Flotsam

Sun (Auckland), Volume 1, Issue 111, 1 August 1927, Page 12

Flotsam

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Caralie Stanton and Heath Hasken

Authors of “ The Real Mrs. Dare " The Man She Never Married,'’ “ Sword and Plough," &c , £fc.

To have Flotsam, i.e., goods floating on the water; Jetsam, i.e., goods cast out of a ship during a storm, ar.d Wi'sam. i.e., goods driven ashore when ships are wrecked. These wrecks were called by the vulgar. Goods of God’s mercy. (Ancient Charter of Dover.) CHAPTER XIV. —(Continued.) Bolton minutely described his recent visit to Stone’s rooms and gave his views on Stone’s attitude with studied “That is nothing new. Mr. Bolton,” said Vortex. “It exactly coincides with the conclusions I have given you. There seems no doubt that Mr. Stone is embarrassed at having his recent visit to Paris discovered and investigated, and that, for some reason best known to himself, he is endeavouring to keep the identity of a certain lady friend of his a secret. To me, knowing life as I do, and the ways and habits of gentlemen like Mr. Stone, that does not strike me as being anything out of the ordinary.” “Well, you may be right,” sighed Bolton, wearily, “but I must say that I formed the opinion that Stone was deliberately and rather clumsily withholding some knowledge he possesses of Miss Croft. Of that I am as certain as of my own existence.” “What’s your theory, sir? That he is holding the young lady a prisoner against her will? Or do you suggest he’s married and wants to keep it dark? Or what ?” “I have no definite proposition to postulate,” said Bolton. “All I say is that I am certain that Martin Stone knows where Jacqueline Croft is—dead or alive. And I want you to prove that I am right.” ‘Well,” ruminated Mr. Vortex, “of course we cl n run the risk of having a look round his flat.” “If you want an assistant in your beneficent burglarious effort,” laughed Bolton, "need I say that you can rely on my help.” “No, no, sir. If this thing has to be done, it will have to be by experts. This business of ours is a highly technical one and the introduction of amateurs is very likely to give the whole show away.” “I quite understand,” Bolton agreed. “And I am prepared to take all responsibility in the matter.” "I am bound to tell you, Mr. Bolton,” said Vortex, “that, considering the wide publicity that has been given to this unfortunate young lady's extraordinary disappearance in newspapers and posters, and bearing in mind the really handsome rewards which have been offered broadcast and privately, it seems to me humanly impossible that she can be alive. It may be done in the story books; but nowadays it is next door to impossible for a young lady to completely vanish in this way. However, we’ll go on trying to find her.” “It seems to me,” said Bolton, “that you are talking a lot of nonsense and are almost as sceptically cautious as the great Superintendent Paravane. What could be easier to accomplish? Here is a young woman unknown to save a very few people, who suddenly for reasons best known to herself, decides to walk out of Saye Castle. The chances are in her favour that no one would have seen her. A mile away there is a railway station with a frequent service to London, or Folkestone, and nearer still the main highway with a constant service of motor-omni-buses to all parts of the country. Bless my soul, if I wanted to decamp from my own house without letting anyone know, I could do it as easy as pie, and I'm rather better known thereabouts than Miss Jacqueline Croft.” “Well, all I can say, Mr Bolton,” replied Vortex, “is that w'e will do our best.” Followed several days without further news. Doubtless Mr. Vortex with his skilled squad of myrmidons was doing his best. Doubtless Mr. Superintendent Paravane and his more formidable phalanx were also doing their best. A ’t the reports from both quarters monotonous inasmuch as neither had anything to say. Stone was being shadowed from morn till night. Bolton had the doubtful satisfaction of knowing everything Mr. Stone did. He knew he w'ent to the Playhouse with Lady Crossing, and later to a well known and respectable cabaret where he danced with several perfectly respectable ladies. He learnt that he ate oysters and drank a glass of Chablis in company with Mr. Vernon Scotland at Philpots, at a quarter to one on a certain day; that he dined with the Brownes in Portman Square and left at midnight for the Junior Lucullus in Pall Mall, w’hich he left half an hour later and walked to his rooms in Foolscap Buildings in the Temple. One week-end Mr. Stone w T ent to Downhampton in Norfolk and shot pheasants, returning to town on the Tuesday in Colonel Clayshore’s car, accompanied by two well-known men. one a member of his Majesty’s Government. Then again he learnt that Mr. Stone had visited the Van Goup pictures at the Rutland Gallery in company with old Lady Smashire and her lovely daughter Imogen Palle; and on another occasion had been seen to leave the Temple and meet Mr. Justice Lovely at the Law Courts and with him go to the Barbarian Club, from whence they emerged at 6.45 with another gentleman, unknown, but suspected to be Sir Javeline Stair, K.C., or possibly Lord Wilting. They conversed somewhat hilariously on the pavement and dispersed to their several destinations, Stone’s being Foolscap Buildings. There was nothing in it. There was nothing that Stone did that could possibly be objected to and most certainly nothing that in the remotest way connected him with any secret subterfuge in relation to Jacqueline. Bolton was fed up. This espionage was not only very expensive, but was undignified. Only one thing persuaded him to keep it up. and that was a remark of Mr. Vortex. “There is no doubt in my mind,” said that gentleman, “that Mr. Stone knows he is being watched.” “Which suggests rather clumsy staff work on your part,” retorted Bolton. “You are wrong, sir. With my wide experience I can safely affirm that you can shadow an innocent man as closely as to be absolutely blatant and he’ll never suspect that he’s being watched. It’s only the man who is on the lookout for trouble that smells a rat. I’m inclined to think there’s something in your idea, although I didn’t at first.” “Then you think it is worth while going on? You know I don’t mind the expense, though it’s pretty steep.” “You can’t employ half a dozen or more first-class men who may have to pay out large s urns in expenses for nothing.” “I’m not complaining. You can have a blank cheque, so to speak. But do you think it’s any good?” “If you want my advice, sir,” said Mr. Vortex, “I’d call it off for a few days. Give him a rest, as it were. He’s on his guard now. When he finds he It, he’ll get confident and careless. Do you follow me?” “I leave it entirely to your discretion.” said Bolton. “You know what I you know what I think. Just go ahead. By the way, have you ever got into Ms rooms?” there a nothing thnr«\ Everything perhorma 1 Ji.Ht the sort of thing vvu. bnd in any gentleman’s

chambers situated as he is—a well-to-do gentleman with everything he wants in reason. No luxury. Just solid comfort. He has a laundress to look after his chambers, as they all do, and a valet, name of Swinkey, who calls himself a clerk, old chap, and well known. I naturally booked his record. Absolutely beyond suspicion. Of course, we haven’t been able to go through hi 3 letters and papers, but only take a cursory view of the premises, and that under extreme difficulty. I might say that I did it entirely on my own.” “And do you think Mr. Stone is aware i that you have been in his rooms?” j Mr. Vortex smiled foxily and shook his little terrier head. “No, Mr. Bolton, you can take that from me; he suspects most things, but he hasn’t got an idea of that.” “I am glad to have that assurance, because the idea of breaking into another man’s rooms and spying around isn’t very pleasant, to my way of thinking, even if you aren’t found out.” “Quite so, sir. As it happens, Mr. Stone’s laundress is very well known to me and has rendered us several good services in the past. It doesn’t often happen as easy as this. Moreover, I happen to know Swinkey to be as straight as a die. There’s nothing wrong about Swinkey except his name.” CHAPTER XV. AND LAST. It was a fortnight later that Bolton had a letter from Maud, though he had received several bulletins from the excellent Mr. Pedro Placer, of Madrid, announcing the steady recovery of his patient. “My dear John,” wrote Maud. “I’ve come back to life again and am feeling quite fit. I have been recuperating at Escorial, which is rather strenuous in this weather, and show’s I’m quite well. They wanted to pack me off to the South, but I refused. I think the snowy icy Gauderamas are better for me than the soft breeezs of Sevilla. “I have received all your kind messages and Inquiries and letters and telegrams. You have been very good. But is there no news of our little Miss Jack? Has nothing come of the clue I sent you weeks, months—it seems years ago? Since I have been getting over this beastly illness, which I attribute to my passion for Biscay oysters I have entirely reconstructed my point ot view. I realise what a worthless, worldly, selfish and wicked woman I have been. I have wracked my empty brain in vain to remember a single good action I have ever aone; I have wronged everybody. I have lied and cheated and I have evaded every responsibility placed upon me. “All this must read very much like: The Devil was sick—the Devil a saint would be’; but it really isn’t. Ive prayed to God all through these weary days and nights to give me a chance to make some sort of recompense. If only I could in a small degree make up to my poor little Jacqueline for the wrong I have done her! But there is no Jacqueline. If only I could in some way make good the solemn promise I made when I married Michael Croft! But poor Michael Croft has gone beyond my reach. I have thought a lot about him lately. I think—nay, I know it was I who was to blame—l ought to have stuck it out —for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, tb have and to cherish, till death us do part. . . . “And I have grievously wronged you, John, old friend. And there is no way in which I can make recompense. There is nothing I can do to repair the evil I have wrought all my stupid, frivolous and wicked life. I can only lie here, consumed by unavailing remorse, eaten up, burnt up, with the coals of fire of hell on earth. “Clarice is with me; but I know she is only here out of pity, and in her heart she regards me with only too well merited contempt. I have to write all this to you, John dear, because I have no one else to whom I can deliver my soul. Of course, I know that you will be bored stiff and regard all these revelations as morbid hysteria. Well, so be it. “I have seen a good deal of an old English-speaking Spanish priest during my stay here at the Escorial. I think he understands what is troubling me. and does his best to lessen the load that weights down my brain and soul. His theological comfort is an anodyne, a drug. I cling to it as a drowning creature to a straw. But unfortunately God gave me a wicked brain and a moderate supply of reason. I simply cannot let myself go away into this halycon sea of sentimental faith. Reduced to an absurdity his contention is that the greater the sinner the greater will be the joy of the angels on your repentance and blind acceptance of the panacea of the Church. A respectable God-fear-ing person having done no harm to man or beast leaves the Almighty cold; but a real double-dyed villain who repents, sends the angelic choir into ecstasy; but if I go on, I shall become blasphemous. “Anyhow, my dear old Pedro has brought a measure of peace to my soul. I am so earth-bound that I simply hate to even think of death, and I am physically incapable, mentally unable, to visualise a future life. I’m afraid I am altogether hopeless, though I think of them saying prayers to a God I don’t believe in, for the salvation of a soul I don’t believe I possess. “If you don’t hear any more from me, just forget me and make no further inquiries. I shall either have drowned myself in the Manzanares—which unfortunately is dried up at the moment —or accepted the soul cure of my dear old priest and joined the Church and gone into a nunnery, by means of drugging a conscience that will otherwise send me into a lunatic asylum. If you have ever seen or heard of a Spanish madhouse, you’d understand my choice lay indubitably between the two former alternatives. “Good-bye, John, dear. You have been much more than you think in my life, which I would gladly sacrifice if only I could know that you and our little Miss Jack were happily married.—Yours always devotedly, Maud.” There was a little post-script, a rather pathetic little post-script. It ran as follows: “P.S.—Madrid is only a day’s journey. I have often wondered why you have not found the time to come and see me. I am very lonely, and there are such a lot of things I want to tell you before I go mad, die, or become a nun.—M.” A mad letter in very truth! It troubled John Bolton considerably. Poor Maud! A wave of affection surged ■ within him. What a thoughtless, selfish brute he was! He registered a vow to go straight away to Madrid. By the same post that brought Maud’s letter came another epistle, no less amazing, no less mad than hers. It was from the Ritz Hotel in London, and was addressed to “John Bolton, J.P., Saye Castle, Kent,” in an envelope marked “Strictly confidential.” (To be continued.)