Three Men who Came Back

New Zealand Times, Volume LI, Issue 11855, 14 June 1924, Page 13

Three Men who Came Back

(PUBLISHED BY SPEC lAL ARRANGEMENT.) FASCINATING STORY OF LOVE AND ADVENTURE

By

Coralie Stanton and Heath Hosken

Authors of “Sword and Plough," " The Beaten .Track, ’ “ A Girl’s Loyalty," Etc., Etc. COPYKIGHT.

CHAPTER. VII. —Continued. The Squire regarded liis daughter thoughtfully for a few seconds. He waa genuinely puzzled. It seemed to him that she was making a great fuss over a very small matter. She had always been something of an enigma to him. It .was a million pities that she had never had a mother to loox after her and teach her the realities and responsibilities of life.” “To my knowledge,” he said at last and commenced to fill his pipe, ‘‘to my knowledge you have been singularly heart-whole." Site hurst out laughing; but it was bitter, mirthless laughter. Ho ignored her outburst as he went on seutentiouslv: “I never remember you ever having a love affair, except that al>surd business years ago”—lie grew suddenly very grave and frowned. ‘‘Don’t tell me that that affair has been revived.” “I saw Mr Benet on Wednesday, as you know, if that is the affair to which you refer. And—now please eon’t interrupt. , daddy—l told him 'that I was going to marry Norton, and I have bidden him good-bye. It is extremely unlikely that we shall ever see each other again.” “And I should hope so, too. Good heavens, Muriel, have you no pride, no sense of proportion? Wliat'could ever have nosse&sed you, I can’t understand. * A young hobbledehoy ol a market gardener, daring to presume to make love to my daughter!” The Squire grew red in the face and nis rising indignation rendered him speechless. “Don’t be absurd, father,” said Muriel gently. “I won’t have yon say a word against Mr Benet. He is not a hobbledehoy market gardener as you call him, and if he were ft wouldn’t make an atom of difference in my feeling towards him. He’s as well born as I am, if it comes to that; and, if lie were not, it wouldn’t make any difference to me. And he isn’t penniless by any means. He’s very rich, as a matter of fact, and could buy you and all of U 9 out of house and home if it came to that. He 1?s made a big fortune out of timber; •: ut that makes no difference to me. U he were as poor as a. church mouse I would marry him if I could.” “Muriel!” gasped the Squire. “Marry him?” “Yes,” she said with a quains solemnity. He has asked me to marry him and I have refused him. lie knows ray position. He knows quite well, though I have never told him, why I am marrying Norton and, he tried to buy me, too. He bid for me as he might at an auction. He su d he could do all that Norton could do and more. But, as I have told you, I have stuck to my bargain. It :s just- as well that you should know this. One day perhaps you will nave the opportunity of apologising to Mr Benet and of properly thanking me for what I am doing.” The Squire rose and walked up and down, his head thrust forward. He was the type of the fine, old, county gentleman. Ho had strongly rooted, old-fashioned theories of life and manners ; he had a rigid code of honour and he hated anything mean or underhand ; yet, here he was making mmself a willing party to the meanest and mo6t underhand and most dishen-' ourable transaction - it were possible for man to conceive.

“Muriel,” he said at last, halting in front of her. “I have a confession to make. I don’t think you know all that you should know, my dear.”

She looked up surprised, even a 111 tie startled. She never rememcercd to have seen her father look quite like ho did now, never remembered to have heard him speak in such a strained and unnatural voice.

“Daddy,” she exclaimed, “what do you mean ? 1 know all there is to know. We are faced with ruin and bankruptcy. Hasted must be sold—everything must go—the dear old house, the pictures, the horses, the dogs—we, you and I, must go and hide ourselves abroad. It would kill you, I know, daddy. Then, 10, there descends upon us a benevolent Croesus and saves us from our dreadful fate. We owe him hundreds of thousands which we can never pay him. Then the amiable Croesus happens to cast a favourable eye upon the lovely daugli ter of the house of Wareham. He makes a proposal to her father, and says, ‘On the day your daughter becomes my wife, you owe me nothing. I wipe the slate clean. And, more over, I settle a nice, fat fortune upon her to enable the old place to go on as before.’ ” “(Don’t, don’t, my dear," groaned the Squire. “I know it all. Don’t rub it in.” “Well, the upshot of it all is that we closed with th& offer. And that’s that.” She shrugged her shoulders carelessly. “What’s the good of discussing it? This day next week you’ll be a tree man.” “And you?” “I shall bo tho fortunate wife of Mr Norton Lacey. I call it dirt cheap at the price, if you ask me. I also know what I call myself; but that’s neither here nor there/ I feel a bit of a cad to talk of Norton like this, because he is really so good.’’ “He is a good man,” her father hastened to assure her. “Believe ms, Babs, he has acted all along with perfect good faith. He has stood by his word, and I am sure he will stick by his word to the end.” Muriel did a very unusual thing before dinner that evening. Unaware of the fact that George Benet had left Hasted and gone up to London, sh 9 wrote him a short note and sent it by a servant to the Black Bull Inn. “My Dear G,” she wrote. “I want to see you most particularly Will you be in the church lane about noon to-morrow.—Yourc, “M.” The servant left, the note at the Black Bqll, where no one took tho trouble to inform him that Mr Benet was not there. Mr Benet was expected back at any time. His room was kept for him, and several letters had arrived by post and were stuck in tho letterrack under his initial awaiting his return. Miss Ware'cam’s note was in due course placed with these other missives. CHAPTER VIII. “Mr Benet is out at the moment, sir,” said the smooth-faced manservant. - “He will bo in very shortly Ho is expecting you, sir; hut I believe lie thought that the appointment was for four o’clock.” 1 ■ So it was,” said Mr Norton Lacey,

looking at his large gold watch, ' “1 mu early.” / 1 “Will you please come in, sir.” Lacey followed the servant through the spacious hall into Benet’s pleasant study, the three windows of which looked on to St. James’s street, a most attractive Adams room, with a moulded ceiling and a fine marble fireplace by Robert Adams from a Flaxman design. It was a typical man’s room. Tliero ware well-lilled mahogany bookcases, a large mahogany knee hole Writing table, several deep-seated Morocco leather arm-chairs, and a huge settee. Indeed, but for the pictures and t-liG gieam of leather and gold in the bookcases, the room had tho air of a well-ordered office. The pictures at once arrested Lacey's attention. He examined them as a connoisseur. There were several excellent examples of Venetian scenes by Antonio Canale—one in particular struck liacey as an excellent piece of work. It was a picture of the Scuola di San Roceo. Over the’marble mantlepieoe hung a fine portrait of a soldier by or in the style of Raeburn. He regarded the portrait admiringly. It was really a tine piece of work—a Raeburn, undoubtocjly. Lost in admiration of the picture he did not hear the door open nor the footsteps of Mr Denton approach him on the great Persian carpet which oovered nearly the whole floor of the room. It was not until the tall, lean, and sandy Scot announced his presence by a little apologetic cough that Lacey' realised he waa not alone. He swung round suddenly. “Mr Benet,” said Denton, with | the slightest indication of a bow, “has | just telephoned to say that he will he a few minutes late. He asked me to make his apologies.” ‘Oh, that’s all right,” said Lacey. “Thanks vory much." “Would you like some tea?” asked Denton. “Or a whisky and soda?” He was looking intently at Norton; Lacey. “No, thanks. 1 won’t smoke just now.” “I’ll amuse myself here until Mr Benet comes. 1 always err on the side of over-puilctiiality.” “A very good fault,” said Denton, walking over to the great mahogany sideboard and returning with a huge silver cigar box. “Perhaps you’d like a cigar, Mr Lacey?” “No thanks. I won’t smoke just now.” His voice and manner implied that he had no particular interest in Mr Denton. He gave the impression that he had dismissed Mr Denton. He turned liis attention to the portrait over the Adams mantelpiece. “A very fine picture that,” remarked Denton perseveringly. “Some say it’s a Beechy, but Mr Benet says it 19 a Raeburn.”

“A Raeburn undoubtedly,” said Lacey. “It’s Mr Benet’s great grandfather, I believe,” Denton volunteered. “Indeed.” “You are'interested in pictures perhaps,” Mr Denton would not he shaken off. His pale blue eyes never left their keen contemplation of Mr Norton Lacey's face. “Very,’’ snapped Lacey. “A hobby cf mine.”

“Mr Benet has some very fine pictures,” said Denton. “So I see. By the way,” Lacey turned about sharply, “who are you?” “I am Mr Benet’s confidential secretary—Denton is my name, Sir Lacey.” “Well, Mr Denton, if you won't think me very rude, I should esteem it a favour if you wouldn’t trouble lo entertain me I can moke myself quite at homo until Mr Benet comes.”

It was a deliberate snub. Denton flushed hotly and was on the point of saying most unsecretarial words, but his training and restraint came to his aid. “Certainly, Mr Lacey,” he said, “please forgive me.” He turned and walked out of tho room without another word. In the hall he met Benet divesting himself of hat and dust coat, Adcock, the manservant, in attendance. Benet and Denton exchanged meaning glances. Adcock said in hio very best man. nor: “Mr Lacey is here, sir. He in the study. He has been waiting about 10 minutes, sir.” “I’ve seen him and talked to him, ’ said Denton when Adcock has disappeared. “Well?” “The light’s not so very good,” said Denton cautiously. ‘‘lt’s a cloudy day, and he’s got a way of talking to you with his hack turned to you. I haven’t, had a fair chance of properly getting a look at, him.’’ “Did you recognise his voice?” “There again, you see, lie’s very canny. He doesn’t talk much. 1 certainly couldn’t swear to his voice, what little I have heard. He is a very uncourteous man, anyway. 1 had great difficulty iii keeping my temper with him.” “So you don’t think he’s the man 1 think he is? Is that the outcome ut it all?” “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that,” said Denton, hedging and moving restlessly from one foot to another. “No, 1 wouldn’t go so far as that. Indeed, I'd be inclined to say he was Jacobson. He’s got that same look in those black eyes of him. Aye, and he’s thinner, too, and more finished in his manner.” “Anyhow, you woujfln’t swear to him, eh?” Denton hesitated. “Well,” he said, in hi 9 slow, Scottish accent. “If I wouldn’t actually swear it’s Jacobson, I’d Hike to know who he is, if he isn’t.” Benet smiled with grim satisfaction. “I think that’s good enough, Denton, ' he said. “I’ll go and have a talk with him. By the way, don’t interrupt us, but be at hand. You understand? I don’t think it will come to blows, but you nevor know.” “I understand, Mr Bengt. But if it is a question of blows, *ls you call it, I know - who I’d put my money on.” • • • * * Norton Lacey, in conventional morning dress in London, did not strike such an incongruous note ae Norton I^icov in country attire; but even in London habiliments he rather overdid things. His collar was a little too high, the diamond in liis purple tic, the ostentatious whiteness of liis spats, the staring pattern of his pin-stripe trousors and flic glossiness of liis boots, to say nothing of the profusion of his rings., watch-chain and buttonhole orchids, spoiled what might otherwise have passed for u well-groomed and

smartly-turned out man of the world. The meeting between the two men would have given no indication to an observer of the nature of the interview which impended. Benet found his visitor still engrossed in his pictures. He was peering closely with the air of a collector into a fine mezzotint portrait by Smith, of Wissing, tho painter. He turned nonchalTlil.lv as Benet entered and greeted him effusively. ‘ ‘How do you do, my dear Mr Benet,” he exclaimed, holding out liis hand. “Don’t apologise for keeping me. Not a word. I’ was early, and 1 have been spending a most pleasant time looking at your pictures and prints. Whqt a charming room—a truly delightful loom ? I am most envious of you. I think there is nothing, after all is said and done, to heat the Adams work. And I seo we have other tastes in common: I, too, colloctj the Canalctti. As decorative pictures, I know of nothing to surpass them.” “Won’t you it down, interrupted Benet. His frigid manner was in marked contrast to the florid exuberance of the elder man. For ail instant they looked straight into each other’s eyes. It was as if each were taing tho mental and pkhyeical stock of the other; then Norton Lacey flung himself into the deep-seated Morocco armchair indicated by Benet, and made much matter of removing his spotless yellow wash-leather gloves, which he carelessly threw into hie upturned glistening silk hat on the table. Benet walked across the room and took a pipe from a email table by one of the windows and commenced to fill it. “Will you smoke?” he asked, still in that cold, level voice. “The cigars are just by you.” “No thanks, old man.” said Lacey in his unctuous overwhelming way. “Been smoking a bit too much lately. But don’t mind me. You go ahead. A pipe man I see you are. Well, every man to his tastes. I nevor coukl smoke a pipe. By gad, what gorgeous woathcr we’re having, to he sure. A shame to be in London a day like this.” He was determined to ho friend !y. It was as if, conscious of anta'gnn ism and hostility, he was bent on combating the subtle influence by a cuta root of effusive geniality. Benet, however, had only ono idea in his mind. ITo must como to the point. “You doubtless understood the moaning of my lettrr, Mr Lacey.” ho said, not ns an interrogation, but as a plain statement of incontrovertible fact..

Mr Lacey threw up his hands and laughed quite pleasantly. “On the

contrary, my dear Mr Benet, quite on the contrary. - But I immediately responded to your suggestion, as you see. I admit I was puzzled—still, here I arn. I have lost no time. You said that you wanted to see me on an important matter. Well, need I say so, any friend of the lady who is shortly to become my wife is a friend, of mine.” His large black eyes contracted slightly. Benet thought for a moment that lie looked like a fox. “If there is anything I cAi do, if there is any —anj trouble in which I can be of assistance, my dear Mr Benet, you have only to command me.”

Benet sat on the edge of his great mahogany writing table. His face was like a mask; his eyes never left Lacey, who was obviously growing more and more uncomfortable under their pitiless scrutiny.

“Tell me,” said after a brief pause, “what is it all about? What is the matter?” His manner was that of a benevolent solicitor seeking the confidence of a distressed client. Then Benet took, as it were, the bull by tho horns. “The matter, Mr Lacey,” he said very slowly and deliberately, and making some pointed stress on the name, “tile matter is that I hare sought this interview with you for t.lio purpose of impressing upon you the impossibility of your ever marrying Miss Muriel Wareham.” Laoey gave vent to a queer, high-’ pitched little laugh, and his sallow choeks took on a white liuo. “My dear fellow,” he commenced when Benet silenced him with a gesture. i To be continued.)