Her Hidden Husband

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 669, 22 May 1929, Page 5

Her Hidden Husband

i Serial Story Jj

By

Arthur Applin

Author °f “The Ddnt/erous Game” “The Greater Claim* • "The 'Woman Who Doubted” dc. t dc.

Copyright

I CHAPTER VIJ I. He laughed as he saiil that, as if realising it wasn't nece/ssary, but always lie had felt Saraj.vak sort of identified him. The stranger was lidding out a eigar case; Jim took a black cheroot and lit it; lie wondered why his bauds V'ere suddenly unsteady. “If tve were out in the Malay Archipelago againAdrifting about in an old wind-jammer, I should think the son had touched you. What’s the *reat idea, anywafy? Here, .1 oe,* he ded to tie bar tender, “a couple of Daiquiris—and iP you don’t know how to mix them I'll, get you fired.” Jim put his brand up to his head; a mist was rising before his eyes again, m wh ch 1 e setw the face of the man •ntent, puzzled yet with a sense of tmmour flickering in his sun-baked ores. He remembered him! He was Job Buchanan; they had gone out Last together in the same ship—The “gypt; knocked about a bit. Bob anally settling in Penang while he "ent on tc. North Borneo. „He held out his hand. ‘’You’ll nink thav'e’s something wrong with me Bob. forgetting your name—can’t spiain new;, but I got a crack on the \?b, <x>minK borne . . . killed poor -■arkliam. But, of course, you know 7" He was thinking vaguely it was Door sort of a joke on Buchanan’s a ft to hiqve addressed him as Marknam. The bar tender pushed two glasses h M .. t,ose ' c ’oloured liquor toward . eni - ’T"° r a corpse you're looking P at!" Bob said, raising his glass. trying to forget who you Chinck .® ay remilu ' you, old chap. A n «nieless fear gripped Jim’s vhi !’ was the same quality of fear nicli he had known when he awoke . t ,. c ?“* :iou siiess in his state-room on frit„T ala >' a . 'yihg beside his dying not knowing who he was, hnimt ae came from, or where he was V But he was frightened now V r au *i® he was beginning to rememj.’ ,2 t emor y was returning in sudwaves and spurts. acci «t, retlem * sere< * every detail of the j„ ® nE - He saw two men running ft- the docks; he saw the hook ...cl “e chain of a swinging crane i,., “. aE< l lift him off his feet; . . • (r»»t < d the cocktail to his lips and a ea * erly - Suddenly he stopped, the glass, and, leaning for- • Peered into Buchanau’s face, at ni S eyes nere no longer laughing .. m - “Look here, finish that off and

come outside and tell me what’s wrong, old mail.”

Jim raised the glass and passed it slowly to and fro beneath his nose. "The last time I drank a Daiquiri,” - he said, as if speaking t,o himself, “was at the Chinks’ bar alongside the docks at Singapore. My God! —I remember! I remember!”

A strong, lean hand gripped his arm firmly; unresisting, he allowed Buchanan to lead him outside. They crossed Piccadilly Circus again, and while they were held up a moment for the traffic. King turned his head and glanced up at the building where he had seen the crane. The throbbing of the donkey-engine now drowned every other sound; it silenced the voice of London; it beat with dreadful insistence in his ears, and every throb carried him back into the past. He reeled under Buchanan’s guidance down Regent Street. like a drunken man. He felt as if his head were going to burst. Through Waterloo Place, down a long flight of steps, across a green expanse of grass into the Park facing a small patch of water, beside which wild geese preened their feathers and gailyplumaged ducks waddled stupidly. Presently the drumming in his ears died away; his brain began to dear and grow calm, though he could feel the blood throbbing in his temples where the veins stood out in purple knots. He heard Buchanan’s voice as calm and placid as the water of the lake facing them. “I’ve been buried in Cuba for five years, then California and the Southern States. Lost track of all my friends; don’t know anj r thing that’s happened. Afraid l must have given you rather a jar just now. If you’re feeling better, old man, tell me what the trouble is. I know how that infernal climate can play old Harry with a fellow. King slowly nooded his head. “It wasn’t the climate.” As if at the command of his sub conscious mind he pulled his watch from his pocket and looked at the time. “I’m due to meet a girl—my future wife: we're to be married the day after to-mor-row.” “Well, that’s good news!”

King looked at him gracefully. “You’re a stout fellow. I remember you always believed in me, didn’t you? Lm going to put a bit of a strain on your faith now. Look at me, and think well before you speak. I am Alfred Markham, aren’t I?” Buchanan laughed. “I’m prepared to make an affidavit of it! My dear

old man, don’t tell me ” Markham buried his head between his hands. “I’m dead,” he said, “dead and buried!” He felt the firm grip of Buchanan's hand again. “Well, I’ve pulled you out of the grave all right and I’m not going to let you go back. Tell me all about it! your girl can wait.” Markham rose to his feet, his hands tightly clenched'; Buchanan watched him uneasily. “My girl,” he said, “my girl—Pete! My wife would have let me marry her—she would have let me commit bigamy so that, through my supposed death, she could inherit my fortune. God, are there such women in the world! ” “I’ve met them,” Buchanan said dryly. “They're not very different from us, old man. Here, sit down again and tell me the whole story; it will help you, and, as it rather looks as if you have got into a bit of a mess, two brains are better than one.” Markham dropped back into his chair again. For a long time he sat with closed eyes letting his mind carry him back, step by step to the point where memory had first returned—he and his pal, Jim King, drinking a final Daiquiri at the Chink’s bar on the docks at Singapore. . . . The sun began to sink, going down in a red glow behind the trees of Hyde Park. It was growing dark before he finished his story.

Buchanan listened without interrupting. “It’s a good yarn, I admit.” he said quietly, “and you’re certainly in a bit of a mess, but you’re not the first man to lose his memory and his identity; it’s been a common enough experience since the war. If you take my advice you’ll go back to your club: have a good dinner, piay a quiet rubber 1 of bridge, and do nothing until to-morrow. Y’ou’ve had • a bit of a shock, remember,” his lean face lighted with a cynical smile—“but it’s nothing to the shock you’ll give your wife! I suppose she hasn’t had time to chuck your fortune in the gutter yet?” “Hardly; but I knoy the man who was going to help her do it.” There was an ugly look in Markham's eyes. “I was to be married the day after tomorrow, and I’m going to ask my wife to-night if she would like to come to the wedding!” CHAPTER XIX. Alfred Markham flung himself out of the taxi even before it had come to a standstill at his wife's house. He pushed upon the little iron gate, then stopped and stood staring. A board faced him: “This house to be let or sold, furnished or unfurnished. Apply, Messrs. Joseph and Joseph. His house! He couldn’t resist a grim smile. He was about to mount the steps when again he paused; everv window was tightly closed and shuttered. He stared into the basement; the windows there were shuttered, too. To make certain that neither the servant nor a caretaker had beeu left he rang the front door bell violently and hammered on the knocker. Empty houses have a way of announcing the fact themselves when one asks for admitance. As Markham turnevi away . he saw a policeman standing outside the garden gate. "The house is shut up—it’s' to be sold. You might have seen that!” Alfred Markham pushed past him and opened the taxi door: “Well, it’s my -house; I’m Alfred Markhani. I suppose I've got a right to get* into my own property?” “Here, hold on a moment!” the constable, said, as Markham gave in-

structions to the taxi driver, “the lady to whom that house belongs is a widow; her husband's been dead some time.” “Well, he's very much alive again now,” Alarkham cried, as the taxi drove away. “You'd better put that in your report for headquarters.” He was in no mood to argue. He was trying to keep hold of himself, for he was in danger of going off the deepend, and Buchanan had made him promise before leaving him that he would keep his hea,d and do nothing rash. Tt wasn’t easy after being dead and buried for th~ee months to come to life again suddenly. But he was going to be calm, he assured himself, for Pete’s sake. Because he loved her he must do nothing rash, make no false step. He drove to Germain Street Alansions, where he knew Bosworth had furnished chambers. Both instinct

T and reason sent him there. The hall i porter he met on the doorstep in- i j formed him that Mr. Bosworth had i left three days ago—indeed, he had 1 , 1 given up his rooms, j “Where’s he gone?” Alarkham asked. and added quickly, to avoid rousing the man’s suspicions, “I must get a 5 message through to him.” ' “Left for the Continent, sir—that’s - all I know. I remember some tici kets'and papers coming for him by } express messenger from the Sleeping ; Car Company’s oflices in Pall Alall.” L Dismissing the taxi, Markham s walked across to the club. He wished 5 now he hacl accepted Buchanan’s offer . to accompany him. He was not ac- * customed to being himself yet. Some ) hard thinking was necessary. His thoughts were travelling at a fearful j - speed, and he wanted some one to: 1 put on the brake for him. : Both reason and instinct told him :

| that Bosworth and his wife had gone | off together— married probably? . . ! - • • Yes, remembering his wife, he ;*'vas quite sure. She would not have ! gone off with Bosworth until they were legally married. He set his teeth as he recalled the various incidents which had occurred from the moment he found Violet waiting for him in the captain's cabin on board the Malaya. Clever, he thought, with more daring than he would have expected without a scrap of conscience. : Almost mechanically he began to finish packing his suitcase. He wondered . what had aroused Bosworth’s sus- ; picions. Of course she would never have told him, hut he knew all right, he was certain of that. A crafty i devil, he thought, remembering how : Bosworth had jockeyed him into admitting he had been educated atj | Taunton Grammar School, and remem-j

bered being his fag. He knew now ! that Sherborne was the only public ! school to which he had gone, and when he left there he had been sent ' straight out to Singapore, where he got a commission in the police force. It was nearly nine o’clock before lie ’ went to Pete’s hoarding house to fetch her. She had just been telephoning his club, though the hour he was going to call had been uncertain, she confessed she was beginning to worry. She hid her surprise at his changed appearance until they were alone. “Darling, what made you do it? Let me look at you. Jim—you look rather woiitlerful. I had no idea you were such a handsome man.” “Sweetheart, I want to kiss you so much.” She laughed softly as she pressed j

his arm. They walked to Marble Arch, where they turned into the park. It was almost deserted, but the darkness helped to hide them from the few people who strolled about — lovers mostly, like themselves. I kept you waiting for the best part of three hours and you accept the fact without questioning,” Markham said. “Fine of you, Pete!” (To be continued daily)