The DESTROYING ANGEL

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 841, 9 December 1929, Page 13

The DESTROYING ANGEL

BY

CHAPTER XLll. —Continued. | .•Then I ara very glad.” he said, miliug at the delicate colour that erih nerd her exquisite beauty as she nade the confession "I had hoped "much." He looked from the one to ether. “You .. . have made up tour minds?" ' Tha wife answered for both: “It is t ti ( .d. dear friend; I can struggle no longer. 1 thought myself a strong woman: I have tried to believe myH 4 genius bound upon the wheel j an ill-starred destiny; but 1 fin'd I t he glorious voice trembled lightly —“only a woman in love and „ 0 stronger than her love.” “I am very glad.” Ember repeated, -for both your sekes. It's a happy tc ns immation of my dearest wishes.” •we owe you everytlhng,” Whitaker jgid with feeling, dropping an awkward hand on the other’s shoulder. -It was you who threw us together. ,lown there on the Great West Bay, ho that we learned to know one another . . ■ [ plead guilty to that little plot—ve9 •• Ember laughed. “But. best of | all. this comes at just the rifeht time j —the righest time, when there can | no longer be any doubts or questions j nr misunderstandings, no ground for , irther fears and apprehensions, when I the destroying angel’ of your ‘ill- j marred destiny,’ my dear"—he turned ,0 the woman —"is exorcised —banished —proscribed ” "Max !” Whitaker struck in explosively. is on his way to the police station, well guarded,” Ember affirmed with a nod and a grim smile. “I have his confession, roughly jotted down but signed, and attested by several witnesses. . . . I’m glad you \ were out of the way; it was rather a painful scene, and disorderly; it ! wouldn’t have been pleasant for Mrs. j Whitaker. . . . We had the deuce of a time clearing the theatre; human itiriosky is a tremendously persistent and resistant force. And then I had some trouble dealing with the misplaced loyalty of the staff of the house. . . . “However, eventually I got Max to j myself—alone, that is, witli several j men I could depend on. And then I heartlessly put him through the third ] degree—forestalling my friends, the I police. By dint of asserting as truths i and personal discoveries what I merely suspected. I broke down his denials. ! He owned up, doggedly enough, and yet with that singular pride which I have learned to associate with some ! phases of homicidal mania. ... I 1 won’t distress you with details; the truth is that Max was quite mad on the subject of his luck; he considered it, as 1 suspected, indissolubly associated with Sara Law'. When poor Custer committed, suicide he saved j Max from ruin and innocently showed | him the way to save himself thereafter. when he felt in peril, by assassinating Hamilton and later Thurston. Drummond only cheated a like fate, and you”—turning to Whitaker—“escaped by the narrowest shave. Max hadn’t meant to run the risk of put- j ting you out of the way unless he . thought it afi “intely necessary, but the failure of hu silly play in rehearsal tonight, coupled with the discovery j that you were in the theatre, drove him temporarily insane with hate, chagrin and jealousy.” Concluding. Ember rose. “I must j follow him now to the police station, l ... 1 shall see you both soon again—?” The woman gave him both her hands. “There’s no way to thank you,” she said—“our dear, dear friend!” “.Vo way,” Whitaker echoed regretfully. “Vo way?” Ember laughed quietly, holding her hands tightly clasped. But I see you together—happy— Oh, believe me, I am fully thanked!” Bowing, he touched his lips gently t® both hands, released them with a little sigh that ended in a contented huekle, exchanged a short, firm srasp with Whitaker, and left them. Whitaker, following almost immediately to the gangway, found that Kmber had already left the theatre. For some minutes he wandered to

LOUIS JOSEPH VANCE

(Copyright by Public Ledger.)

and fro in the gangway, pausing now and again on the borders of the deserted stage. There were but few of tile house staff visible, and those few were methodically busy with preparations to close up. Beyond the dismal gutter of the footlights the auditorium yawned cavernous and shadowy, x>eopled only by low rows of chairs ghostly In their dust-cloths. The street entrances were already closed, locked and dark. On the stage a single cluster-stand of electric bulbs made visible the vast gloomy dome of the flies and the whitewashed walls against which sections of scenery were stacked like cards. An electrician in his street clothes lounged beside the door-keeper’s cubicle, at the stage entrance, smoking a cigarette and conferring with the doorman while subjecting .Whitaker to a curious and antagonistic stare. The muffled rumble of their voices were the only sounds audible, aside from an occasional racket of bootheels in the gangways as one actor after another left his dressing room and hastened to the street, keen-set for the clash of gossiping tongues in theatrical clubs and restaurants. Gradually the building grew more j and more empty and silent, until at ] length . Whitaker was left alone with i the shadows of the two employees. These last betrayed signs of impatience. He himself felt a little sympathy for their temper. Women certainly did take an unconscionable time to j dress! . . . At length he heard them hurrying along the lower gangway, and turned to join his wife at the stage-entrance. Elise passed on, burdened with two

heavy handbags and disappeared into the rain-washed alleyway. The electrician detached his shoulders from the wall, ground his cigarette under heel and lounged over to the switchboard. | Mary Whitaker turned her face, I shadowy and mystical, touched with \ her faint and inscrutable smile, up to her husband’s. j ’Wait,” she begged in a whisper. “I want -to see”—her breath checked ’the end of it all.” They heard hissings and clickings at the switchboard. The gangway lights vanished in a breath. The single cluster-stand on the stage disappeared—and the house disappeared i utterly with its extinguishment. There remained alight only the single dull bulb iu the doorman’s cubicle. Whitaker slipped an arm round his wife. She trembled within his embrace. “Black out,” she said in a gentle and regretful voice: “the last exit: Curtain—End of tho Play!” “No,” he said in a voice of sublime confidence—“no; it’s only the prologue curtain. Now for the play, dear heart . . the real play . . . THE END.