THE WOMAN WHO DOUBTED

Otago Witness, Issue 3234, 8 March 1916, Page 65

THE WOMAN WHO DOUBTED

THE PTOITEI.IST.

[PunusHHD by Special ARRANQitMENT.]

By ARTHUR APPLLN

Author of "Miss Bampton's Husband, - ' "The Chorus Girl," "The Prodigal Father," "The Immediate Jewel," etc.

(Copyright.)

f CHAPTER XV (Continued). TANHOPE shook Di;ky's hand warmly, and looked at him with eyes that glowed through a slight mist: "We'll start right away and have something to eat in the train." "Ripping," Dick murmured. No further word was spoken on either side until they were half way to the station, ambling along in a hired fly. "Do you think, sir—do you think that when we get to London we shall have a chance of going in a motor car?" Stanhope kicked himself for not having ordered his car to meet the train at the station. "Rather; we'll go out in my car to-morrow, and if it's fine I'll drive you back all the way to school." The next moment he realised that he was not tactful.

"I don't want to think of going back yet, sir."

They reached the station in good time; Stanhope ordered some food, and when the train started he watched Dicky eat. He had a healthy appetite. He was his mother's son—there was no doubt about that. At the same time there was something about him strangely elusive, not quite human; those deep, cerious eyes held secrets which, Stanhope instinctively felt, had not been given him by his parents. The streak of genius. If only Colonel Travers could see him. Stanhope smiled and began to concoct a rather pretty little plot. Conversation was strained at first, but gradually the boy thawed, and when Stanhope told him he was to say "Uncle" and not "Sir" he beamed.

"It's an awful long time since I saw mums," he confided. "She's Tipping, isn't she?"

"Absolutely ripping," Stanhope agreed. "I often used to wish I had a father, but mums is so splendid it doesn't seem to matter much now." He looked at Stanhope criticallj-. "I think you would make an .awfully nice father."

And Stanhope registered a silent vow that, God helping, one day he would. At Waterloo he called the smartest taxi he could find ; but Dicky's interest day, he soon discovered, only in the engine. He wanted to have the bonnet off and look at the machinery.

Engineer, Stanhope decided; an inventor, perhaps! It was good to be even a provisional uncle; he was feeling proud of his nephew already. But always, always his thoughts strayed to Veritv. If she had only

trusted him! If only Travers had not sealed his lips with 'that fatal promise.' She might have been sitting beside him now, not. ashamed, but proud. For Dicky Darrant was an answer to every doubt, every fear. Only a very good and beautiful woman, one who had loved, could have brought such a fine little lad into the world. And when he witnessed the meeting between mother and son he had to turn away, and, taking Brentwood's arm, leave the room.

"We've both missed something in life, old man," he said, as they stood a little awkwardly in the den, each busily lighting a cigar. "But, .by Jove, how could the little fool have even dared dream of taking her life while it was so closely bound to his?"

"Because I frightened her," Brentwood replied laconically. "Babbling of love. And when a woman is half-starved, nerves gone to pieces, with a few shillings_ be-tt-een her and the workhouse, she isn't quite responsible for what she does. She felt that if she lived she would drag her boy down." "Yes, by gad, it's very easy to judge others on" a full stomach," Stanhope whispered, with an unconscious touch of humour Suddenly he took Brentwood by the arm. and swung him round, looking him straight in the face. "Everything's all right now as far as she's concerned. You won't worry her about the man who so nearly ruined her life, will you? Let sleeping dogs lie; give her time to recover. She'll tell you all in good time, then you can find out whether or not she's free. If she is, then good luck to you, old man."

Brentwood Laughed—a queer, unnatural laugh, that sent a stab of fear info Stanhope's heart. Looking closely at him. he saw that Brentwood's eyes had gone an unnatural colour. The muscles around his mouth twitched.

"I've discovered pretty nearly all I want to know," he said under his breath. "What do you mean?" Dicky Brentwood shook him off. "I can't flatter you on your powers of observation." he said between his teeth. "Don't look scared, man: I'm not mad. I'm not going to hurt Felicite or her son ; but the man who ruined her, and cheated me. has got to pay." Still Stanhope did not understand. "What man?" Brentwood had reached the door. "The man," he snarled. "Dicky's father. If he's legally her husband, God help him. If he's not—then he's going to pay—pay the penalty in full." He opened the door and crossed the hall. He was outside in the passage before Stanhope overtook him. "Do you mean to say you've found him —he's here in London?" Brentwood laughed, as he commenced to hurry down the staircase. "Have another 'look at Richard Darrant, then perhaps you'll know." Before'Stanhope could stop him he had gone. Mark returned to the flat. What Brentwood meant he could not conceive. He believed, he hoped, that he had gone on some wild-goose chase. After a little while he heard Felieite's voice calling him to ioin them in the dining-room. "Dicky wants to go out," she smiled "He refuses to go without his uncle. I told him you were busy." Stanhope shook his head ; ho would throw off his own unhappiness in Felicite's new-found joy. "Were all going out together; a drive through the park, then a good blow-out at Rnmpelmeyer's. By jove, Dicky, you shoukl see the cream cakes they' make there. An hour's rest, dinner, then a theatre." Master Dicky's large round eyes protruded ; his pale face flushed. As Stanhope watched him he saw what Dicky Brentwood had seen—a likeness, vague, faint, yet every moment growing more certain—a likeness to the man who had saved his life. The man he had met at the Empire Theatre the previous evening— Paul Forsyth ! CHAPTER XVI. Dicky Brentwood went straight to Stanhope's club. He remembered that when they had met there the other evening Forsyth proposed ordering drinks for them before ho left; it therefore seemed pretty obvious that he, too, was a member. His surmise happened to be right; but the commissionaire informed him that Mr Forsyth was not in. He knew it was useless to ask for his address; he walked up and down the street outside, keeping his eye on all those who entered or left the building, cudgelling his brain how to discover the' lodgings or hotel at which Forsyth put up. There was only one way. No sooner had he thought of it than he acted. Walking into Piccadilly, he entered a District Messenger Boys' Office, and scribbled a line to Forsyth, saying that he wanted to see him on a matter of business for a couple of minutes. This he sent by one of the boys to the club, with instructions that he was to wait for an answer. Across the face of the envelope in the top lefthand corner he had written instructions to the hall porter : Urgent. If Mr Forsyth is not at the club, kindly have the letter sent immediately to his private address. —D.B.

Brentwood followed the boy down Piccadilly, and waited at; the corner of the street when he entered the club. Five minutes passed, then he saw the boy reappear, turn to the left, and hurry away in the direction of Pall Mall. Brentwood's little plot had succeeded. He followed, keeping the boy in sight. He walked with a slight stoop, his shoulders bent and his head poked forward. The deep, blue eyes were very bright. There was something ominous, a little terrible in the bent, eager figure; people turned to stare at him as he passed. There was something so suggestive in his attitudo and walk —suggestive of tragedy. Not until the messenger boy had nearly reached Charing Cross did Brentwood

overtake him; he hesitated a moment, then stopped him.

"You're the lad who took a letter for me from the office in Piccadilly to the Benedicts' Club, aren't you? A letter for Mr Forsyth to await an answer." "Yes, sir," the boy replied promptly; he recognised the one-armed man at once. "Well, where is the answer?"

"The gentleman wasn't in. The porter told me to take the letter on to the Continental Hotel." Brentwood nodded. His face was a mask now. "All right, take the answer back to your office in Piccadilly directly you get it. I'll call for it there." Ho let the boy go ahead again, but he kept him in sight until ho saw him enter the Continental Hotel.

The Continental was one of London's smaller hotels, patronised principally by foreigners—actors, music-hall artists, painters, and sculptors, whose business brings them to England. Brentwood gave the boy 10 minutes in which to deliver the letter, receivo the answer, and take it away. Then he, too, entered the hotel and inquired at the bureau for Mr Paul Forsyth. While he waited Forsyth himself crossed the lounge. Brentwood strolled up to him and gave him a friendly nod. "How do, Mr Forsyth; I don't know whether you remember me? We met

Forsyth held out his hand, but Dicky Brentwood did not seem to notice it. "I never forget a face," the former said. "I've just received a letter from you asking for an appointment. Take a seat and have a drink."

Brentwood glanced round the lounge. In one corner a man sat dreamily pufling at a pipe. At a small table a couple of Frenchmen gesticulated wildly over their aperatifs, a woman nodded over a previous day's copy of Le Temps. "What I want to say is for your ear alone. I hope you will be interested, but I don't want to rouse other people's interest."

Paul Forsyth jerked his head and gave Brentwood a glance out of the corners of his eyes. He was always on his guard, at the same time always on the outlook for anyone who might be useful ;.-c him—preferably for a man with a scheme and money to back it. . "Let's have a look at the smokingroom," he suggested. There were half a dozen men there, arguing noisily. "Oh, well, we'd better go up to my room, if you don't mind." Forsyth led" the way. "I'm not a millionaire just now, so I've only got the usual four walls, bed, dressing-table, and cane bottom chair they give you in these places for 7s 6d a night." He opened a door numbered 33, waited for Brentwood to pass, then extracting his key, closed it with a noisy bang._ Dicky walked over to the window, which was open, and closed it. Then he turned, and Paul Forsyth received a surprise. The man he had met at the club, the man he had spoken to in the lounge a couple of minutes ago, and the man who faced him, seemed two entirely different individuals.

In an instant he knew that he was up against it. Yet he was perfectly sure he had never met Brentwood before. Swiftly his brain searched the past, and instinctively he guessed that whatever the trouble was, a woman had been at the bottom of it.

He was not a coward; he was a man who in an emergency never trafficked with words or wasted time.

"What's wrong, Mr Brentwood?" he asked sharply. They were standing scarcely ten feet apart," Forsyth with his back to the cloOr, Dicky with his back to the window. "I've just left your wife and child." _ Forsyth raised his eyebrows; he hid his feelings nearly as well under control as Brentwood.

"That's interesting news. I hope you left them fit and well." In a sense he felt relieved ; the man facing him was not likely to be dangerous as he had just imagined. "Will you come and see for yourself and renew their acquaintance? It must be six or seven years since you saw your wife, since you contributed a penny to her maintenance."

Forsyth shrugged his shoulders. "Thanks, I'm not interested. I found a wife a luxury I couldn't afford, so we agreed to part." "That's a lie."

"Take cafe!" Forsyth took a step forward. Brentwood's hand slipped into his pocket. "I don't know who you are or what interest you have in the lady you politely refer to as my wife. It's a bit late for her to start making claims for something that happened eight years ago." "She's not making any claims. She doesn't even know I've found you." "Then by what right " "I love her."

Forsyth should have been warned by the change in Dicky Brentwood's voice, but he fell back and, leaning against the door, laughed aloud. Brentwood's hand flashed from his pocket, and Forsyth saw the mouth of a revolver just about on a level with his heart. "Stop that," Dicky said. And Forsyth obeyed. His laughter ceased as quickly as it came. There was a moment's silence.

"Now then, Mr Brentwood, what's your game?" "Colonel Travers apparently hadn't the courage to demand satisfaction for the wrong you did his daughter. From the day you deserted her no one has cared sufficiently to come forward and demand reparation, until I found her not so very long ago. She tried to take her life ,- yotir friend, Mr Stanhope, saved her." Forsyth flinched. "Oh, so there are two of vou at it?"

Brentwood shook his head. "No, only me now!" Again there was a short silence. "We probably look at life from a different point of view. We have both lived, Mr Forsyth. And neither of us nuts a very trreat value on life:" he

fingered his revolver suggestively. "11 you value it at all you will give me a truthful answer to the questions I'm going to ask."

Forsyth turned his head to the right towards the bed over which an electric bell was suspended. "I think I ought to ring and hand you over to the police." Brentwood shook his head. "My gun would go off before the bell." "Oh, well, since I've got to deal with a madman, go ahead. You don't mind if I smoke a cigarette?" Brentwood gave him permission; ho watched ,every movement, and he did not speak again until Forsyth had buttoned up his coat. "1 want the exact date and the name of the place where you went through some form of marriage with Felicite Travers."

Forsyth blew a cloud of smoke towards the ceiling. "Lord, that might puzzle some men; luckily I've got a good memory. We were married on May 18, 19—, at a little place called St. Lgan, in the Basque country, between France and Spain. We were married uurfer the name of Darrant. I imagined that when the old man, Colonel Travers. realised Ave had eloped, he would do the right thing and make us an allowance;. then I intended coming back to England and doing the thing properly —hit. George's, Hanover square, champagne breakfast, and all that sort of thing. But the colonel turned rusty, refused to have anything to do with Felicite, or to send us a penny. I stuck to her until I was broke—Monte Carlo finished us off—then, as I said, we agreed to part. That's all I can tell you. Now, then, hadn't you better put that thing away," indicating the revolver,

"and clear out? My wife, as you call her, is free, if you want to marry her/' For the space of a few seconds Paul Forsyth's life hung in the balance. Ha knew it, too, but he stood there with his back to the door, caimly smiling and puffing at his cigarette. He was the first to break the silence.

"Aren't you making rather a fuss about nothing—presuming you are sane, and I'm not quite sure of that." "I'm sane enough," Brentwood whispered, "or as sane as any map who values the honour of the woman he loves better than his own life. But you'll live, Forsyth, because of your son—do you understand? The St. George's, Hanover square, business has got to come off." Forsyth's face darkened. "Really. Then in that case where do you come in?" "I'll think of myself—afterwards." "And now?"

Brentwood took a step forward. "Now you're coming to Derrick street, to Stanhope's flat. Mrs Barrant is living there. Her father and mother aTo both in town. I haven't interviewed them yet, but the time has come. Everything can be fixed up this afternoon." "At the point of the revolver, eh?" Forsyth grinned, but he didn't look comfortable. He was thinking hard. "We understand one another," Brentwood said. "Will you corne? You'll find that Stanhope wilt do.all he can us —he's engaged to Felicite's sister." "Ah!" Forsyth's face was not its normal colour. ' He flung the end of his cigarette into the fireplace, then picked up his hat and opened the door. He kept one eye on Brentwood. The latter slipped the revolver back into his pocket. As he reached the door Forsyth with a sudden movement closed it. In an instunt he had seized Brentwood's arm, twisted it behind him with one hand while he caught him bv the throat with the other. '"You interfering fool," he whispered, "do you think I'm going stand up to be shot at by you, or the Travors family? Do you think I can change my life and my nature after all these years?"

Dicky Brentwood's face was turning a ghastly purple colour. For a moment Forsyth had lost his head. With a sudden feeling of revulsion he hurled the now inanimate man across the room. He fell with a thud, his head striking the cornet of the fender. Forsyth stood still, shaken and trembv ling, looking at the huddled heap on ths ground. Presently he bent over him, touched him. And he gave a sigh of relief.

"You'll lie quiet there for an hour o* so, my friend. Curse you—you brought it on yourself." He opened the door quietly and listened j then crept out, closing and locking it. Ha walked downstairs, slipped quickly through the lounge, and, calling a cab, drove to the club. He ordered a wlnsky and soda and a couple of sandwiches; then told the commissionaire to fetch the suitcase he had left there.