THE NOVELIST.

Otago Witness, Issue 3398, 30 April 1919, Page 48

THE NOVELIST.

[Published bt Special Ahbangement.] THE IVORY GOD. By ANNIE S. SWAN (Author of "Aldersyde," "Gates of Eden," etc.). [COPTEIGHT.] CHAPTER IX.—COME TO HLMSELF. When Geoffrey Faussit came to himself he was lying on a small narrow bed in a large, "light place which looked like the ward of a hospital. He slightly raised himself, and then became coftscious of an acute pain in his head, and was- also aware of the fact tliat there was a bandage of some kind about it.

He sank dazedly back on his pillows, and tried to collect his scattered thoughts. Bit by bit memory returned, and the face of the Dutchman, Van der Groot, rose up before him with an old menace. He remembered everything, the talk in the billiard room, his invitation to the Dutchman to come to his room to see the ivory god, then all was a blank. He raised himself again and called out in quite a strong good voice. Next moment a nurse popped her head round the screen, which separated him from the next bed. The wall was on his other side, Geoffrey had no experience of hospitals, and was therefore unaware. that the screen had been put up because a man was dying there. The nurse, a small, plump person with a roguish eye, put a warning finger on her lips as she approached the bed. "Be quiet, there's a patient next to you, very bad. Well, what is it?" "Where am I?" he asked peremptorily. "Middlesex Hospital." "Where's that?"

"Goodge street, near Oxford street." "I know it well. I want to know who brought me hereT^' "An ambulance. You got your little dose in a hotel in Soho. What was it happened to you? Nobody seemed to know. • Anyway you were found lying on the floor with a wound on your head." "Was I? I know how I got it too." "Well, if you know that's all right. Perhaps you didn't make sure enough of your quarters. Some of these Soho hotels are not safe, they're infested with foreigners of the worst kind, and the police have their eye on them most of the time."

"That so? Well, what day is this?" "It's Saturday. You were brought in on Thursday." "Thursday! Good heavens! Bring my clothes, I want to get up." She smiled and shook her head.

"I'm only a pro., I haven't the power to give you leave. The doctor will have to see you first, and he won't he back now till seven o'clock. He's gone to Sandwich to play a golf match between Middlesex and Barts."

"What's that to do with me?" inquired Geoffrey hotly. "Go and get my clothes." He was thinking of Annie Fletcher, who in all probability had arrived at King's Cross by appointment the previous evening. Where was she now ? "You'd better lie down and go to sleep. If you let yourself get into such tempers your temperature will go up," she said as. one speaks to a child. "I'll bring you something to drink." She flitted away as if he and his anxiety to get up were matters of small account in her world. ' Geoffrey lay fuming, the trend of his thought certainly not calculated to keep'i his temperature at the normal. When the nurse came back bearing some decoction in a drinking cup, he addressed her humbly, realising that for the time being he was wholly in her power, or at least in the grip of an institution which hardly recognises individual rights, but which exists for one specific purpose, the healing of disease and wounds.

"It's very good, thank- you, though it has a vile taste," he answered drinking the stuff meekly. "Please tell me about myself. Who fetched me here?''' "I've told you the ambulance fetched you. I really didn't know anything about you till you came in here. I'm only a pro., you see, and pros, never do. What is it you want to know?" she asked, seeing the wistfulness of his handsome face. "Because if you are very good I might try to find out for you." "I want to know who sent for the ambulance, and where all my things are, and how long Fve got to stop here?" "The hotel proprietor sent for the ambulance. I can tell you that much, and I can find your clothes if you want anything out of your pockets. Your other things are in 'your locker. Here's your bag." She undid the door of the little cupboard by the bed, and took out the small handbag which was all he had brought from Durham on the never-to-be-forgotten morning of his flight. It contained the new pyjamas, his gloves, a cheap hairbrush, and a clean collar and handkerchief, but no money, and certainly not the ivory god. "Where's my purse, do you know, and mv other valuables?" he asked feverishly.

"I'll inquire, but only if you lie down and don't excite yourself. Give me the bag." He suffered her to return it to the locker, and lay still after she was gone. It was nearly half an hour before she came back.

"There was only a handful of loose silver and two half-sovereigns in your pocket," she said. "Here they are. I'll put it all in your bag. It will be quite safe now you are able to keep an eye on it."

She smiled coquettishly, but the

patient's excitement and consternation increased.

"Oh, but I say that's rot! I had ever so much money. * I had over thirty pounds in banknotes, and a little ebony case with something very valuable in it."

Nurse merely smiled as if accustomed to such vagaries. "Probably you dreamed it. Anyway this is all you have now," she said as she placed the hand-bag in the locker and shut the door with a little click. Then someone called to her from the middle of the ward, and she flitted away. Geoffrey sank back among his pillows, helpless and exhausted, the suspicion dawning upon him that ho had been robbed in that doubtful resort where he had encountered the Dutchman and his friends.

The situation, as he faced it now, was desperate enough to bring the beads of perspiration to his forehead. If his supposition were true, he was stranded in London with only a few shillings, and no prospect of getting more. Then there was Annie Fletcher, the girl who had trusted him, and whom he had summoned to share his exile, never doubting but that she would fly at his bidding. He could only fervently pray that something had intervened at home to prevent her getting away. He did not like to contemplate what might have happened- to a country girl of more than ordinary attraction, hanging about at a great terminus station, waiting for someone who did not turn up. He lay dead still, his eyes staring in front of him, cursing his bad luck, all his faculties alert, his Dulses bounding, every limb and muscle of him aching to be on the move. Presently, unable to bear the increasing burden of his thoughts, he ventured to tinkle the small bell which stood on the top of his locker, and it was answered in a second or two by a grave-faced Sister who smiled quite kindly upon him. "Look here, Nurse, I want to get up," he began without D re lbninary. "In fact T simply have to get up, don't you know. Mv affairs outside can't get on without me.

She nodded and laid her- cool, coft hand for a moment on his where it gripped the coverlet so feverishly. '. "Lots of them think that, but there comes a time when one has to lie still. You are not feverish, though I see you yourself a good deal. How does the wound feel?"

"Oh, it's all right. Couldn't you put a bit of sticking plaster on it, get me my clothes, and let me out?" "I can't without the house surgeon's leave. I can get one of them, I believe, to come and see you, if you're so desperate as all that. But it would be much better for you to stop here quietly for another day. To-morrow's Sunday, you know. Shall we say Monday morning for discharge, if the doctor lets you?" She spoke soothingly as one speaks to a child.

"Get the surgeon chap, won't you, Nurse. I can talk better to him."

"All right, but perhaps he may be engaged just for a minute, but I promise you I'll see." The longest half-hour in the world dragged itself away before a boyish figure and face came round the screen, and said, "Hulloa, what's up here?" Geoffrey's eyes simply devoured his looks.

"Look here, old chap, there isn't a thing the matter with me, and I simply must get up. My affairs will get hopelessly muddled—in fact, they're muddled now. Just tell them to fetch my clothes, and let me go, there's" a good chap." The young surgeon sat down on the side of the bed and took out his thermometer. Geoffrey found it difficult to keep his tongue quietly over it for the required, seconds. "Normal,'' said the surgeon. "Well, there isn't anything to prevent you getting up if you don't feel yourself, beastly weak when you do. You lost a good deal of blood. How did it happen?" "I suppose I fell. I don't remember exactly." The other fellow nodded cheerfully, indicating that he fully understood. "I wasn't drunk, if that's what you mean," said Geoffrey in an injured voice. "Will you tell them to fetch my clothes. I seem to have lost most of my belongings, and I'm bound to go and inquire after them."

The surgeon nodded, and went off in no doubt whatever but that the handsome patient had been "out on the loose," as he expressed it, and could not give a proper account of himself. About an hour later, having had his head properly dressed, and grasping his small bag in his hand, Geoffrey departed in a hansom feeling a trifle weak and unsteady on his legs. He drove at once to the Soho Hotel, where he had met with his accident. The moment he presented himself, however, the manager appeared from the office looking the picture of stony politeness.

"/ery sorry, sir, but we have no explanation to offer. We know nothing; no, we have no accommodation to-day." "I don't want your blasted accommodation ; fetch that hatchet-faced waiter, he knows that Dutchman. I tell you, he has drugged and robbed me. He emptied my bag and stole a valuable heirloom I had in my possession. I can prove it."

"How?" '"Well, I had it here. I showed it to him. Isn't Van der Groot here still?"

"No, sir, he sailed for the Hook of Holland yesterday morning. I would not advise you to call in the police, sir," he added significantly. "They have a habit of asking uncomfortable questions, and—well, yon don't look calculated to inspire confidence in them."

Geoffrey glanced a.t himself in the cheap looking-glass above the coat rack, and was disgusted with his own appearance. "I tell you what, your place is not fit for decent people, and you yourself are a rascle," he said passionately. "I'll just slip along to Scotland Yard and see what they have to say about it. I have been roboed in your hotel, and I intend that

the fact shall be known. It won't do you any good." The manager blandly bowed. He had not much fear, for he believed that the Englishman whom he had seen a good many times was not living on the straight lines himself, and that probably the money he had lost had not even come to him honestly. A rogue is known by the company he keeps.

Geoffrey Faussit had through his own folly found himself in many awkward and uncomfortable situations, but none had been quite so desperate as the one which faced him as he left the door of the obscure little Soho hotel and turned away towards Oxford street. It was now six o'clock on Saturday evening, and all the shops in the main thoroughfares were closed. People swarmed on the pavements, however, for it was a beautiful and warm evening, on which it was' a real pleasure to be out of doors. He got on top of an omnibus, whichhad King's Cross marked on it, having some idea of seeking Annie there. The idea was absurd, as nearly forty-eight hours had elapsed since her arrival, < supposing even that she had obeyed his instructions literally. He wanted a plfce to rest for a few minutes, for his limbs still felt oddly uncertain, and the top of an omnibus would do as well as anywhere else. Right in the corner of a front seat, with, nobody opposite to him, he furtively counted out his money. His pockets contained only the two half-sovereigns and the handful of loose silver of which the nurse had spoken. She had not, noweyer, searched a small unsuspected pocket in his waistcoat, where, much to his joy, he discovered one flatly folded five-pound note. Six pounds thirteen and fourpence, therefore, stood' between him rand absolute need.

His passage- money gone, the ivory god probably by this time safe in Amsterdam or Rotterdam, his future presented a problem a cleverer man would have found it difficult to solve. It had not the overwhelming effect on Geoffrey Faussit which might have been expected. An odd lightness of heart encompassed him, forbidding him to take a gloomy view of the future. If only his mind could be set at rest concerning Annie Fletcher, he would not be long in making some plan. As he rode through the never-ceasing throng of Tottenham Court road, he conceived the idea of waiting at King's Cross until the arrival of the same train by which he had instructed the girl to travel. Probably the same porters would be on duty, and by some judicious questioning he might learn whether her arrival had been observed. He thought it probable that it might have been, as she would wait about for him, and perhaps get into friendly talk with one of them. He knew them to be friendly fellows, always willing to help people at a loss. He had about forty minutes to wait. A few minutes before the train, one of the important expresses from the north was due, the porters lined up in expectation of its arrival. Geoffrey, whose -bandaged head attracted more attention than he liked, strolled to and fro as if waiting for the train, and presently got into casual conversation with one of the men.

"I suppose you fellows are on duty most evenings at the same time and place?" he began by way of preliminary. "Yessir, every night. Some of us goes off immediately after, the next big train is the Scotch express at ten-thirty, the night chaps meet that." "Ah, I see. Were you here on Thursday night at this train?" "Yessir."

"I ought to have been, but I met with an accident," he said, indicating his bandaged head with his finger. "As it happened, it must have been very awkward for someone I expected to meet. I was in hospital at the moment. I ought to have been here, but I was unconscious too, so I couldn't send anyone to meet her or to explain." "Rather orkward, sir," said the man sympathetically, though evidently a little surprised at the unusual confidence be-, stowed upon him. "Especially for her." "It was very awkward, and I haven't been able to get any .right on the subject. Unfortunately the young lady was a stranger to London, and, I am' afraid, wouldn't know what to do when no one met her." "But she had folks to go to, sir, I suppose?" "No, she hadn't. You didn't happen to notice her, I suppose?—a slight, rather, slender girl, very nice-looking, she would be wearing a blue coat and skirt probably, and a felt hat." The man shook his head, and at the moment one of his mates Who had overheard the latter part of the conversation ventured to put in a remark. "Excuse me, sir, but I think that chap there, Bill Alderton by name, saw the party as you speaks on. I do believe he took" her *'ome to his missus. I certainly heerd something like thet; but there's Bill, 'e'll tell yer." - "Which is the man?" inquired Geoffrey eagerly. He was pointed out to him, and Geoffrey approached him at once and tapped his shoulder. "Excuse me, my man, but I think you can tell me something I want to know."

"Can I, sir?" Bill's good-natured freckled face was singularly stolid and void of expression at the moment.

"Did you happen to observe a young lady come off this train on Thursday night and stand about as if waiting for someone?" , Bill looked him up and down, observed the bandage, studied his looks, and decided to give him a definite answer. "Yes, sir, I saw her. She's at my plac now."

His tone, however, was defensive, and he seemed to wait further explanation. Briefly Geoffrey repeated the information as to what had detained him, Bill listening interestedly, and with an odd mingling of doubt and acceptance in his manner. "She took on badly, sir. It was werry rough on the young lady; why, shehadn t any money, only arf a crown; anythmk might have happened to her." • "That's right, but I couldn t help myself. Will spu be good enough to give me -your address?" Bill seemed to continue on guard, and even the whistle of the approaching train did not relieve him. _ "My missus and me was very sorry for X her, and even now I don't know exactly what to do. It was a bloomin' shime the way it 'appened. Seems to me to want a lot of explainin' away. Perhaps it might be ..a good thing if you didn't ever find 'erj sir." Bill, an honest family man, spoke these words with a dogged courage, which awakened an unwilling admiration in Geoffrey Faussit's soul. Strangers had indeed been kinder to Annie Fletcher than he had ever been, and the loyalty of the poor to one another struck him with a kind of wonder. ' "You may be quite right, my man, said he with an unaccustomed humility, "but as it happens we're bound to sink or swim together." "Air you, sir?" asked Bill, and his tone was unconvinced. "Yes, we are. She's 1 my wife. "Your wife?" repeated Bill in genuine astonishment. "Honour bright, no kiddin'?"

"Honour bright, no kiddin'." "Well, if that's' so, I ain't the right to keep her address from you. But she didn't say nuthink. 'Seemed fritened to death amost. If you like to wait till I'm orf duty in arf an hour's time I'll tike yer to my plice." "Thank you, I won't wait. If you give me the address I'll go now." "Eighteen, Paradise Grove, Camberwell," said Bill. Geoffrev scribbled it on his shirt cuff and walked away. "Queer-lookin' block, and queer story 'e do tell, Jim," he muttered to his mate as the train thundered ut> to the platform. " 'Ope I've done rite. Perhaps I should a kep 'old on 'im. It's like a pige out of the daily paper story, the missus is so keen on. Sy wot, Jim, you an' me mite try our 'and. It's mighty queer things we sees sometimes 'ere in this worry station.") It was quite dark by the time Geoffrey Faussit unearthed Paradise Grove among tho wilds of Camberwell. It was a small dull cul-de-sac, with squat small houses on both sides, having garden plots in front and quite respectable yards behind.. a remnant of the old Camberwell, which was once a favourite residential part of South London. Geoffrey hardly able to recognise his own ego in this extraordinary quest, but anxious only to make amends to the girl whose trust- he appeared to have baselv betrayed, walked up the little flagged passage and knocked at the old-fashioned door. A light was burning cheerilv in the little curtained window, and the savoury smell of fried onions, floated out to him on the stiE, quiet air. His knock was answered Immediately by Annie herself. When she saw him she gave a little cry. Geoffrey stepped quickly within the door, shut it, and took her in his arms. "You poor 'dear! I've found you. I am very sory. It was the beastliest hard luck, my dear; but there, there, it's all right!" She clung to him, sobbing, and as he held her Geoffrey Faussit realised what he had done He had taken a woman's life into his keeping, and what remained to him now was to justify her astounding faith. (To be Continued.)