SHORT STORIES.

Otago Witness, Issue 3566, 18 July 1922, Page 66

SHORT STORIES.

[All Rights Reserved.] A MOMENT QF MADNESS.

By

Gladys Waterer.

Henry Copeland entered 1 Morton Sinclair's room with his usual sensation of superiority. And tne iirst thing he saw was Mildred St. Justes gold cigarette ease lying dh the table. It gave mm an unpleasant shock, for Mildred St. Juste was the girl he intended to marry. She was one of the most com ted girls of his set, rumour had accorded her a certain amount of money, and so far she had given him no encouragement ,■ all of which made his determination more fixed. He was the kind of man who likes to be seen with the woman of the moment, and who would never marry a girl whom ether men did not desire. But having decided to marry her. he objected to her friendship with M orton Sinclair, for Morton was a man known for a certain dare-devil freedom of action, and carelessness of reputation; there were some tales —-any way Henry Copeland had always disliked him. He could not think why that sort of man wos always so fascinating to women. He had tried to warn Mildred, and been badly snubbed for his pains. But coming to*the fellow’s rooms was a little far, even for a modern girl to go, he thought. And the room itself, with its Eastern hangings in nankeen China, and Persian carpets, its intimate shut-away-by-itself atmosphere suggested impropriety to Henry’s narrow and rigid views. After a few moments Morton came to him, looking Bohemian and attractive in his dark blue velvet smoking coat, and loose collar. '‘Evening, Copeland,” he said. “How goes it?’’ He proffered a cigarette which was declined, teen fiung himself into an easy chair. "Wei l ,” he said. “Any news’ Anything special brougnt you in so late? Ur is it pure friendliness: ’ “I wanted to talk to you,” said Henry, one eye on the cigarette case. “Yes?” Henry Copeland took a sudden resolve, he took it blindly, without thinking either of the impertinence of his action, or its consequences. He picked up the gold cigarette case. “I came to talk about this,” he said curtly. A slight frown appeared on Sinclair’s forehead. “But you could not have known, when you rang my bed, that you would find that trifle up here,” he answrered. “I suspected it,” said Henry. “Indeed?” “I know that the owner of that cigarette case—’’ * 5 “It happens to belong to me,” interrupted Sinclair. Henry was scornful. “I’ve seen it often enough before,” he said. “Perhaps you will explain how it comes to be here.” Shmkiir laughed. “Well, of all the cheek,” he began, and left .the sentence in the air. Henry Copeland saw the impossibility of the position he had taken up, and became flustered. “Miss St. Juste—he said. But Sinclair again interrupted him. “That will do, Copeland,” he said. Mildred St. Juste is at liberty, I take it, to choose her own friends. The fact that you happen to think one of them a bit of a blackguard does not give, you the right to interfere, and what’s more, I’m not going to stand your interference.’’ As he spoke, footsteps sounded down the passage outside, the, footsteps of two people, Morton raised his hand, listened a moment, then took the gold cigarette case from the table, tumbled a cigarette or two into it, and leant back in his chair, ■f'oere was a sharp rap at the door. ■ entlema " insists upon seeing you, Sir,” said Sinclair’s valet in an aggrieved voice, and before the words were out of his mouth, the stranger had entered tlie room. He looked from the one to the other and bowed slightly to Morton. ««rv* nc^a^r ; I believe,’ 3 he said Quite right,” said teat gentleman, i m Morton St. John Sinclair, at yonr service. What do you want?” a P°i°gise for such an untimelv call, said the stranger. “My name i~s Borne. I want to ask you a few questions. ’ ’ Questions.'—hat on earth about?” ‘lt’s a mere matter of form.” , x “Well fire away, but I don’t promise to answer them.” Mr Borne coughed slightly, and took a seat Sinclair had indicated. “Are you acquainted with the Duchess of Beringasked. The expression in Morton s eyes altered. ‘Aes, I’m acquainted with her, but P »he only nows me, when she wants an extra man for a party or dance, someone, to look after elderly maiden ladies, and influential voters wives,” he said “You were at her dance the,' night before last? “I was.” . “You know that she Iras lost a valuable diamond since that night?” “My dear fellow. I’ve been told so about twenty times to-day. Arc you by any chance here to accuse me of stealing it?” “No,” said Mr Borne. “But you have spent some hours to-dav in the company of the person suspected’ of having stolen it.” “Dear me,” said Morton. “Which of my friends is such an undesirable fellow?” “The person in question is not a man: it is Miss Mildred St. Juste.” “What.”’ exclaimed Sinclair.

Henry Copeland sprang to his feet. “That’s impossible,” he cried. “That is all very well, but it must be proved,” said Mr Borne. “The facts of the case are simple. The Duchess gave a dance at Benngham Hall the night before last. Miss St. Juste, a member of the house party, was with the Duchess in her room just before they went down to dinner, and the Duchess showed her the diamond necklace, which had just come back from the cleaners. Later, iu the middle of the evening, Miss St. Juste complained of feeling tired, and went up to bed. The Duchess’s maid, upon going into her mistress’s room to put things in readiness for the night, a little after one o’clock, found on the dressing table, a gold cigarette case. Remembering that Miss St. Juste had been with the Duchess, and the initials on it being hers, the maid took the case to Miss St. Juste s room. Mis,; St. Juste was sitting over the fire in her dressing gown, and seemed very upset at being disturbed. First sue said the case was not hers, and then she claimed it. The next morning, yesterday, she left early, and later in the day the Duchess missed her diamond necklace. Suspicion naturally fell upon Miss St. Juste, and so far my enquiries have confirmed that suspicion.” “Rot,” said Jack Sinclair. “You can have no case against her.” “Pardon me, I have a pretty complete one,” said Mr Borne. “So complete that I hold a warrant for her arrest.” There was a silence, during which Henry Copeland gasped for breath at his escape. Supposing, —supposing he had been already engaged to Mildred. But he had wanted her badly, and it hurt to learn that all his dreams and hopes were impossible. “Have you any information to give me?” Mr Borne was saying. “Only that you are a fool, my dear Sir,” said Morton casually, “quite on the wrong scent.” “You prove it,” exclaimed the detective, nettled. “All right,” answered Morton. He went across to a curious Chinese cabinet, unlocked the front of it, pressed a spring which caused the side to fall out, and felt behind it. “There,” he said, “are the Duchess’s diamonds,” and flung them on the table, a little cascade of glittering drops. “How the devil did you get them, exclaimed Henry Copeland. “By the simple process of taking them,” answered Sinclair, and his mouth looked grim, in spite of his dare-devil manner. ° "But whatever motive— —’" began the detective, looking round him. “What is usually a thief’s motive: I wanted money at once, and desperately. I took them, because the Duchess is so careless, and it was so easy. I should have made good with them, too, if my own infernal carelessness in putting down and leaving my cigarette case had not implicated Miss St. Juste. “Then the case was yours.” “'Here it is,” said Morton, handing it to him. “Will you have a smoke?” Mr Borne’s manner signified that he thought flippancy out of place. He took the case, and examined it. ‘Why not your own initials?” lie asked. “What do vou mean?” “M. St. J.?” “Ylorton St. John. The case -was given me, about a- fortnight ago, on a special occasion, by someone who does not use my surname when addressing me.” Henry Copeland winced at this, but his relief was so great at the turn which events had taken that he felt almost grateful to Ylorton. “It showed uncommon stupidity to leave it behind you,” he observed dryly. “You are perfectly right, it did. It was one of the slips the cleverest of criminals sometimes make,” agreed Ylorton. “I had the thing in my hand, ready to open and be tapping down a cigarette, if I met anyone in the passages—a smoke is always a plausable excuse for a man to be wandering apart at a dance. In my excitement I put it down and forgot it.* I abide by the consequences, it’s the luck of the game.” He sat down on the edge of the table. “Whatis your next move:” he inquired of Ylr Borne. Mr Borne stretched out his hand and drew the shimmering heap of diamonds towards him. “How did you get back the cigarettecase?” he inquired. ‘Yliss St. Jute returned it to me.” “Being unaware, I take it, of its importance?” “No. realising the bearing it might have on this unfortunate little affair,” answered Ylorton. "She knew something was wrong when the case was taken to her by the maid, hence her flustered manner and hesitation to claim it. She left first thing, feeling that she must see me, and hear the explanation. ' “She knows then?” Sinclair turned away, his face in shadow. ‘l’ve told you sufficient, ' he said lraskilv. “What passed between Yliss St. Juste and mvself is cur affair. You take the diamonds back to the Duchess, and ask her not to prosecute. I’ll clear out of the country, and start afresh in the colonies. But Ylr Borne did not see that. “I must trouble you to coane with me,” he said shortly. “Oh. very well,” said Ylorton. ‘Excuse me, Copeland, sorry to leave you. Ylake yourself at home.” Henry Copeland did not answer. He lingered a. moment or two after they had gone cut, undecided what course he should take. He had no wish to he implicated in tile affair, vet the temptation to go straight to Mildred St. Juste with his sartling news was very great. How would she take this unexpected downfall of his rival? Did she really care for Sinclair, or was that only his bravado? Ho was not a bit surprised that Ylorton had turned out a real wrong ’un, anything might have been expected of him. But Ylildred. what a preposterous suggestion! He opened the door, then hesitated cautiously. There was a step on the stair,

someone corning up ; de drew back. The next moment the steps approached the door, and he found himself standing face to face with Mildred St. Juste herself. She was in evening dress, and had the appearance of being pressed for time, and anything but pleased to see him there. But she drew herself up with a touch of defiance, and inquired for Ylorton. “He’s out,” said Henry Copeland. Ylildred St. Juste frowned. “What a nuisance!” she exclaimed. “Well, I must wait.” She loosened the fur-edged silken wrap she wore, and sat down in the most comfortable of the armchairs. “But, mv dear girl,” expostulated Henry, “you can’t wait here.” “Why not?” /It simply isn’t done,” he exclaimed. She gave a little laugh that was singularly mirthless. “Don’t be stodgy, Henry,” ’she said. “Obviously it’s done, since I am doing it. But you need not do it too, mu know.” She looked at him provokingly. She was very charming. Her dull red frock clung to her form, and outlined her white neck and bare arms. There was some rich embroidery on the bodice, and her only ornament* was a priceless chain of Eastern beads, hanging far below her waist. She toyed with it, the brilliant baubles slipping through her fingers. The whole effect of her was curiously Eastern, even her face as she sat watching him beneath half-lowered eyelids suggested the mystery and inscurtability of the Fast. He could not understand her, but he loved her, and he was madly jealous of the way she fitted into the atmosphere ef Sinclair’s' rooms. “I shall not leave you here alone,” he said firmly. “How very tactless of you,” she murmured. “You ought to be afraid of being de trop.” He made an impatient movement. “It should be so obvious that I do not come to a man’s rooms at this time of the evening to entertain his friends.” “I think you must be mad,” he said. “Sometimes I am, just a little,” she scoffed. ‘Look here,” he demanded. “Are vou really engaged to Sinclair.” “I believe so.” she answered. “Then you’ll have to give him up--it’s impossible,” he cried. “Who appointed you as my husband chooser, Henry?” she inquired coolly. He was exasperated. “You cannot marry a common criminal,' he declared. The expression in her eyes altered. “What do you mean?” she asked, and her languorous voice seemed studied now, instead of natural. Sinclair stole the Duchess of Bering--11 am’s diamonds,” he said with a ring of triumph in his tones. Nov; he had startled her. All the colour left her face, her eyes grew tragic. She looked him up and down with °c.n expression that held scorn, perhaps fear. “What an unutterable little cad vou are,” she said at length. “Y T ou may call me names if you like,” he retorted hotly, ‘but some day you will thank me for taking vou awav from here.” “Who told yon?” she demanded. He related, with a certain satisfaction, ■ what had taken place. “so, you see. it’s no good vou’re waiting to see Sinclair. You may as well let me accompany you home. She did not seem to hear him. He saw her lips tremble. She appeared to him to look years older in a few moments, and strangely haunted. She shivered. Come along,” he said gently, sorry for the blow he had inflicted, now he saw it taking such devastating effect—vet marvelling at the love she evidently, had for such a worthless fellow as Sinclair. * “No,” she answered. “But you must.” “Don’t give me orders,” she exclaimed impatiently. She raised her tragic eyes to his.. It was I who stole the Duchess of Beringbam’s diamonds,” she said with an effort. “Good God! Then it was true?” “It is true.” “You are trying to shield him.” “He is trying to shield me,” she contradicted. “I stole the diamonds in a moment of absolute madness. I can’t explain it and anyway you wouldn’t understand. You know I went to stay | with the Du Fraynes in Ireland. I played high there and lost heavilf, tried to recoup, made matters worse, and was in _ debt —hundreds. I’ve never done it before. It haunted me—it got on my nerves, I couldn’t sleep for thinking of it. And Ylorton and I were going ~ to be married and I wanted to be clear. I thought and thought about it, till -it fairly possessed me. That evening the Duchess showed me her diamonds I felt a* the end of my tether. I don’t know what- made me do it, but I took them.” “Ylildred !” “The moment I’d done it and got back to my room, I came to my senses and realised the awfulness of what I’d done, and that at all costs I must return them. I was thinking how, when the maid brought me my cigarette case which I must, as a matter of fact, have left there earlier in the evening. But 1 knew they would suspect me. I completely lost my head, and, as soon as I could, I ran away.” But —the case Sinclair has, that is his?” “Of course it isn’t. He took the case, the necklace, and the suspicion from me.” Henry Copeland was silent, stunned by this revelation. “I told Ylorton what I’d done, I knew I had to. And he was such a brick. He was quite calm about it, and said he would soon set it straight for me, but he must have the necklace and the case, and I must do just what he told me, and confirm any explanation he made, or anything he did. I .agreed, I was fairly dazed by then. Now this has happened. he had no time, and when it came to the point he just took the whole affair on his shoulders. But I won’t con-

firm that story. Everyone must know the truth.” She caught up her wrap and drew it round her with desperate haste. “What are you going to do?” he demanded. “Follow Morton and make a clean breast of it,” she said. “Hullo!” came a lazy voice from the door. “Quite a party.* Don’t go, Mildred. Why, what’s the matter, dear?” It was Sinclair. Mildred stopped short. “I know what you’ve done. Henry has told me and I’ve told him the truth,” she cried. He put an arm tenderlv round her shivering form. “Steady, little girl,” he said gently. “There is nothing to worry about. The Duchess has consented not to prosecute, they’ve been ’phoning to her. She is quite satisfied with the return of her diamonds.” Mildred clung to him. “But I will not have you labelled a thief all your life,” she cried. “Henry, you will tell everyone—everyone, the real truth.” “Be quiet, Ylildred,” Sinclair exclaimed, with an unusual sterness in his voice. “Copeland, I request you to say nothing of what has occurred to-night in the privacy of my rooms. If you do, I shall deny it, and I shall take any steps, mind you, any steps I think fit to protect the honour of—my wife.” “Your what!” cried Henry Copeland. “We were married by special license at a Registry Office this afternoon,” said Sinclair. “It was rather sooner than we intended, but, when this happened, I wished to have the fullest right to protect her in every way. Now, as it is rather late, and Mildred is tired, if you would wish’ us good-night, we should be grateful. You might wish us bon voyage also, for we leave England on our honeymoon the end of the week. Good-bye, and mind you hold your tongue!” “Good Heavens,” ejaculated Henry Copeland, going down the stairs. And again as he reached the street, “Yly God !” _