 Mr Brian Stanford wouldn’t know?’’ “Certainly not.” “Ah. And what about Miss Champrieys?” “Possibly she may have heard of it —indeed, I believe she has. The first time we met—” “Ah, so it is not by any means in the nature of a secret code or anything of that sort?” “Oh, dear no. But why are you so disposed to discount the genuineness of the telegram ?” “My dear Mr Rawson,” eaid Mr Velvet, “it has always been my habit of mind to discount everything until i prove its validity. Now, I am not going to dismiss this telegram from our calculations. Ear from it; but 1 am certainly not disposed to jump un questioningly at the assumption that it has been sent by your friend. We must first of all make seme inquiries at Etaples. lam inclined to run over there myself at once. I place tha. amount of importance to it. At the same time. —” he shrugged his broad lumping thoiilders—“l am not very sanguine.” “You are the wettest of wet blankets,” said Tony disconsolately. “Better in my business to be a wet blanket, Mr Rawson, than a jumping Chinese cracker. I take it you don’t want us to do as the telegram sug gests-—stop all action, withdraw the offer of the £IO,OOO reward, cease all further investigation and let things solve themselves—eh ?” “Personally,” said Tony, “knowing Vicars as well as I doj 1 should feed inclined to do to. What about telling Scotland Yard?” “I’ll tell you when I’ve been to Etaples. I’ll get on to Croydon on the ’phone and see if I can’t get an air passage to Boulogne. It will save a lot of time. I could get there and back in three or four hours. That’s it,” he exclaimed, with an air of one having solved a problem, “I’ll ily there.

“I’ll come, too, if you don’t mind.” “I think that would be inadvisable,” said Mr Velvet. ‘•‘You hart better leave this entirely to me. It there is,..any likelihood of coming across anyone in connection with Vicars in Etaples, it is just as well that you aie not there, because the chances are you would be recognised. Whereas I mav very well pass unnoticed. , I shall make a point of doing so, as a matter of fact.” Mr Velvet smiled enigmatically. Within half an Jioui; Mr Velvet was being borne swiftly in a .taxi-cab to Croydon, and bygone o’clock he was seated in a steady travelling giant aeroplane well on hisi .way to Prance. It was not until he was passing; over Lympne with the silver Straits of Dover lying beneath and ahead of him, and the white cliffs of Prance seemingly but a mile away, that he opened the noon edition of an evening newspaper he had purchased in Eon don. If the truth must be told Mr Velvet was rather interested in a certain tliree-year-old called Clymenus IT., which was running at Goodwood that same afternoon. Mr Velvet stood to win quite a nice little sum if Clymenus the Second did what was e'xpected of him at three o’clock. But Mr Velvet forgot all about Clymenus and his close rival Soviet who was starting favourite with odds on when ho saw in the stop press; SUDDEN DEATH OF RT. EON. BRIAN STANFORD. IN WEST-END NURSING HOME. “So,” said Velvet to himself and the blue empyrean, “so he’s cheated the gallows after all.” But, nevertheless, Mr Velvet wais poignantly conscious of a feeling of disappointment, a sense of having been thwarted, of having been robb|d of a -prize when it was just within his 'grasp. Also, he experienced a sense of having been badly treated. Why had he not heard this news an hour ago? What were his myrmidons doing to have left him in the dark so long? The last report he had received concerning Mr Brian Stanford was dated about seven o’clock yesterday evening, when that gentleman was sup posed to be at the Carlton Club m greatly improved health and spirits, and on the point of Igiving a small dinner farty to some of his former colleagues. t was reported that ho meditated going abroad for a" few weeks. And now he was dead and put of the game for ever. It was in Mr Velvets opinion, a very had bit of luck. His trip to Etaplee suddenly became a very dull and uninteresting affair. Mr Velvet landed on terra firms in a depressed state of mind, which prevailed as he motored from Boulogne to’ Etaples, at which quaint old fishing port he arrived within two hours of leaving London. It did not take long to find out what he had come for. The little Post Office soon discovered the original telegraph form It was written in -wiolet ink in script and not in cursive baud, and it cortainly looked as if it had been written by an Englishman pr Englishwoman. The space provided for the name and address of the sender, not necessarily to be telegraphed, was blank-. but an intelligent girl at the Poet Office, who took and dispatched the message, was able to supply some iTivaluable information. She remembered the occasion of tlio handing in of the wire, and was able to describe the sender. “A lady it was,” she said in French, with which Mr Velvet was thoroughly acquainted. “An English lady of about 30 or younger perhaps, tall and dark and handsome.” Mademoiselle had seen the lady on two or three occasions during the summer. She occasionally called in to obtain postage stamps. She had not, to her knowledge, ever sent a telegram before. “Does she live here?” asked Velvet, who was naturally struck by the similarity of the woman as described by Mademoiselle and the woman who dispatched the bogus telegrams from Easton ou the morning of what was to

have been the wedding day of Jack Vicars and Dolly Champneys. “I do not think so; but I do not know,” answered Mademoiselle. “She may he a painter—there are many artists here in the environs; hut she did not have the appearance of an artist. She looked more like a wealthy tourist from Le Touquet, the fashionable resort so popular with the English, hut a couple of miles or so away, or from Paris Plage. Also,” continued mademoiselle, as if to effectually dismiss the idea that the tall, dark lady was an artist, “she always has come in an automobile —a large, closed automobile limousine, very chic, very expensive.” “Ah!” Mr Velvet drew in a deep breath. This was getting on. “What make was the car, mademoiselle?” Bub mademoiselle shrugged her shoulders and 6liook her head. “I cannot say, m’sieu. i do not know the different makes. I think it was an English car. It was very big, and it was painted all very dark green,’*' she added a few details and answered a few questions. “Sounds like a Daimler,” said Velvet. “We are getting on famously. Now', tell me, was anyone with madame p” “Not when she sent jthe telegram, m’sieu. That is, no one came into the office with her. I did not, of course, look inside the automobile. But I do not think anyone was inside.” “There was a chauffeur?” “Certainly, a chauffeur.” “What was he like?” “I forget. You 6ee, I did not expect to answer these interrogations. As far as I can remember, he was a young map with a light dust-coat and a peaked hat—he was a professional chauffeur all right. But, as I was saying, m'sien, the lady came here several times.” “Always in the car?” “Always; but net always alone. The first time I remember-—it was more than a month ago—oh, yes, quite more lb an a month age-—the lady she came, and was accompanied by two gentlemen—English gentlemen, one very tall about forty; the other much older, if my memory serves me —a little, very old man.”, “Can you describe them?” Velvet asked eagerly; but mademoiselle shrugged her dainty shoulders again. Alas! m’sieu,. I £m afraid I am no good at rememboring details.” “I think you are very good indeed,” gallantly returned Mr Velvet. “You are giving me most valuable help, believe me. Now, try and think? You are sure they were English ?” ‘They spoke English, I remember; but I do not understand English, so I cannot tell what they spoke about. All I know is that it was English. I'only speak French; but I can distinguish Lrerman and Russian and Italian—l kn °w a little Italian—and English.” Quite bo. tell me, mademoisselle. was it only on one occasion that these English gentlemen acoompanied madame in the big dark-green motorcar ? ’

The young woman frowned in an effort r° reni ember and pursed her pretty red Ups. “I am not quite sure,” she said. ‘ I think it was only onoe; but .madame always came in the green automobile limousine. Ido remember that. I always saw her out of the little window here that looks on to the quay. But attend one moment.” A sudden idea appeared to strike her. “It may be that Marie Lesourd would have noticed. I will inquire. I think—l am not sure, it was so long ago—l think Marie said she knew one of the gentlemen. One moment, m’sieu. Madem qiselle Leeourd is my colleague here in the post office. She is here now. I will inquire.” And without another word she darted away to the back of the little office, and disappeared through a door at the opposite end of the room. Velvet was registering facts on his raceptivo memory. Tallj dark, handsome. woman; dark greeD Daimler limousine; chauffeur with light dust coat and peaked cap; tyro Englishmen —one tall ancLmiddle-aged, one small and old, apparWtly living in the neighbourhood. Well-to-do. Telegram in printed writing and violet ink. Obviously written elsewhere than the post office with a J-tvpe of pen. At the post office the ink was muddy brown black and the pens fine and crossnibbed.

Come to think about it, there wa3 quite a lot to go on with. He wondered if _ the Englishwoman wore a wedding ring. He must arak mademoiselle when she returned. The woman who handed in the typewritten telegrams at Euston had worn a wedding rin'g. A detail, hut it might help. Then mademoiselle returned with another girl, an older and more sedate young person, very suspicious and secretive, and very reluctant to enter into the conversation with the enthusiasm qf her companion. Marie Lesourd was twenty-two.

Bilt Mr Velvet explained himself, and he had a very taking way with the ladies. Also, it must he remembered, he was accompanied by ah important French police official from Boulogne, ae well as the chief of police of Etaples. Under th.e combined stress of these formidable official gentlemen Mademoiselle Marie Lesourd at last grew sufficiently communicative to vouchsafe the fact that she had recognised in the elder of the two gentlemen who had accompanied the English lady on tho occasion of about a month ago as a Monsieur Dearth. He was an Englishman, and had a chalet which he oocupied erratically in the summer season at Hardelot, a little picturesque and historic village lying between Etaples and Boulogne. The year before the Great War, Mademoiselle Marie Lesourd had been in service with Mr Dearth, who was a bachelor, and was reputed to be a great gambler. Marie’s family came from Hardelot. Velvet rejoiced. This was most excellent.- He was hot on the scent. He closely questioned and cross-examined the reticent Marie, who, from the first, appeared to have constituted herself a defender of this Mr Dearth, whom she described, after much persuasion, as a very pleasant gentleman, a bachelor, and she thought, though she was not sure, connected with tho wine trade. He had ar. office in Bordeaux, she believed. It was rumoured that he had vineyards in the Gironde. Ho was often in Paris and in London. He lived a gay lire, though blie admitted that ho was not rich. On the contrary, he seemed always to be very hard up. Ho lived what she described ns a Botjjqnian life. Since 1914 Mario had not set eyes on him or heard of him 1 until the occasion when he called at -

the Etaples Post Office with the goodlooking Englishwoman and the other mail. Marie could not remember the name of M. Dearth’s villa, but she was able to describe its situation pretty accurately, and, as she said, anyone at Hardelot Plage or Condette or Pont do Briquee would know it. She said that she had no idea until she had seen him a little over a month ago chat M. Dearth was living in the neighbourhood. She thought he had gone away shortly after war had broken out in August, 1914, when she, Marie, had been sent to her grandmother in Mon-trcuil-sur-Mer. It was during the waitlist she had entered the postal service. She described M. Dearth as being little changed in appearance since 1914. A man of perhaps <lO, smart, tall, burly, fair, with a clofie-clippcd fair moustache and heard, pale blue eyes, with nothing remarkable to distinguish him from anybody else, save perhaps that he was jovial and full of fun and always laughing. She added entirely giatuitously in her picturesque French : “He was always a most charming gentleman. Everyone loved him. He was so good ami kind to everyone. lam sure lie could not bo guilty of anything wrong or dishonourable. I could swear by all the Saints that lie could not he a bad man.” “No one, ;nv deal- lady, has ever suggested anything of the sort,” Mr Velvet protested in the vernacular. “Oh, but I know the police,” said Mario, dubiously. “They never make inquiries about a man unless they intend to do him harm. But 1 really do assure vou. m’sieu, that this M’siou. Dearth is a very nice gentleman, even for an Englishman.” (.To be continued).