THE NOVELIST.

Otago Witness, Issue 3380, 25 December 1918, Page 48

THE NOVELIST.

[Published ur Special Arbancement.] when - - LOVE RULES. WILLIAM GUIDOTT. Author of "Through the Silent Night/' "The Shuttered House," "What Delia Dared," etc., etc. [Copyright.] SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS. CHAPTERS I AND ll.—Old Sir Anthony G-reatorex leaves" hie wife at Victoria Station on their return from their honeymoon. He will come by a later train. He entrusts her with a letter to Mrs Fairfax, who lives near the Court, their country residence. Sir Anthony buys some note paper, and writes his will in a waiting-room at the station. He has married an adventuress, and has just found, her out. He takes a taxi to a medical friend of his in Barley street. Dr John Stuart Fellows and his man, witness the will. Sir Anthony takes tea at a ermall Italian restaurant and looks over the signed will. Feeling ill suid drowsy he puts a letter and, as he thinks, the will into a blue-crossed envelope and addresses the same to his niece, Mrs Fairfax. Mrs Fairfax and her daughter Alys are in their pretty garden, which has a full view of the Court. Brian Tennant pays them a visit j He has taken another little house which Sir Anthony has built. After his departure a car rolls up, and the new Lady G-reatorex dlelrvers the letter entrusted to her to Mrs Fairfax and her daughter. CHAPTERS II (Continued) AND 11lMother and daughter discuss the new situation.' Lady Greatorex is bored with her now home, the Court. Mrs and Miss' Fairfax arrive in time to dine. Both Alys and her mother are somewhat shocked by the 'new Lady Greaftrex, though they veil their feelings with perfect' courtesy. Sir Anthony arrives and snubs his wife. After dinner Lady Greatorex pounds on the piano, and Sir Anthony quits the room. His wife goes in search of him, leaving Mrs arid Miss Fairfax alone. They hear screams coming from an upper part of the house. CHAPTERS IV AND V.—Lady Greatorex exchanges a few sentences with her maid, iE/lise, who is her accomplice, and ascends the staircase. She encounters a man in the dark, who says he has got the jewels. In Sir Anthony's study she stumbles over his dead body, and, becoming hysterical, lies shrieking on the floor. They are joined by Lady Greatorex's maid, Elise. After they have discovered Sir Anthony's body and placed Lady Greatorex in the care of her maid, Mrs Fairfax telephones to the police station at Alderstone. The following morning mother and daughter voice one another's suspicion and dislike of Lady Greatorex. A letter arrives for Mrs Fairfax from Sir Anthony, but the will, which he stated was enclosed, is missing. The wrong paper has been inserted. CHAPTER V.—(Continued.) With a hand which now tumbled slightly, she held the letter before her and read aloud. My dear Niece, —You will get my note this " afternoon, asking you to come up to dinner to-night, but I'm not likely to have the opportunity of speaking to you alone. You will be surprised, of course, to know that I have married again. I find I have been both tricked and deceived, but I cannot go into details now. The thing is done, and cannot be undone without great scandal. I am writing to you for two reasons: one is that I db not trust my "wife; and the other, to send you my- will, which I have just signed, and had witnessed in proper manner. I wish, in spite of my marriage, that your daughter, Alys, should not suffer, and you will see from the small sum that I have left my present wife, how little I deem her worthy of consideration. I am sending you this will so that in case anything happens to me—and at my age. otte never knows, for a feel strangely and ill—your daughter can claim all. that I always have wished her to have. We will talk this over another day. —Your affectionate Uncle. "And the other sheet? It isn't the will?" asked Alys excitedly. I "No.. Apparently it is just a copy of this letter, which probably he meant to throw away, as it was smudged and has many alterations. Look at it." She held it out. Alys took it and nodded without answering. "I wonder what we had better do," she said at last. /Mrs Fairfa-x, holding both the letters in her hand, looked at them with a very wry smile. "Do? What can we do without the will?" she answered with emphasis. "No--thing, that's very sure." "But where is it, mother?" Alys asked, and then laughed involuntarily at the absurdity of her own question. . Her mother could not help joining in, the unquenchable spirits of the two were seldom held in abeyance for long. "How on earth am I to know?" she replied with raised eyebrows. "I'm not clairvoyante, my child." She thought a moment. "But there are two things I can clearly see. The first is, that will has got to be found ; and the second " "Yes?" Alys waited impatiently. rr Wa will say nothing about this," she tapped thfe letter with her forefinger, "nothing at all for the present. Do you understand? There's nothing to be gained by talking," she added significantly. "Yes, I quite understand. I won't say a word to anyone unless " Alys hesitated. "Mother, Mr Tennant" looks awfully clever; couldn't he help us? We can't do it all by ourselves very "All what?" "The searching, the detective sort of

work. That's what you mean bv finding the will, isn't it?" "Yes, I suppose so." Mrs Fairfax looked doubtful. "We shall have to get some private detective, I imagine. Perhaps he might known one. I don't think I ever met one; they must be very unpleasant people. Yes, I think it's a good idea of yours to ask Mr Tennant. We shall have to tell him everything or nothing, of course, and all my old friends are so stupid and relations never want one to do anything, and he looks quite honest —yes," she added slowly, "I think we'll consult him." "Of course, he is honest."

The voice was so indignation that it caught her mother's attention and made her look at her with a curiosity of which the girl was quite unconscious. She suddenly found herself wishing that the apparent interest in this man might be the beginning of a stronger feeling, for, with unerring instinct and judgment, she had summed up his character since their first meeting, and decided that he was a man who in her opinion was worth while. Then almost as quickly she dismissed this thought, laughing at herself for a stupid matcnmaker. Besides, there were many other things; of more consequence at this moment to be thought about and pondered over. Looking at her daughter sitting there, her fair face turned towards the blue and gold sky and sunshine, she calculated what would happen if the will were not Jound. She and Alys would be almost penniless. The girl looked so frail and lovely there that the mere idea of it made her shiver with apprehension. Dependent as they had been on the old man now dead, nevertheless this dependency had meant comparative luxury in that he had allowed her eight hundred a year. The very house was his. Without him—without that will they would have a bare hundred and fifty pounds a year, the meagre sum left of her own small fortune, and no home, for they could not even live on where they were. Should no will be found, then everything, every stick gtad stone, every jewel and picture, would go automatically to the new Lady Greatorex. Would she keep up their allowance—would she? Mrs Fairfax knitted her brows and tried hard to persuade herself that she would, but all to no avail. In her heart of hearts she ,was certain that she would be hard and inflexible, already she hated both her and Alys. That was obvious. Probably she suspected them of having been in their uncle's confidence and taking a plate in his life to which she herself could never have hoped to attain. Their presence last night had been galling to her, both of them had seen that, and in revenge she surely would rid herself of them at the earliest opportunity, for now they stood to her, a woman of the lower classes, as living witnesses of what she had been before her marriage, two people of the class into which she had married, relatives, living at her gates. It was certain that she would oust them gladly* now that the opportunity had come. But had it?. Had it? Mrs Fairfax repeated the question to herself, frowning in the intensity of her thought. It was quite certain Sir Anthony had made a will and in proper manner, as he said in his letter. Where was it? Had he destroyed it by accident? She shivered. .It looked very like it. Yet almost immediately her hopes rose. It did not follow in the least, there might be a hundred reasons why he had not enclosed it in that envelope now lying there before her on the . breakfast tray. She turned the sheet of paper in her hand over and over, then held it up to the light. It was of the commonest quality. That had not struck her before. Where could he have got it i If he were signing the will and having it witnessed; in proper manner, surely the lawyers "would not have provided him with such paper? She was certain they would not; but had he gone to his lawyer? It was not necessary for him to do so in order to make a will that would be legal and in order. No, rather it looked very much as if the old man had gone to some friend's house, after deserting Lady Greatorex at Victoria, as the latter had somewhat peevishly expressed it. Yes, undoubtedly that was the explanation. But again she halted —what friends of Sir Anthony's would possibly use such papers? The problem seemed impossible to solve, and she lay back with closed eyes, hardly noticing Alys, who touched her affectionately on the shoulder, murmuring that she was going to dress and go out into the garden. After a few minutes she rose and, carefully locking away the letters, rang for the maid to take away the breakfast things. Then she made a leisurely toilet, following out the same train of thought the while, going over and over the possibilities and probabilities of the affair until her brain fairly reeled and she decided to get out into the air. Almost mechanically her steps led her down the garden and out into the road towards the court. After all, it was the only decent thing she could do, she decided. Much as she disliked the new Lady Greatorex, it -would be but human to go and inquire for her after such a shock as she had received. For the fraction of a second the thought crossed her mind that perhaps the tragedy had not come- as such a surprise to her. She stood stock still on the path outside her own garden fence. The idea was horrible in the extreme. She took it off impatiently, she had no right to be harbouring such a thought, besides it "was foolish to a degree and obviously absurd, she told herself somewhat angrily. A voice from the lawn startled her. "There's Micky coming along the road, mother." Mrs Fairfax turned sharply. "Don't say anything." He nrobably knows. It can't be kept secret," Alys "answered very quickly in a low tone. "No. I know—of course; but I meant about the other thing. Well, Micky," she turned, smiling.

"I've just heard, Mrs Fairfax. I'm awfully sorry," he spoke with rather an embarrassed air, but his voice was full of sympathy. ''Yes, it's dreadful," Mrs Fairfax murmured. "Ho was very good to us, you know, and he loved Alys." Alys turned away abruptly, to hide the ready tears which sprang to her eyes. Are you doing anything this morning?" Mrs Fairfax asked. The boy replied eagerly in the negative. "If I can be of any use-—" "You can. You are to take this girl for a walk. It's twelve o'clock now, and I propose a good long stroll. Get lunch somewhere, and come back about tea time. I don't want her here all day in the house With the blinds down; not good for her, and- no point in it," she added in a whisper. 'Are sure you don't want me, mother?* Mrs Fairfax shook her head. "I'm going up to the Court. I've a lot to do," she answered in businesslike fashion, "but there's nothing in which you can help me, darling. I'd rather you went with Micky, really." Having settled this to her satisfaction and watched them depart slowly across the fields, -she once more turned towards the Court and entered the gates, now standing unlatched and half open. Very calmly she walked up the curving drive beneath the overhanging treks. The old house looked strangely desolate with its drawn blinds and complete absence of any human life to be seen. Mrs Fairfax mounted the wide stone steps flanked by the two great griffens. The front door was standing open. As she had always been accustomed to do, she walked straight into the hall. There was no one about. She crossed the hall, but at the foot of the staircase hesitated a moment. Someone was walking hurriedly along the corridor above. She heard a door open and a man's voice speak loudly. Quite distinctly his words floated down. "Shut up squabbling, you two, idiots - Then the door slammed, and she could hear no more. For a moment or two she stood there quite still, listening and almost too amazed to move. What on earth did it mean? Who was in the house? Who could there be in the house £hat could use such words —and to whom? Very quietly she walked back again over the thick rugs of the hall and out through the old carved doorway. Then she rang the bell. CHAPTER VI. About eleven o'clock that same morning Lady Greatorex, in a softly-quilted dressing wrapper of gorgeous hue, was in her room pacing to and fro. She looked round the room, replete with every comfort. It suited her somewhat feline nature in spite of its lack of modernism. Luxurious, if rather heavy, comfort in every form was the dominating note from the very ceiling down to the soft pile of the carpet into which her feet with their dainty Oriental sank so deeply. But she could not rest. Not for the first time fear disturbed her callous nature. It was no use mincing matters, she thought, with sinking of the\heart, something ugly had happened in the house, something that threatened her closely. There was no doubt about it. Sir Anthony Greatorex had died from the effects of the chloroform. In short, he had been murdered. The word was ugly. She bit her lip and shivered in her warm wrap, although the. fire crackled blithely in the hearth, and the sun glinted between the decently-lowered old-fashioned Venetian-blinds.

She remembered that the phial containing the deadly liquid had been found near the body, also the portion of cloth which had been saturated with its contents. The doctor had said that it might not have killed a" young man, or even anyone in good health, but on an old man of Sir Anthony Greatorex's age, coupled with fright and shock, it could have had but one effect—death. She felt a blind anger that this affair, which had seemed so safe, so easy, should have led them all into such danger. Why had that fool done it, she asked again and again; better to have lost the jewels than that. That it was partly owing to her own failure to detain her husband downstairs was a matter she refused to contemplate. The whole fault lay with Pierre Vaudran, for the deed he had perpetrated, and she hated him as much because he had vulgarised their clever scheme into a common murder, as that the actual crime had been committed.

She. felt both tired out and excited. Last night her histrionic arts had required to be drawn upon to an exhausting degree in order to carry through the plausible tale of. her flight through 'the burgled rooms and its dreadful climax. Angrily now she remembered the tone of Mrs Fairfax's voice when she assisted her out into the passage. There was something so penetrating in the calm questions that she had put to her, that the only refuge she had had left was hysteria, and another fainting fit, which had ended in Mrs Fairfax leaving her in the hands of E-lise at the latter's urgent request. The police inspector, it was true, had appeared most sorry for her, and the doctor also; in a more businesslike way, showed tactful sympathy, remembering, doubtless, that she 4 *was Lady Greatorex. But the selfpossession displayed by Mrs Fairfax had contained no real concern, although there was no open lack of any womanly attention. All this had resulted in an exhausted sleep towards the early hours of the morning ; but, once awake, there was no rest for her brain, as it weighed _ the pros and cons, of this or that possibility or danger. She "threw herself into a chair before the*- looking-glass, and with her elbows on the table and her face cupped between her hands, tried to think coherently. If the murderer, Pierre Vaudran, were

tracked down she knew that he would not give away his accomplices—that was certain. Elise was his sister, they had worked together before; and Jim Reid, the chauffeur, the woman's husband, too, it was not the first time that he had been with them in a questionable affair. No, they would all stick together, anyway; nor would they dare give her away; in fact, they could not—rather it was she herself who held the whip hand there, for she had the position now and, more important still, the money. Suddenly another thought struck her, anct she gazed into the mirror before her with startled eyes. Her husband's luggage. She must overhaul that. Who could tell what letters or memoranda might not be there, which in some diverse way would give a clue or disclose some vital point? The woman Elise had been engaged by herself as maid, and she knew all the credentials necessary could be forthcoming were she questioned; they were too old hands to be caught like that, but old Sir Anthony had engaged his own chauffeur, and only the very cleverest manoeuvre on her part had guided his final choice to Jim Reid. That Elise was his wife had been, of course, carefully suppressed, but the disquieting thought would come that Elise Reid's maiden name was Vaudran, that Pierre was her brother, and were "he traced by the police this might be-more than suspicious. Full of sudden and purposeful energy, Lady Greatorex jumped up, threw off her wrapper, and dressed herself hurriedly. She meant to go through the papers in Sir Anthony's room, the papers which would still be amongst his luggage, in his dressing-case in all probability. No one could say anything if she were seen; she had a perfect right to go to the rooms and look at her husband's things, She opened the bedroom door and peered stealthily down the corridor. No one was about; there was no sound. Sir Anthony's bedroom was just opposite, she crossed quickly, and in another moment was inside. It was somewhat in disorder. He had unpacked one portmanteau, and his fitted suit-case lay open, its silver and ivory gleaming in confusion. Some of the contents v were scattered on the dressing table, just as he had left them when he changed for dinner. His keys also were there. She knew which of the leather cases usually held his' l correspondence and business papers, and it took but a bare moment to fit the key. Immediately she began a hasty examination. There seemed to be nothing much of interest or value to her, certainly nothing incriminating or implicating them at all. She was beginning to replace the papers when a sealed envelope caught her attention. She picked it up and looked at it doubtfully. What was in it? Then, with a shrug of disdain at her own hesitation, she tore the flap. Four pieces of cardboard fell out, and she stood for a moment gazing at them where they lay on the floor. They appeared to be the pieces of a torn photograph. She stooned and picked them up, mechanically fitting them together. To her amazement her own face smiled up at her. She sat down suddenly, forgetting for the moment her errand. What did this mean? Why had he done that—torn up her photograph in anger, for there surely could have been no other reason. Slowly the colour mounted to her cheeks, then as slowly ebbed away, and her mouth became compressed into a thin line. There was something behind this —did it account for the changed manner during their homeward journey—the queer desertion at the station ? Her fingers shook slightly, as she carefully turned over each torn pfece and examined the plain envelope. But there was nothing to elucidate things unless —-her brain reeled at the possibility—he had found her out. She turned suddenly with a little shriek. Someone had touched her arm. But her fear changed quickly to a passionate anger, and she stamped her foot with blazing eyes. "What do you mean by frightening me like that, Elise?" she whispered in a strangled voice. For answer the woman merely shrugged her shoulders coldly and pointed to the torn photograph. "I came in quite the ordinary way. Your nerves seem all wrong; don't be a fool!" she said ccotemptuously. "Whatever have you got there V' '-Oh, don't begin asking questions. I'm looking over the old man's—my husband's —papers, if you want to know, to make sure there's nothing amongst them about us. I found that," she pointed to the torn photograph as she spoker "What £o you make of it?" Elise fitted the pieces together with curiosity in her beady eyes. Then she laughed aloud. "What do I make of it?" she repeated. "What did he make of you, you mean. Why, he found you out—that's what that means. The old man wasn't such a fool after all." "Found me out? Oh, don't you laugh," she grasped the other's wrist. "Remember if I'm found out you are. Ah, I thought that would sober you," she added with a malignant look for her dark, slanting eyes. She went on; her voice rising lost its superficial, refined drawl, and relapsed into the strident vulgarity of the erstwhile cafe concert singer. "What's more you, needn't talk of nerves. You'd feel more nervous yourself if you had the sense to put two and two together. Hasn't it occurred to you that if he did find -me out, as you put it, there's no knowing what games he got up to after he left me looking like a fool in the car yesterday at Victoria." Elise's laughter died away. "What game? What do you mean? What could

he do? There wasn't time for anything," she broke off in bewilderment.' "Not time?" repeated the other sarcastically. "Not time? You can do a lot in an hour or two. Supposing he went to his lawyers and made a new will. If he's done that I don't inherit, you can bet your life on thatr—the old beast was as hard as nails." "I never thought of that," stammered Elise. "No, you wouldn't, nor did your brother —the idiot! Killing him!" Elise gripped her arm furiously. "He didn't do it on purpose. "He's my borther, and you'd better mind," she screamed in a hoarse whisper, her • plain, dark face close up against the delicately tinted skin of the beautiful woman before her. "If he's caught they may not be able to prove it," she paused, and then, emphasising every word with dramatic intensity, "Why shouldn't it have been you who did it?"

Lady Greatorex shook herself- free with smiling unconcern which was only fairly well simulated and which she was far from feeling. _ "Don't be a fool, she began. Then a thought seized her, and she in turn leant forward towards the other. "It might also have been you—be careful." Elise fell back a step. "Me—you think you could prove it? Do you think they'd take your word against mine?" "A French maid picked up on the Riviera?" The voice was soft and low and admirably modelled in its aristocratic indifference. "One of the servants and I —I am Lady Greatorex." A. slight smile of triumph crept to her lips as she stood there, chin uplifted, an admirable counterfeit of social superiority. "Oh, come off it. Don't try any of that rot with me," Elise laughed; "Look here," she went on more conciliatingly, with, the common slang she had picked up, "we're all in a pretty tight corner, or it may be one, ana we'd better not quarrel even if you are in the worst position of the lot," she added maliciously. "You were here all the time, while I was in the kitchen, and Jim was at a pub all the evening in Alderstone, as arranged, don't forget that, and be sensible. As for Pierre, he got off quick, and he's miles away by now and won't be found. It left that gate in the wall unlocked, he got away to the car he'd left outside all right. Oh, yes, it will pay us to stick together." Lady Greatorex turned slowly, and looked out of the window self-controlled, thinking hard. "I suppose the ladders were all arranged." She spoke in a subdued voice. "Good Lord, yes, what do you think?" came the answer brusquely, "trust Jim for that."

Again Lady Greatorex looked at her. - "I inherit, of course, if there is no will," she said slowly, and almost pensively, but there was meaning in her words. "We do," cut in Elise with cold significance, staring at her with a defiant, malicious look. All that was worst in the nature of the woman before her came to the surface. She laughed, with her eyes lowered, and though her voice was low its tone was evil and menacing. "My good woman, you don't suppose I sold myself into bondage to share the—er reward indiscriminately, do you really?" "Bondage, what do you mean?" "Exactly what I say, and don't you forget it," came the answer. "Bondage, and I've escaped it too. But I was married right enough. It's"all fair and square, and I am Lady Greatorex; don't forget that either." She laughed .tauntingly. "I've position and money, or shall have. Why, you'll all depend on. my bounty. I don't even need the jewels now, thank goodness, and what's more, as Pierre will have to lie low for his stupidity there won't be much for any of you for a long time. If I helped to plan the robbery it won't be much use to you to publish the fact, will it, so . instead of me working with you, you'll find you'd better work with me,' she smiled, a slow, impudenf smile. "Very possibly I shall marry again." The insolent and overbearing tone of this speech was too much for her listener. . "Oh, you will will you"—she burst out—"see here, my lady " She grasped the white wrist with an iron grip, but as suddenly freed it again as the door flew open, and a young man, in chauffeur's uniform, darted in. "Shut up squabbling, you two idiots. I could hear you all down the corridor. Be quiet, I tell you," as his wife turned on him. "I've got bad news. There's been an accident, the car overturned— Pierre's dead!"

(To be continued.)