Into the Mists

Otago Witness, Issue 3764, 4 May 1926, Page 66

Into the Mists

By

E.Phillips Oppenheim

Author of “The Wrath to Come,” “The Hillman,” “The Tempting of Tavernakc,” "Ac., Ac.

iCorY bight. —Fob the Witness.)

CHAPTER XXI.

The morning papers were a little guarded in their references to this second mysterious disappearance in the great millionaire family. News so nuzzling as to baffle even speculative propositions was exceedingly difficult t handle, but they made a vigorous attack upon the police system of the country. The fact of Samuel’s engagement in the night before the disappe«arance added piquancy to the already sufficiently dramatic problem. Meanwhile Samuel Fernham, Senior, lay ill almost to death at Brighton, and Joseph carried with him everywhere a new expression, half-furtive, half-anxious. lie was for ever seeking the sympathy of stronger men, asking for their advice, trying to borrow from their more equable poise. Paule was one of his victims. “Speculation has become entirely unprofitably, Lord Honerton.” he said, one afternoon, when the latter had sought him out in the laboratory, and interrupted him in the midst of an interesting experiment designed to materially cheapen one of the famous Fernham productions. ‘lf anv one can solve the mystery of the dis appearance of these two young men it will have to be the police, you care to employ some of these outside private detectives. We people have our work to get on with.” “Just one word in your ear. my dear Paule. We can slip into your room for a moment?” “For five minutes,” Paule replied, his eyes fixed upon the retort he was watching, “I cannot leave this place. After that I am at your service for a minute or two. They must have this formula in the main laboratory this afternoon. We are days behind in the mixing department.” “Qnite right, my dear sir.” Joseph assented, with a touch of his old manner. “Business must be attended to. T will wait.” He passed through the inner door and, in about ten minutes, Paule joined him, wiping his hands earefullv. He threw the towel into a corner of the room and. without seating himself, waited coldly for his visitor to announce the nature of his errand. Joseph had lost all his pomposity of manner. He was almost cringing. “I am sorrv if I am taking up your time,” be began, “but I have no one to sne«ak to nowadays. Rachel lies perfectly still, her eyes wide open, but she never speaks. T see her lips move often, and I know what it means—she is praying. She eats an* 1 drinks enough to keep herself alive, drives for an hour in her nonv carriage, always towards the re-building of that cottage, and the rest of the time she knits—knits alwavs. silent.!v. When 1 speak she does "*■>♦ he t ar. I have had to come from Honerton. or I think that I should have gon* mad.” “There is vour daughter.” “It was rf .Tnlith that I wanted to speak to veil. Sh*» is as uncommunicative as her mother, but it is in a different way. You «noke inst now of private detectives. Well. Judith has on** nearly alwavs at her side. He at Honerton all through the shooting. He was actually there the dav .Samuel disanoeared He arid Judith hours going round the country together ” For a nr*icah*n space of time Paule made no reply. There was a steely gleam in h»s eves. “Do you know his name?” “Alan Rod''* ho calls himself,” Joseph answered. “He ’used to be a Scotland Yard man. I don’t know whether he still is. I alwavs understood that he had Ernest’s matte*- in hand.” Paule seated himsmlf. “Do T.ndv Judith’s investigations keep her »n Norfolk?” “They have done on till now. In fact, I think she is coming up this evening. There is a ball at Holt House—practically given for her—and Amberlevs insists irion her nrosence. I don’t blame him After all. Samuel is onlv her cousin, and there is no eortaintv that anvthiqg has happened to him. Do von know what T am going to do. Paule? I’m going to offer a reward of fifty thousand pounds for tidings of either of those two lads, dead or alive. What do you think of that ?” “I should strongly advise you to do nothing of the sort. The twenty thousand pounds you have already offered is amide. If you increase it to such an absurd sum neople will lose their heads and you will probnblv find everv minute of vour time throughout the day occupied by investigating impossible claim ants.” “What does my time matter?” Joseph exclaimed bitterly. “I want my son, and there is mv brother lying near death. He wants his son. You’re a strong man, Paule—sometimes a little hard, eh? I’ve never heard you even speak of a relative and there you are, young, good-looking, wealthy, still without a wife. We Jews are not like that. We .have our faults. We love our money over much, but we love our children, too, our families and

our women-kind, our homes. There is nothing to take their place. Now I’ve lost my son, and my wife lies stricken, and my brother’s heart is breaking because his son, too, has gone. 1 don’t know why I come and bother you. The lad Samuel always used to say that to talk to you made him feel better —you gave him strength. I suppose I drift in here with something of the same feeling.” “Samuel, I am afraid, led a somewhat irregular life, and I used occasionally to prescribe for him.” “He was like other young men, he needed someone to steady him. This girl, Joyce Cloughton, whom he’s always set his heart on, made up her mind to marry him just the night before he disappeared She would have made a different man of him, Paule. As it is. what is going to become of the. business? We nave no young men. Samuel is old and I am growing old. We have young men at the heads of the departments, but they have no claim. Why should they be given a share in a gold mine? I would rather someone who had really helped stepped into a portion of the profits. Will you be a director of the Company. Sir Lawrence?” “I am not qualified.” Paule reminded him, after a rather astonished pause. “The business must have clever young men. Up till now not a single share has been held outside the family. Samuel and I have fiftv thousand each, Samuel Junior has twenty thousand, there are twenty thousand held in trust for Ernest, my wife has forty thousand, and Henry and Judith have twenty thousand Do von know how much those share are worth, §ir Lawrence?” “I have not the slightest idea.” ‘They are worth two hundred pounds each,” Joseph confided portentously. “They have never been on the market. I do not think that thev ever will be. but at two hundred pounds each they still pav a ten per *ent. dividend. There has never been a business, Paule. like the business my father Israel founded here. I know that you gave lip a brilliant professional future to come to us You have made - great deal of mon v already compared with professional men. Now your chance comes to make more. We will appoint you a director. As for the shares, Samuel and l will each give you one hundred. That will qualify you.” “Give me!” Paule repeated. “Tt is in the Articles,” Joseph groaned, “we cannot sell. We need vour services We will give you these shares. It is a present of forty thousand pounds. No one has ever given me forty thousand pounds in my life. It is a terrible sum to give away.” ‘1 am not sure that I am a good enough business man.” “It is not for business we want you. That is for the counting house. It is for the drugs, for the medicines, to see that we make no mistakes, that we offer on the market the right things. ‘Neurota’ will travel to the four corners of the world ‘Neurota,’ handl r and ad vertised as we shall hanlde and advertise it, will make a vast fortune. We must have you Here to watch it. to analyse imitations and exnose them, to conceive, perhaps, v et fresh preon rat ions.” “It is an offer which I shall, of course, accept. Lord Honerton,” Paule decided. “I have no desire f% be a millionaire. When I am worth a certain amount of money—not a large sum from your point of view—l shall retire and devote myself entirely to research work,” “You will enter into an agreement for five years?” “I will consent to that,” replied Paule. “I alwuld not engage myself for a longer period.” Paule’s secretary presented himself. “His lordship is being urgently inquired for on the telephone,” he announced. “I have switched him through here.” The young man took off the receiver, and handed it to Joseph, who talked for a few minutes whilst Paule gave some instructions to his secretary at the further end of the room. As soon as he had finished, Joseph sank back in his chair. “I shall have to go to that hall. Judith is going to stay at Park lane. The marchioness had invited her to stay in the house ami Ambcrleys was keen on it, too.” He rose unwillingly. “I say, Paule, are you doing anything to-night? You wouldn’t care to come in and dine, would you —just us three? To tell you the truth, I don’t altogether understand Judith these days. She’s in one of her queer moods.” “I am not persona grata with Lady Judith,” Paule observed. “I rather gathered that impression last time we met.” “Judith’s been queer for weeks,’- her father confided. “She and Amberleys

have more than once been on the bn.... of a serious disagreement. I’m perfectly certain she would be as glad as 1 am to avoid a tete-a-tete dinner.” “I have a card for the dance, but those sort of things are not much in my line.” “You’re going to the dance!” Joseph exclaimed. “Well, that settles it. Come you must, and go on with us. Eight o’clock. Glad I thought of it. Capital! Now I’ll leave you to finish your work.” He bustled off, and Paule prepared to return to the laboratory. His secretary, however, reappeared. “The gentleman who was here the other day has called again to see you, sir,” he announced. “Mr Alan Kodes, I think his name is.” It was several moments before Paule arrived at a decision. Then he resumed his seat. “Show Mr Rodes in.”

CHAPTER XXII

Rodes entered, unobtrusive as ever, laid his dark Homburg hat on the table, slipped into a chair in response to Paule’s gestured invitation, and, allegorically speaking, staked out his ground for the duel to come. “Very kind of you to see me, Sir Lawrence. I was afraid, after our last interview*, access to you might have been difficult.” “When was our last meeting?” “I can’t say that it was exactly a meeting, was it?” Rodes said. “I watched you kill some very high pheasants the first day, and some very fast partridges the next. Afterwards I made one of those mistakes to which you must by now have become accustomed. I follow*ed your car towards Loudon, and let you get out of sight. A question is opened up by the fact that you took so much trouble to avoid me. Why was that, Sir Lawrence?” “I don’t like you. That is sufficient reason.” “Not quite sufficient for leaving your car by a subterfuge and motoring off in a different direction. 1 made one bad mistake, I admit, in following your empty car. You surely made another when you told the man at the roadside garage your exact destination.” “I told him because there was no secret about it,” he replied. “Then why did you not drive direct to Norwich?” “You are very inquisite,” Paule remarked. “Here is the truth. 1 left my car and returned to Norwich as 1 realised that it was impossible for me to get to tow'ii, at the hour 1 desired, by car. I doubled back to Norwich, and tried to catch the twelve-thirty train.” “You missed it, I think.” “I missed it by five minutes only.” “It still seems curious to me, that you should have left the car just as you did and returned to Norwich.” “Really? I am not accountable to you for my movements.” “You are not accountable to me, but I still represent the law. I represent also Lady Judith Honerton.” “I see. You are the private detective Lord Honerton spoke of.” “I was not aware that his lordship knew of my existence, it was Lady Judith who engaged me, and it is Lady Judith with whom I have been investigating.” “With success, 1 trust.” “We have discovered that your movements on the day following Mr Samuel Fernham’s disappearance need a certain amount of explanation.” “If ever the time should arrive and a properly qualified person should he the inquisitor, that explanation would be forthcoming.” “1* was afraid you might take it like that,” the detective sighed. “We certainly are placing the cart before the horse. Still, her ladyship showed a great deal of commonsense. It was her suggestion that I should endeavour to discover from you personally whether you had not some special reason for behaving in so unaccountable a manner.” “Her ladyship is very kind. You can go back and tell her that 1 find your joint interest in my movements flattering but absurd. If you w*ish to earn that twenty thousand pounds, Mr Rodes, you can use your time to better purpose than in dogging the footsteps of a person of my taste and harmle sness. You cannot seriously suppose that 1 am concerned in the disappearance of either of these two young men. Why, then do you waste your time taking note of my movements ?” “The problem of the disappearance of these two young men. Sir Lawrence, is one which we are unfortunately obliged to tackle—in the way of surmise, I mean —without the guiding light of motive. But for Lady Judith’s intervention I should have settled down in Norwich for the next few weeks, to try and discover the reason for your hurried visit here.” “It seems rather a pity that Lady Judith interfered. I recommend ‘The Maid’s Head Hotel’ in Norwich. 1 lunched there after missing my train.” “Sir Lawrence Paule, this is''my last visit to you, unless I come with a warrant in mv hand My final words to you shall be frank ones. 1 am defeated and humiliated in my attempts to discover the fate, either of Ernest or of Samnc* Fernham but whether your knowledge be a guilty one or not, I believe that yon have some knowledge which would help towards the solution of this mystery, and I appeal to you to assist the law and probably save the life of Ladv Honerton.” “My reply to you,” Paule replied

.u.y, ‘shall be equally frank. 1 think you are, without exception, the most flamboyant and hopeless of all the detectives 1 ever met or heard of.’’ Mr Rodes rose and brushed his dark Homburg hat with his sleeve. His attitude was meek. He had not even the air of one who has received a rebuke. “The Maid’s Head,’ I think you said, Sir Lawrence,” he remarked. “I am very much obliged.” Paule was surprised when, at a few minutes past eight, he presented himself at Park lane, to find his host partaking of his second cocktail in the winter garden, wearing a dinner jacket and black tie. “Is the dance postponed?” he asked. Joseph made cryptic signs to Martin which resulted in the production of a fresh tray of cocktails. “No, it isn’t that,” he explained, a little nervously, “but to tell you the truth I’m not much of a man at these starchy functions—you know what I mean, Paule, all formality and stilts—l—er—thought that as you were going, 1 might cry off, what?” “My dear Lord Honerton,” Paule protested. “I am afraid you scarcely realise that this is on exceptional function, and that it would be entirely out of order for me to escort Lady Judith.” Joseph turned his head at the sound of light footsteps. Judith, in a gown of pale sea-green gauze, which floated around her almost like the foam from an up-flung wave, came slowly across the room. She S.used and dropped them a little curtsey. er eyes sought Paule’s as though for his approval. “A succvss, I hope?” she queried. “Guy brought it over himself bv aeroplane from Paris this afternoon. Why does Dad look as though he had had bad news?” "Your father had a scheme for avoiding the dance to-night,” Paule observed. “He thought that mine would he sufficient escort. I have had to point out to him that this is an exceptional occasion—that my escort could not possibly lie in order.” “Sir Lawrence is quite right, Dad, brt as it happens, my cliaperonage is amply provided for. Joyce has just telephoned to say that she and her mother will call for me at ten o’clock.” “In that ca.se, my dear,” Joseph began. “Exactly,” she interrupted. “You can go to the club and play bridge.” Martin announced dinner. Judith at once laid her fingers on Paule’s arm. “Martin,” she directed, “please see to the champagne yourself this evening. I want the best in the world and plenty of it. And, Dad, let’s lie as quick as we can over dinner. I want particularly to talk to Sir Lawrence afterwards before we start.” “The quicker the better, my dear,” her father assented. “They begin bridge verv earlv at the club.”

CHAPTER XXIII

Judith left the dinner table long before the conclusion of the meal and Paule had scarcely lit his first cigarette wd.en Martin entered the room and approached him. “Her ladyship would be obliged if you would come to her boudoir, sir. Coffee will be served there.” “Got your orders, you see, Paule,” his host declared good-naturedly. “Don't mind me. Judith’s got into her head that she wants to talk to >*oll, and you’ll have to go through with it.” Paule laid down his cigarette, and followed Martin from the room. He was ushered into an apartment, of which in those first few minutes he received a confused impression of smoke-coloured draperies, Hashes n unexpected blue, .and the odour of burning wood. Judith was half seated, half reclining upon a great divan near the fire. She motioned him to sit by her side, and poured him out some coffee. “Thank you for coming so soon,” she said. “There are cigarettes on ta. table there. Don’t neglect your coffee. It’s really Turkish—orange flower and all. I’m glad you came early! we have an hour and five minutes. 1 want to talk to you.” * Paule helped himself to his coffee, and lit a cigarette. The atmosphere of the room pleased him. The walls were severe, panelled in white satin-wood. The furniture was French. The thick carpet was velvety and smoke-coloured. There were many roses and carnations in wonderful bowls. The only dominant colours in the room were a smoke-grey, a delicious soft blue, and gilt. The odour of the burning wood was faintly aromatic. “You want to talk to me. I know what about. Your tame Sherlock Holmes caine to see me this afternoon.” “Do you ever make a mistake in life?” “Infrequently,” he admitted. “Well, you have made one now. I have nothing to say to you on that subject.” “I am surprised.” “I want to talk about myself.” “To me?” “Why not? Aren’t von interested?” There was a note almost of anxiety under the faint insolence of her question. She was looking straight into his eyes. Paule had baffled her more than once, but after all, he was a human being. There must he a wav through the armour of his impertability. Her moment must come. “Everyone,” he said, “is interested iu Lady Judith Fernham.” “1 am unhappy. Y’ou think that extraordinary?” “You seem to have gathered the moat of life’s gifts. What more do you dosire ?”

'“I am young. 1 have looks, wit, a certain vogue amongst people who count. I have al It lie money a person could use or 6pend, and I am engaged to marry the eldest son of a marquess. Yet it is to you that 1 have to turn for help.’* “I imagined that you mistrusted me. You have recently shown a desire to avoid me. What surety have you that I would help you, even if I could?” “No surety, only a conviction,” she answered confidently. “I am afraid of you. I suspect you of nameless things. Yet I know that you are the only person who can help me. I know that you are nearer to me than any of these others, that, as I speak, so you will understand.” He was on the point of interruption, hut her arm flashed out, slim, white, and beautiful. “No. You fence with your tongue. You don’t give me a chance. You shall remain silent. Afterwards you can say as much as you like. In the meantime this is my homily, and the text of it all is that I am unhappy. You know what is to happen to me to-night, of course. I am to set the rivets upon my bondage. Freddy is to be my husband. “I am not a fopl. 1 know very well that I can’t go through life without a husband. I should much prefer a lover, but I have that much of my race in me. I am virtuous because 1 can’t help it. Freddy doesn’t help at all. Now can’t you see? I don’t want to marry F reddy.” Paule threw his cigarette away. He was conscious of a langour of the senses. His brain, which had never once played him false was working still. All the time he knew his danger. “Other women before me have done this thing,” she continued, “have been qualified by their instincts to walk in the sacred groves, or have climbed the ladder and made their way there, only to follow the same will-o’-the-wisp and sink into the drab places. No one can ever really escape, you know. Look at the clock. It is twenty minutes to ten. At ten o’clock the Di>?hess of Midlothian will be here with a little congratulatory speech all ready on her lips.” “What do you want me to do,” he asked not altogether steadily. Her voice swam like joy* at the little break in his voice. She leaned towards him. One arm was around the back of the divan, the fingers of her other hand seemed creeping towards him. “You know,’’ she said. “You and I breathe the same atmosphere. Our eyes see the same things. You may be as wicked as hell, but you are the only person to whom I could come for salvation. For some reason you have the will to hate me. Is it strong enough. Stoop down, Lawrence—nearer—nearer !” After all his embrace was like nothing she had imagined. Every line in his face seemed to have softened. There was a tenderness in those stern eyes of which she had never dreamed. His arms went around her almost deliberately, his lips sought hers with something of the same studied care. There was nothing of the blindness of passion in that long, wonderful caress. She felt herself raised to her feet, her arms still round his neck. He held her throbbing body closely, whilst his lips sought her eyes, her hair, her lips again. She felt the sense of something everpewering, a passion born of other things than the strength of his arms and his softly-whispered words. Presently he let her go. Even then she feared to open her eyes. She heard his voice, a little stifled. "It is ten o’clock, Judith. In a moment your chaperon may be here.’’ She opened her eyes then and smiled at at him. “You are the only person who could have solved this for me,” she murmured. “Do you mind going now? I am ringing for my maid. Unless you care about it, don’t come to the hall. Later on in life I’ll make my curtsey of thanks to you.” “Later on in life?” he repeated. She stood with her finger upon the bell. "Why not? You have been wonderful. You alone could have saved me. Later on I will tell you how grateful.” Tlie maid entered, and there were tidings of Joyce and the duchess. Paule made Ins escape. (To be continued.)