Her Hidden Husband

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 672, 25 May 1929, Page 22

Her Hidden Hus band

Serial Story

By

Arthur Applin

CHAPTER XXI. Continued The man’s eyes remained fixed on I the road. “Edouard said he was tour-1 ing for the Savoie.” “When they reach here, the hirers of the car may have changed their minds. Is there any way to find out —the gendarme on duty for example?” The chauffeur shook his head, and as they reached a memorial supported by great bronze elephants, turned sharply to the right through a long busy street, across a rough cobbled road, left then right, then he suddenly stopped. Here, just outside the town, the road divided. Markham saw a huge painted sign with an arrow pointing in the direction of Grenoble. Beneath a high stone wall, over which a mass of blossoms fell like coloured water, a road mender sat on a pile of broken granite, cracking it with his hammer into small pieces. “This fellow will know,” the chauffeur said, as he got out and approached himBut the road mender, who looked as if he had been hewn out of the rock himself, the colour of the stuff he broke, seemed to Markham in no hurry to give information. He took the cigarette the chauffeur gave him, lit it, and, removing his glasses, leant back, blinking at him with strained eyes. Markham began to grow impatient. A fellow like that would never notice or seeing never remember the various cars that passed. Three minutes, must have elapsed before the chauffeur came back, jumped quickly into his seat, and, twisting round his wheel, turned the Bugatti along the Grenoble road. “Hold on.” Markham aaid, 'I have not quite decided—” “The A.R. passed here about, nine o’clock. Two passengers, lady and gentleman,, with a lot of luggage. Took the Grenoble road. - - That fellow . helped me before, sir—broken stones all his life —a character. Think of u sitting all day on a little mountain which he makes crumble beneath his feet, his sole interest to watch the traffic that passes him. He knows the make of every car in the world, the identification piaffes. At the end of the day he can describe every one that has passed, its characteristics, its occupants. Every man must have a hobby, monsieur—that s his. Markham leant back in his seat and closed his eyes; there was still a lot to be learnt about life. What s youi h °“ Speed, Monsieur!” He opened the throttle as he spoke and the Bugatti roared up the winding ascent. Markham smiled; he was on the right track now, he knew. No need to make further inquiries. They had four hours’ start of him, but he would easily overtake them before they reached Marseilles. “Where do you think would my friends stop for the night if they were going across the Alps to Marseilles. Markham saw the chauffeurs crooked nose wrinkle: “That depends Monsieur. Are they, too, in a huriy. “Yes, in a great hurry.’ The chauffeur smiled, opened the throttle still wider: “The roads are bad, but if they have no ill-luck they could stay at Sisteron. Edouard might advise them there was a better mn before that, just through the Col at Lais de la Groix-Haute—a lonely hostelry in the mountains, Monsieur: a stranger might easily pass it without They began to climb; at first the hills looked gentle and'inviting, but swiftly they increased in size and number, rising up suddenly like giants awaking from sleep, crowding round-them, bending over them; some in the far distance with snow-capped I peaks. The road grew rough, so bad

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in places that speed dropped from 60 to 16; it writhed its way through the mountains like a grpat snake. They dropped into Grenoble white with dust. Here they stopped to give the engine petrol and the chauffeur a bottle of wine and an omelette; and here at the hotel Markham discovered Violet and Bosworth had lunched. He was close on their heels now; with luck he would catch them up at nightfall. He smiled grimly as he pictured •Bosworth’s face. “I think we’ve met before. Your face seems familiar!” Twenty miles from Monestier de Clermont a tyre on the back wheel punctured. A change was made in five minutes, but they had only one spare, and they were in the heart of the mountains now. Daylight was fading. Nearing, the Col there was a comparatively level stretch of road, and the chauffeur pushed the B.ugatti to her utmost. She roared along the edge of the precipice and sent small stones flying beneath her wheel. And. then as they reached the Col itself another tyre went. , The chauffeu-r said not a word, but, taking out both tubes, he sat on the road, and with the aid of his headlight repaired them. “When one has nothing else one must have patience,” he said when the repairs had been made and they were on their way again. The descent began, and the car ran. silently through the darkness. Overhead the stars shone in a deep blue sky, brilliantly. The mountains seemed to have withdrawn, and stood a distance off, black and a little forbidding against the sky. A small river roared lustily in the valley; the air was cold and scented with pine cones. Suddenly out of the darkness a building rose up on their right a distance from the road; a long narrow building, and as the searchlights of the car found it Markham looked in vain for an entrance. There were two big black doors on the’left and the house itself was apparently built on a solid wall of rock. From two windows on the top storey lights gleamed faintly. “This is the Hotel de la CroixHaute,” the chauffeur said as he turned up the rough road and stopped the car opposite the forbidding doors. Markham kept his eyes on the lights shining from the upper windows. “Don’t we ring or something?” he said in a low voice. “Madame or her daughter will come presently. Up here one is always prepared and ready for strangers. Monsieur.”

Suddenly the great doors swung open, a light shone, and by it he saw a dark handsome woman. As she stood aside Smiling a welcome the Bugatti passed through- the doors into a large barn-like garage from which a flight of stone steps led to the entrance to the inn. Beneath the steps, its bonnet touching the rail, Markham saw a large touring car. The chauffedr got out and, shaking the dust from him said: “We have arrived, Monsieur, and at a good hour. It is evident your friends are waiting for y °A long flight of stone steps led to the restaurant, a large, room comfortably heated by a glowing stove. Madame said doubtless Monsieur was hungry and would like dinner. Maikham nodded; he hadn’t thought about dinner, hardly expected it. He stood by the stove warming himself: the last two hours of the drive had been cold. He heard the wind sighing outside, it was strange that he should have run them to earth at a'place like this—a lonely mountain pass tliousands of feet above the towns, lakes on one side and the sea on the other. ... The Col of the High Cross” —the namesavoured of romance. The inn itself with its winding stone staircase and passages, its handsome gipsy-like hostess, also had an atmosphere of romance.

He watched her lay a place at one of the tables for him, while another woman cleared a table where a meal had lately been finished. He noticed liquer glasses, coffee cups, and an empty champagne bottle. . . He wondered if fate had chosen this place for the meeting between the wife who

had deceived and robbed him, and himself and the man who had married her. It gave him a feeling of satisfaction, the absolutely right setting ; it aroused primeval instincts, for here primeval men had lived and loved and fought. Still lived, he reminded himself, as madame flashed her bright eyes on him, and told him dinner was served.

She stood at the table talking to him as he ate it —hot soup, trout, cutlets, fruit, and, last of all, delicious coffee. He wondered what he would have found at a similar inn in England —cold beef, pickles, and a piece of stale cheese if he was lucky. “At .what hour in the morning would monsieur like to be called?” Markham asked what time the other guests were leaving. Madame told him they had ordered their petit dejeuner for seven o’clock. “Better bring me mine at the same time,” he said carelessly. But he was awake at six o’clock, dressed and out. in time to see the sun come up over the mountains, throwing waves of gold in its path. Whichever way he looked, mountain ranges met him. He could find no entrance nor exit from the neck of land on which he stood. The road hp had travelled was like an absurd piece of twisted thread dropped on a bed of flowers. The sun rose very quickly. He could almost see it moving. It was the only thing that moved. Life seemed to be held in suspension. He eoulcl hear nothing but the sound of running water. It was as if Nature had staged a play, and was waiting for it to begin. . . . Markham turned impatiently toward the inn, whose windows the sun was beginning to find. He had made no plans, decided on no course of action. I He had just blindly pursued, and now he had caught them he was quite unprepared. So far, feelings had scarcely touched him—contempt, perhaps, but neither hatred nor pity, not even desire for revenge.He stood watching their windows, waiting for the curtains to be drawn and the casements opened, as still and as calm as the mountains which he knew were watching him. Something would happen when he met them both —something unexpected. The primitive man buried deep in his breast might suddenly leap into active life, annihilate civilisation imposed by centuries, and in blind revolt torture or kill, Markham had worked and lived among savages—children one moment beasts the next. In the veins of every civilised map still linger traces of the savage blood. Markham felt it growing hot in his own veins now. He felt its influence like wine. The mountains were closing around him, urging him forward, urging him to take the law into his own hands. Had not the law of the jungle been his law for years? He had ruled by the sword, justly but violently. Something stirred, the sharp clatter of a shutter suddenly opened. From an upper room a brightly-coloured curtain blew out in the wind like a flag; behind it a figure moved, approached, leaned out. The breeze ruffled Violet’s fair hair. He heard her voice: “Yes, it’s rather wonderful, but it frightens me. Let’s get on quickly, dear.” • Bosworth joined her: By Jove, terrific. isn’t it? If we wanted to, we could stay here for the rest of our lives and no one would ever be the wiser.” Markham looked up and smiled. . . . No one would ever be the wiser! He stepped from the shadow into the sunlight, wondering why they did not|se,e him. He decided he would deal with Bosworth first; there . was something foul about him —the vulture type that will eat the living flesh, but has not the courage to kill. They saw him as they withdrew from the window, both at the same instant. They shrank imperceptibly into one another, into the room. Violet, with the sunlight still on her face, seemed to shrivel up and grow into an old woman. Bosworth’s fleshy face became a white mask with a great gaping mouth and sightless eyes. • Markham called up to him: “As soon as you’re dressed, Bosworth. come down here! What I’ve got to say will be best said in the open.” He went back into the shadow again and sat on the trunk of a felled tree, lit a cigarette and waited. Violet closed the shutters of the window; after the brilliant sunlight the room became dark. She groped her way to the bed and sat down. Bosworth said: “You know what this means, don’t you? It means I’m ruined —absolutely ruined.” (To be continued daily):