THE LOCKED ROOM

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 674, 28 May 1929, Page 5

THE LOCKED ROOM

SERIAL STORY

By

E. Clepham Palmer.

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CHAPTER I. Arthur Felscombe leaned back in his low easy chair, stretched out his legs to the fire, and yawned. An answering yawn came from the other side of the fire. “The fact is,” said James Widhurst, "we shall have to fall in love.” His friend developed enough interest to light a cigarette. “You mean . that love is the last refuge of the bored?” “Not at all! I don’t admit being bored. It’s only that your yawns are so infernally infectious. . . . What I do mean is that we’re both spending too much time in this room. We’re getting narrow, cramped, parochial. . . . I know we’re comfortable enough here, -but it’s possible to be too comfortable. We might start by scrapping that chair of yours. . . .” Arthur Felscombe looked up indignantly. • “You’ll do nothing of the sort.” And he stretched out his legs still closer to the fire. His friend was not discouraged. "I know that after the war it was good to come back to this sort of thing, but we’ve had enough of it. This detached pose of yours is beginning to get on my nerves.” Arthur Felscombe nearly sat up. “It’s not a pose!” he protested. “I’ve never known a man,” continued Widhurst quietly, “so anxious to defend his poses. You forget I knew you in Flanders, my boy, when there wasn’t time to pose and you got about as nippily as anyone. You were keen enough on things then. Why d’you get stuck to an easy chair now’” “For a very simple reason —because there are no adventures left.” “Exactly what I suspected. You sit there and yawn, and make me yawn, because you think that after the war everything is flat. . . .” “So it is. You can’t deny it. . . . Where’s the soda?” “On the floor, there. I do deny it. ! It’s true that motoring’s a bit tedious after flying, and dodging one’s relations may be rather dull after dodging whizz-bangs, but there’s still one adventure left. . . .” Felscombe consented to show some slight interest. “What’s that?” Widhurst added a little soda, and looked up quickly. “Don’t you know, my dear sir, that the passport to adventure is love? As I said before, we must fall in love without any further nonsense or delay.” A hearty laugh rang out. “Forgive me, but your enthusiasm on this old question of love always amuses me. Surely you know by this time that it’s impossible for me to fall in love!” "Impossible! Why?” Felscombe sank back again into his chair and looked up gloomily at the ceiling. “Because every girl falls in love I with me.” j Widhurst got up and stood in front |of the fire, looking at the ceiling. “Is i this another pose of yours? It’s new j to me.” I Felscombe felt over the edge of the ! chair for the glass standing on the ,! floor. “My dear Widhurst.” he said slowly. “I wish it were a pose. Un’fortunatelv it is not. It’s the plain. ■ sad truth. For years I’ve been trying to fall in love, but I’ve never had any luck. I’ve always been too slow.

They’ve always fallen in love with me first —and dished it all.” Widhurst walked impatiently about the room. “Look here,” he burst out, “this won’t do! It’s nothing but a pose, and a conceited pose. What about that girl in Grosvenor Square? Did she fall in love with you?” “At once,” said Arthur Felscombe* wearily. “And Molly! Plow long did she survive your charms?” “Five minutes would be an outside estimate.” Widhurst sat down again, and looked intently at his friend. “I suppose,” he said slowly, “that one must admit you’re rather good looking.” “Good looking, my dear man, it's worse than that. I’m what the lady novelists call an Adonis. It’s no good blinking facts. I’ve learnt from bitter experience that I’m the lady novelist's hero. I'm six feet three; I’m as upright as a Guardsman, I’ve got perfectly proportioned features, my eyes are the right shade of blue, my golden hair waves in the correct manner. . . . It's disastrous; but it’s true.” ‘Now I look at you,” said Widhurst critically. “I believe you’re right. I’ve seen figures and faces like yours on the covers of sixpenny magazines and popular novels. . . “Of course, you have. It’s appalling. I’m on every bookstall. Girls spare a moment to gaze on me even when they’re rushing to catch a train. They take me with them on the 5.15. They fall in love with me even before they’ve seen me. I’m the dream of the flapper, the typists’ ider> and the perfect lover of Lady de Vere. What chance have I to fall in love?” “Poor chap!” said-Widhurst. “Why not take up boxing? Why not try to damage that perfect nose of yours?” “I have. I boxed hard for three years, but without any luck. My nose remained without a flaw.” Widhurst refused to smile. “If what you say is true, I suppose you’re to be pitied; but I can’t see that it is true. I don’t see why you shouldn’t fall in love just because girls fall in love with you. Surely that should make things all the easier 9” “What ignorance! Haven't you discovered 3 r et what you call falling in love is the same thing as the excitement of the chase? Could you enjoy a hunt if the fox stood still all the time? Of course not. Then how can you fall in love if the girl refuses to run away? My dear Widhurst, it’s impossible. I’m doomed to be a bachelor till forty, and then marry a housekeeper or an heiress. How can I fall in love when every girl puts out her arms to save me? Not for me the cold disdain for which I long! Not for me the contemptuous dismissal for which I would give a year of my life! Only more fortunate men—men such as you, Widhurst, free, if I may say so. from this curse of good looks. | can hope to enjoy the excitement of ; the chase, to know the ecstacy of de-

spair, to share the dreams of those who have long loved in vain, but seen in the end, flying on the battlements of love, the white flag of surrender. Again Widhurst refused to smile. “1 suppose l ought to applaud. You’d make a good stump orator. But you can't deceive me. my boy. It’s a pose.” “On my honour, it's nothing of the kind. Produce a girl who'll treat me | with contempt and I’ll be eternally ; grateful to you.” CHAPTER lI.—MISS ASHTON" TO THE RESCUE. James Widhurst was not the sort of mau to jump on a bus. He had never believed in taking risks. 1-Ie had once seen a man rather seriously damaged in Piccadilly, aud he had decided from that moment to be satisfied with waiting on the kerb —for the next one. Caution had become a habit with him. It was not only in the matter of buses that he refused to take risks. The same tendency was apparent in the matter of love. Although nearly thirty-six. he was still single, and likely, in the opinion of most of his women friends, to remain single. It was generally compl I >ed that he lacked dash, and hae a deplorable | habit of allowing opportunities to pass 1 by. In the matter of women he was content to wait on the matrimonial kerb—for the next one. It was all the more remarkable, therefore, that on this early spring evening he not only walked with unusual briskness to King's Road, but actually boarded a bus before it had come to a halt. It almost looked as if his friend's appeal had really per suaded him of the urgent necessity o’"

finding a girl who would treat so singularly handsome a man with con 1 tempt. He left the bus near Victoria and * walked toward a big block of flats. He ■ climbed to the fourth floor and ' knocked at a door hearing the name “Miss Daisy Ashton.” “Hullo. James! Come in. You look rather hot.” “My dear Daisy. I've been hurrying , to see you. . . . Xo. that's your chair. ! Let me have the uncomfortable one you keep for your friends. . . . Y’ou iook as fit and charming as ever. You know. Daisy. I often feel that we ought to've married years ago. Whv didn’t we?” Miss Ashton declined to look surprised. "Probably because we’ve al- , ways been such good friends. One doesn't marry one’s friends. One knows better than to run the risk of j | losing them.” ! “I’m sorry,” Widhurst protested as I be accepted a cigarette, “to hear you say that. Women should never be cynical. Xor men. I'm dropping ali that sort of thing. Pro going to do 'he ordinary, healthy, foolish things Miss Ashton made a gesture of dismay.

“You don't tell me you’re going to marry!" “I do. I'm determined to do something rash. For ten years I’ve lived a steady, hum-drum, colourless sort of life, and I'm sick of it. The wnr showed me how utterly colourless it’s been. I took risks then. Why can’t I take risks now ” Miss Ashton had some difficulty in camouflaging a smile. ‘“You'd better go easy at first. Why not get an airplane? Flying is less risky than marriage." Widhurst looked up quickly. “What d’vou know about marriage?' “Too much!’ 'You refuse to marry?” “Of course! I prefer golf.” “You're the very girl I want," cried Widhurst excitedly. “Am I to understand that you're proposing to me?" “Xo, no! It's not as bad as that. Don't smile, Daisy. It's really a very serious matter, not exactly a matter of life or death, but you have it in your power to make my greatest friend a happy man.” “By marrying him?” “Xo, by refusing to marry him.” Miss Ashton was guilty of an unusual excess. She laughed. “I thought I knew you pretty well, James, but I’d never suspected you before of humour.” “Humour! I've never made a joke In my life. For Heaven's sake, take this seriously. You know Arthur Felscombe?” “Hardly. I've met him once.” “What do you think of him?” “Well. I don't know —he's the handsomest man in London. But why?” tTa be continued. dailjU