THE LOCKED ROOM

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 675, 29 May 1929, Page 5

THE LOCKED ROOM

serial story II

By

CHAPTER II. — Continued . '‘He’s down and oui. He takes no Interest in anything. I can’t move n ‘hi from his easy chair and cigarvlt,es*. He’s lost his spirits. He’s <leeioping cynicism. He broods all the Gening.” .Poor fellow! Is he in love?” *. * s '°» he's not. That’s the trouble, ne wants to be, but he can't manage Sanies. ’* said Miss Ashton, severely, don’t see why you should talk 1 this nonsense to me. I could unr*tand it if you were going to pro- * or ho something silly of that

E. Clepham Palmer.

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kind, but apparently you’re not. Why not talk sense? I’ve never known you quite so absurd before.” Widhurst looked critically at her. “Nut brown hair. big hazel eyes, piquant nose, pink and white c ®, m ' plexion, oval face—the very thing. "My dear James, what on earth are you ranting about?” “I was wondering if you were pretty enough. And you are! You're just right.” “Just right for what?” “For saving Felscombe. Can you guarantee not to fall in love with him?”

1 “I never guarantee anything—not : even to take you seriously.” “Ah, Daisy, if only you hadn’t laughed at. Dorking seven years ago! You must admit you spoilt it all. You remember that wood we walked through in the dusk, that wood with a path like the aisle of a cathedral? I remember every tree, every shadow. ... I was on the point then. . . . Why did you laugh?” Miss Ashton lit another cigarette. , “You were rather funny, James. You're not at your best when you're : on the point of proposing.’’ Widhurst struck a match with some j impatience. “Will you ever take me I seriously? Will you ever take men j seriously?” 1 “Probably not. Whenever I do they always ask me to marry them.” “And why don't you?” “Because 1 prefer to keep my friends—not to lose them. Beside, you'd be hopeless as a husband.” "Why?” “You'd fall in love with other women. You'd dote on me. I dislike

men wo dote on me. T like to fight for my love.” Widhurst sprang up. “Daisy,” he cried, “you’re just the girl I want!” “James! ” “It’s all right, dear. I’m not going to do anything foolish. But you remind me of poor old Felscombe. You want to fight for your love. So does he: You dislike men who dote on you. He dislikes women who fall in love with him. Obviously, you ought to be married.” Miss Ashton smiled. “I’m always grateful to you for one thing. James. You’re one of the few men who amuse me. Tf I could only think you'd be as amusing as a husband." “Yes?” “I might go to Dorking with you again ” Widhurst sat down. “Daisy, you’re hopeless. . . . But I’m serious. I'm thinking of poor old Felscombe. He’s in despair because he can’t fall in love. His only chance, he says, is to

meet a woman who spurns him. Will you spurn him?” “With pleasure.” said Miss Ashton CHAPTER lII.—ALWAYS THE SAME. Alone in his flat, lounging in his low easy-chair, Arthur Felscombe read a novel. A shaded lamp stood on a table in exactly the right spot by his side. His long legs were comfortably 'supported. His head rested on a cushion. He might have formed the subject for an artist’s study in con tentment and repose. But apparently he was not contented. Suddenly he got up. threw the hook ou to a table across the room, and stood in front of the fire. He picked up a hat. put it on his head, and walked toward the door. He j hesitated. . . . Then, with obvious impatience, he threw the hat down, and resumed his old position in front of ! the fire. There was a knock on the door. At onc e Felscombe looked relieved. “Come in!” he shouted.

His face fell appreciably when he saw Robert Sinclair, and he responded * with little enthusiasm to a suggestion ' that they should go out for dinner. 1 “Can't you suggest anything rather more exciting?” Sinclair took the chair somewhat ' wearily indicated to him. “More exciting! Why? What’s the trouble?” , “The trouble,” said Felscombe, ■, slowly, as he leant back, “is that nothing ever happens.” Sinclair looked up surprised. “What. • do you expect to happen?" “Something exciting, something, if i you like, romantic, or dangerous. Anything's better than this monotony. I've . just been reading a novel—full of excitement and adventure. Why do these fellows write such lies? Noth- ' ing exciting or adventurous ever happens to me! One. sits in this room, one reads a novel, one goes out into the street, one dines —but nothing happens. Always the same old things, the same old crowds, the samp 1 old dinners or dances, or drinks.” | “What you want is another war.”

“No, I don’t. I dislike war. It’s j a dirty, messy business. But there \ ought to be something else—some-! thing that’s as good an adventure as war—but not so messy.” "You seem a bit fed up. Any soda? 1 Thanks." “When I heard your knock.” continued Felscombe wearily, “I revived a bit. A knock on the door’s always a possibility. There’s always a chance that it may be followed by an eccentric visitor, a rich and long-lost relative, a stray child, a woman in distress.” Sinclair laughed. “I'm afraid I disappointed you.” "To be quite frank, you did. When one has hoped to see something unexpected or romantic, your homely face ” “I’m awfully sorry, old man. I’m afraid damsels in distress don’t happen in these days. I still think dinner’s the best scheme.’ “That’s all you can suggest! I tell you that I want excitement and

adventure, and you suggest that we should have dinner. Dinner! Are you hungry?” “Not a bit.” “Exactly! Nor am I. Why should we eat?” “We must do something. Can you think of anything else?" “No, I’m relying on you. But I’d rather finish that lying novel than spend half a guinea on a tedious dinner. Doesn’t it seem to you a remarkable thing that in this city of seven million people it shouldn't be possible to do anything more exciting than dine?” "Where’s Widhurst?” “I don’t know. I suspect he’s talking to some woman—one of the num- ; erou3 women he’s assured me for the lastsix years he may marry at any moment. No one is so boring on love | affairs as Widhurst. I shall be profoundly grateful when he does marry. He won't ralk to me about love then (To be continued daily)