Her Hidden Husband

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 671, 24 May 1929, Page 5

Her Hidden Husband

Serial Story ;

By

Arthur Applin

Author of The Dangerous Game/* “The Greater Claim/' “The Woman 'Who Doubted/* <Gc., <£c.

Copyright

CHAPTER XX (Continued). “You have hit the psychological moment,” he cried. ’‘What will you eat?” I was going to order lobster Americaine.” He saw' the expression on her face; she looked ghastly. “What’s the matter? Lost everything, I suppose? I told you it was a mug's game. Sit down and have a glass of wine ” She leant toward him, holding on to the table for support. “He’s here — Alfred! We must go at once! Quick —come now—take me out of this. . . . Don't you understand ” as Bosworth leant back, staring at her. “He knows—l’m certain he knows. He recognised me!” Bosworth emptied his glass. “He —who?” “I told you. Quick, let s get out of this.” Too late, she realised she had given herself away; not that it mattered much; nothing seemed to matter at that moment. Bosworth would have tound out, anyway. She watched him nse slowly, call the waiter, and carelessly throw down two hundred francs. “Better have a glass of wine.” He filled a glass for her and his own again, “i don’t know what the trouble *®» dear,” he said in a low voice, “but tor Heaven’s sake, pull yourself toSether. Everyone s watching us.” He felt a bit shaken himself, though didn't show' it. Of course, he knew' Violet meant, but he wasn’t go--IQg to allow her to give the game away r“ B °t bis game. From the moment bad been introduced to King at Abingdon Villas he had suspected something. Suspicion had grown to Practical certainty, but he reminded mmseif as he followed Violet through he dimly-lit gardens out into the that his conscience was clear. e hadn’t really known; and the oman he had married must never Soess that he had suspected. Bigamy an ugly business —a crime. helped her into a ■waiting motorand told the driver Hotel Majestic. dim l * l ? bis arm around her; it wasn t a the part of husband and lover. He ought to have felt son-y for her . he CQuld fe el her h ,filing in the crook of his arm be was thinking only of himself Jwas necessary. . „‘ sow » calm yourself, darling, and v‘! me quietly what has happened, th v aid you had seen Alfred and oat he recognised you?” in* l°°bed at him with eyes no s!cr cold, but hot with fear. She

had lost her nerve. Now, looking at the man in whose hands she had placed her life, apd the greater part of her fortune she steeled her heart, fought a desperate battle to recover her courage. "Fool!” she thought—in a moment of panic to have given herself away. Bosworth, she believed, loved her; conceit and egoism, two dangerous things, deluded her into the belief that it was her own fascination and personal charm more than her fortune which had made him inarm her. After all, he had been keen on her for a long time, often hinting that she ought to divorce her husband. The motor-car was roaring up the hill on the top of which the Hotel Majestic was perched. Bosworth was asking her to tell him again what had happened, in a voice of authority, now. "This man Alfred, who recognised you that was Markham’s Christian name, wasn’t it?” , , , She held her breath; the whole of life seemed held in suspension at that moment. “Yes, it was my husband but changed so that, at first. I didn t know him. He has shaved his beard

—he must have done that on purpose.” * Bosworth held her closer, staring at her in bewilderment as if he thought she was losing her reason. “Your husband!—What are you saying, Violet? Your husband’s been dead and buried at least four months. Unless ” She withdrew from his encircling arms and, turning, looked at him boldly. "Jim King is my husband. I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t recognise him; remember —after all those years. . . . He disguised himself. And then I had proof the captain gave me —the death certificate and everything. . . . Oh, yes, as Bosworth tried to sgeak, “I felt there was something wrong; he frightened me, he was evil. He did it on purpose, Tom—just the sort of thing he would do. I know he always hated me because . Now he thinks he’ll be revenged on me, on both of us. . . . You won’t let him, will you? We can go away; we can hide. Or shall wc stay and fight him? He is as much to blame as you or I.” With calm deliberation Bosworth said: "I knew nothing.” The motor-car stopped outside the hotel, a uniformed porter ran down and opened the door of the tonneau. Two page boys swung the revolving glass doors of the entrance to the great lounge. Bosworth took Vera’s arm and led her to the ]jft. Swiftly it took them to the second floor and they went into their suite of rooms decorated in blue and gold. The french windows led on to a balcony and both stood wide open. Below, the garden lay mysterious- in the moonlight, throwing up the scent of flowering shrubs and plants. Violet switched on all the lights; throwing oft' her cloak she began to walk up and down the luxurious room. Bosworth walked out on to the balcony and stood hands in pockets look* I ing up at the sky. The lesg said the ! better. It was Violet's funeral; the ; first move must be made by her, so he j waited for her to come to him, and while he waited he glanced back at the last few days they had spent together and looked into the future. They had had plenty of fun, and if they* had to part he would miss her, but there were as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it if one had the , right bait to catch them—and money’ , was the only bait the world used now. It was a pity about the marriage settlement, and there had been certain delays, but he calculated that they had over thirty or forty thousand pounds in cash and negotiable securities. It was worth the risk, and up to the present moment he had been an innocent party. Violet was standing by his side; she put her hand on his arm. but he only saw the jewels shining on her fingers. “We’re wasting time.'’ she said. “If he doesn’t know we’re staying here ; he’ll find out and follow us. Hadn’t j we better —run away?” Bosworth didn’t reply; he remained ! standing, hands in pockets, staring; into space. He saw millions of worlds ! and wondered dully what they were; doing up there and whether there was )

money in them. The earth was small, hardly a spot in it where a man couldn’t be followed. Suddenly he felt Violet’s arms around his neck, saw her face upraised close to his, saw her red lips parted and her white teeth. “Tom — you love me? Tell me you love me —that you won’t let me down. Look at me—say you’ll take me away. We can't be parted like this—l won’t give you up—l love you!” She pulled down his head and kissed his mouth. “It’s no use telling me you didn’t know; you must have known, and you’ve got me into a devil of a mess. But I won’t let you down, Violet. You must do exactly as I tell you, though, .without question.” “Everything,” she assured him. “Everything!” “As you say, it isn’t likely Markham knows we’re staying here, so we are

all right for the moment. There are more than a score of big hotels, and we’re not in the visitors’ list yet! Ring for the waiter. I want something to eat and drink. . . . Light a cigarette and rub a little colour on your face —you still look ghastly.” From his dispatch case he took a couple of maps, spread them on the bureau, and studied them carefully while the waiter executed the order Violet gave him. A table was brought into the room and on it were spread mayonnaise lobster, salad, and cold asparagus; a bottle of Heidsick 1911. Bosworth glanced appreciatively over his shoulder: “Clever girl. Now listen. We’ve had enough of Aix and to-morrow w.e shall continue our wed*

ding tour. I will engage a reliable chauffeur and the fastest car they’ve got, and we will start early, apparently for the Haute Savoie. But at Cliambery we'll change our minds and go over the Basse Alpes and then skirt the coast straight for Marseilles. We can get on board one of the French liners there. It doesn’t matter ythere we go—the States, South America, or the East. South America is best. We might get to Cuba.” He remembered hearing wonderful stories of Cuba—of Cubau cigars, wine, women! He wrote out half a dozen telegrams, two of which he gave her to sign. “We must realise every penny we can and take it with us.” He went downstairs, left the telegrams at the concierge’s office and arranged for a 40 horse-power A.R. car to be ready for .them at S o’clock the next morning. Then he returned to

his suite and found Violet waiting for him at supper table. She had undressed and was wearing a delightful negligee. There was colour in her cheeks again and her mouth was very red. She drank the wine readily enough, but only played with the small helping of lobster Bosworth gave her. He ate with greedy relish, talking while he ate: “I’ve figured out we can get across the Alps in a couple of days and reach Marseilles on the third. ‘.Viih luck v.'o «an catcli Uio lu. Provence, sailing straight for Havana. If our telegrams don’t miscarry and with the cash we’ve got—plus my' brains—we ought to manage very well.” Fie raised his gla&s to the light and looked

at the dancing bubbles. “I’m doing this entirely for your sake, Violet. If anything goes wrong, remember—l knew nothing!” She nodded. “1 shouldn’t think Markham would worry about us —glad to get rid of you, eh? And there’s that girl, Pete. He’ll think of her —he’s that sort of man, isn’t he?” “Rut the money?” Violet whispered. “The fortune he made ” Bosworth took a long drink. “A lovely old wine, this Heidsick. Well, we've left him pretty good pickings; lie shouldn’t worry. Anyway, if a man loses his own identity and takes his pal’s name he’s only got himself to blame for whatever happens.” At a quarter past eight next morning a long low touring car, luggage strapped at the back, suit-cases piled in front, moved silently and swiftly away from the Hotel Majestic, the concierge standing on the steps bowing afarew T ell to Violet and Bosworth. “Very charming young English couple,” he thought, as he pocketed the five hundred franc tip he had been given; with it there had been instructions not to satisfy strangers’ curiosity as to Bosworth’s destination. He had said jocularly; “When one is on one’s honeymoon one wants to be left alone.” Exactly! So when at mid-day Markham arrived and asked for Mr. and Mrs. Bosworth, the concierge referred him to the Bureau, where the clerk informed him that the Bosworths had left that morning. He didn’t kuow their destination, but the concierge might tell him. But the concierge shook his head. He was very busy at the moment; he kept Markham waiting a long time before he could even vouchsafe the intelligence that Mr. Bosworth had left no address. . . . No, they hadn’t gone by train; they were touring by car. “1 didn’t know my friends had brought a car with them,” Markham said quickly. The concierge shrugged his shoulders: “One can always hire, Monsieur. In the hotel garage we have every make of car for hire.” There was a card hanging on the wall of the office giving this information to clients of the hotel, also the name of the garage—the Miraneau. Markham hurried there; he remembered passing it in the centre of the town. “Oh. yes,” the director informed him courteously—a 40 horse-power touring car had been hired by a client of the Hotel Majestic by telephone the previous evening for 8 o’clock that morning. It was to tour through the Haute Savoie. “What’s the fastest thing you’ve got in your garage?” Markham asked. The director reflected and walked down a long line of cars. “There’s the Bugatti, a racing model —nothing on the road that can catch her.” Markham told him to have it got j ready instantly and to provide the best j chauffeur in the establishment. He i vould want the car for about a week ! —the cost wouldn’t matter. . . . Twenty minutes later the Bugatti I was eating up the road to Chamberry i at the rate of TO miles an hour.

Markham studied his map; now and then the breeze sweeping round the edge of the windscreen caught a corner of it and sent it flapping over the portion he was reading. lie wondered why Violet had chosen the Savoie; doubtless delightful for a honeymoon but not under the present circumstances. Neither she nor Bosworth could be foolish enough to imagine they would succeed in hiding from him‘there. CHAPTER XXI. At Chambery there were main roads branching in two or three direction and all seemed to lead into mountainous districts. Pie hadn't imagined the previous evening when he found his wife in the Salle de Baccarat that she would attempt to run away. Pie ought to have been prepared, though, for he had known that she knew he recognised her. He could not be certain yet whether Bosworth was guilty or innocent, but he had a pretty shrewd suspicion of —guilt. Two red lines on the map branched south and north east from Chambery. They puzzled him; the road south j climbed the mountains through the high alps then the lower alps, leading eventually to Nice, Cannes, Toulon. 1 Marseilles. Recognition of his wife had obviously given her a terrible 6hock. She had thought she was quite safe he supposed, believed be would not recover bis identity and that there was no one this side of the world left who would recognise him. He folded up the map and slipped it into the pocket facing him. He could not concentrate; his brain was too active and instead of reading the map he was trying to read the minds of Violet and Bosworth. Obviously they meant to escape, to hide where they could never be found, so it wasn’t likely they would ever have given the garage a hint of their true destination. . The Bugatti was running down a Steep hill into Chambery—a heap of red tiled roofs, great railway yards, and tall chimneys. He glanced at the face of his chauffeur, ferret like with a crooked nose and dark intelligent eyes, a determined rather devilish mouth. Like most Frenchmen the fellow had a sense of humour; a man whose services were to be bought with laughter and politeness rather than -with gold, to be trusted as long as he was interested. “You know the touring car that was ordered at eight o’clock this morning to go to the Hotel Majestic" “Perfectly, monsieur. An A.R. almost new; Edourd was driving it.” “What sort of fellow’ is he?" “Just a good chauffeur, monsieur, that’s all." “Go slowly here," Markham said as they crossed a bridge and turned sharply to the left. “I want to trace that car—we’re following it. If you [find its direction and overtake it. in the next 24 hours I shall be very grateful.” (To be continued daily)