THE CLUE

Sun (Christchurch), Volume III, Issue 826, 3 October 1916, Page 12

THE CLUE

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By OLIVE WADSLEY m^mM Author of " The Fl»me " " Burnt Wingi, " &c.

CHAPTER XIX. A MERRY CHRISTMAS!

Rinde entered his palatial block of offices exactly at 10 o'clock every day of the year, when he was in London. Illness never kept him away; he had transacted business of world-wide importance with his head swathed in ieo bandages, when he had been sufferiug from influenza so acute that most men would have stayed in bed for some weeks, and then required a month's sojourn in some sea-side place to brace them up; he had quelled an incipient Stock Exchange panic on the morning when, walking to his car, he had slipped and broken his arm.

"He's a holy terror, the chief?" his younger clerks said with awestruck admiration, in speaking of him. He came leisurely up the marble steps on the first day of Christmas week. The inevitable tiny William Alan Richardson rosebud in his buttonhole, his whole air breathing success and power and dominant personality. He was closing the office from that day for a week. The hall porter, all his medals on in honour of the prospective holiday, saluted him stiffly, and received a casual "Morning," as Rinde passed on his way to the lift. He was a generous man; all his staff had received a handsome present that day, and —it helps to explain his extraordinary personality—not one of them dared to express their thanks to him in words. Samson, his head clerk, was waiting for him as he paesed through. He was a young man with a white, clever face, and a gift of silence. Silently he handed Rinde a certain report, marked where it required special attention. "Come to me in 20 minutes," Rinde said smiling, going on his way. His secretary worked in a room opening off his own, but separated from it by a thick outer door.

him. Ho scarcely slept during the three nights, and when at last he was admitted, instead of elation, profound depression had him in its grip. It is impossible to fathom what a woman really feels about a man before she is engaged to him; even to herself she will not admit the real truth very often. It is not to be supposed, siueo Doris became engaged to Vaientine on that fourth day, that she had actively disliked him on the preceding three days, and yet she had refused each day to see him, although from the safe precincts of the drawing-room she had listened hungrily for tho sound of his voice, craving a boon she had it within her grasp to gratify, and which she persistently refused. Rinde's words had stayed with her; the angry wonder as to the charm and loveliness of the ;;irl with whom Val had dined would not be dismissed, and for the first time in her life Doris was jealous, and was too proud to acknow- j ledge it. So she punished Val because she suffered; and of the two, Val suffered the most. j

A very silent couple sat in the little drawing room on the afternoon of admittance to what Val had dreamt would be a Paradise.

It was snowing outside; at least, it was raining and snowing at once, so that London received all the unpleasantness, and none of the glamour of a snowstorm.

Inside the fire burnt smokily, and Doris wondered distractedly why the man did not bring tea. Tea, at any rate, would provide something for her to do, if it did not materially aid conversation.

Tony's successor was a Frenchman, who wrote perfect English, and combined tact with a will of steel. He rose and bowed to Rinde, handed him a pile of letters, docketed, and with notes attached to them, in his own handwriting, and then, as Rinde went into his own office, bowed again, and sank back into his chair.

Val stared out of the window, and then at his boots, some mud on them caused him to feel an agony of selfconsciousness. He had taken a taxi in order to appear at his best before Doris —at least, with regard to his external appearance —and there he sat, muddied and untidy. He stared out of the window again, and said at last: "Seasonable weather, isn't it!"

Doris also glanced out of the window, a very tiny smile flickered round the corners of her lips. ''' Very,'' she said.

Rinde's office was a very high room; it possessed an original Adanis ceiling, and had also one of the few real armchair sets of Chippendales. On his writing-table, auoth?r work of art by the same master craftsman, a jar of yellow roses stood. , He sat down and prepared to read the letters through, making a certain mark on each or those which would require his signature, and a different mark on those which his secretary would sign for him. India spoke to England in a cable which lie read slowly; finance of such magnitude was entailed, the mention of its vastness would have appalled the ordinary individual. Rinde lit a cigarette, re-read his cable, and drafted a reply within the hour. A machine was ticking out the current finance rate offer to Europe. He got up, strolled across to it, took up the paper ribbon, stared at it, and, going back to his table, by a single telegraphic word sent a certain sale up and caused another to drop. '■ He rang the bell for his secretary, who appeared instantly. "Take this lot," he said, handing the cablegram and letter to him, "that is nil."

"Odd to think we're so near Christ mas, "Val volunteered further.

' "December, the end half, it is always the same, isn't it'?" Doris asked. « Val did not even smile. "Yes, I suppose so," he said; his eyes stole to the window again. "Coming down pretty heavily now," he added. "Lord Blairavon out?"

"Yes," Doris said. "It's rather sad, isn't it, that he should be, because we do not seem able to make very much conv' sation between us."

"I'm fearfully dull, I know," Val said, despairingly. He had flushed up to the roots of his fair hair at the very slender jest his self-consciousness construed into a reproach. Doris saw the hot flush, anil somehow, as if in sympathy, the colour slowly flooded her face, too. "I never could express myself," Val said, distressfully. "I'm an ass when it comes to words. You mightn't think, I suppose you couldn't," he added, ruefully, "but I came here on purpose to sav one special thing to you." "Tome?"

"I thank you," Sourino said;he turn ed at the door and added: "A merry Christmas."

Rinde nodded; he had about forgotten it was Christmas time. He opened a small note-book, and discovered he was clue at a country house in Berkshire for Christmas.

He nodded. "I've been every day this week — Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday—and this is the first time you'd see me. Look here," his voice grew more urgent. "I think I've a right to ask you this: Why couldn't you see me—Doris?" The ''Doris" camo a long way after the rest of the sentence, and it was said very low.

He drew the telephone towards him, rang up a florist's, a jeweller's, a French confectioner's in quick succession, gave a number of orders, some addresses and his name, and then rang off. Then he deliberated for a while. Finally he drew some paper towards him and began to write. Dear Miss Doris, —I want you, if you will, to be kind to me this Christmastido. You returned me my little gift to you, and at that time I did not like to plead with you about it. I do now. riease take back the pearls; they gain their beauty for me, only by belonging to you. I offer you all the greetings of the year, and I wish you happiness always.—Your friend, ' MARCUS RINDE.

Doris was nervously plaiting and unplaiting the silver fringe on the cushion beside her.

'' I wasn't at home,'' she said, lamely. "Yes, because you didn't want to see me? That's what 'Not at home' from a woman does mean, doesn't it?"

"You choose to put that interpretation on it," she said, quickly. She seemed to be getting further away from him, he felt despairingly. He gathered all his courage together. "Doris," ho said, hoarsely, "I came here to toll you that I love you—l've been wanting to say it for months." He could only see her cheek, her face was turned away. Ho felt he must look into her eyes—must read his fate there. - He got up swiftly and went t<£.< the couch.

He took a flat ease from the pocket of his overcoat, and opening it, looked carelessly at the wonderful pearls which shone up at him translucently. He put the letter inside the case and snapped it to, thrust it into an envelope, ami addressed It.

The telephone bell rang. He took off the receiver.

'"Hullo!" a voice said gaily. Rinde frowned deeply; he knew the voice, and he had no desire to hear it.

"Well," he said urbanely. "Happy Christmas, Lilah; it was sweet of you to ring up." "Was it?" she said, and he heard her laugh. "'I only rang up to tell you Valentine Storne is engaged to Miss Blairavon. A merry Christmas, Marcus!"

CHAPTER XX. LOVE AND JEALOUSY

It is an easy thing for a friend to say "Go In and win" to a man; there is probably no man living, unless he bo a very monster of conceit—and few moil are really vain—who approaches tho girl he loves and wishes to marry, feeling he has an easy task before him. At the Talavera, with Lulu to encourage him and cheer him on, Val found it a wonderful thing that he was going to leave all his scruples behind ftnd propose at last to Doris, lie felt vastly different when, after calling on three miserable days and being refused admittance, he was at last informed that Miss Blairavon was "at home" to him.

"Doris!" he said. "By heaven, you don't know how I love you; I'm all unworthy I know, not fit to —to have the right, perhaps, even to tell you, but my love makes me know that if you'd give yourself to me I would prove myself worthier—l won't say worthy of such a gift—it seems to me no man could be that —but I'd worship you and work for you and look after you all the days of my life. Darling, little, sweet, darling, is there any hope for me?" He sat down by her, his young face very grave and rather white, his eyes imploring, "Is there?" he half-whispered. He had to bend down to hear the word she answered, and even then he could not quite grasp it. "Say it again, tell me," he said. "Heaps!" she whispered back; and then she laughed low and very sweetly. "Heaps of hope, Val," she said. "Oh, can't you guess, didn't you know?" His arms were round her in a second, his eager lips sought hers. "I never dared to get as far as guessing—let alone knowing," he said, holding her close, still held almost breathless by the wonder and beauty of it. Oh, Doris, say it again! " 1 love you, Val.' (To be continued.)

For those days when he called so perfiistontly had been days of torture. He had imagined all sorts of things; tiny, foolish episodes of his very early youth had, to his distorted imagination, become gigantic sins which Doris had miraculously discovered, and, full of disgust, refused on that account to see

At last evening's meeting of the Woolston Borough Council, Mr Scott, the engineer, recommended that the! council should obtain the services of a competent electric wireman for installing electric fittings in private residences. It was pointed out that many residents were not using electricity on account of the high cost of installation. It was considered that by the above method the work of installing electric light could be performed more cheaply, and more satisfactorily. It was decided to set up a sub-committee to go into the matter.