MYSTERY OF HERMAN WISE

Sun (Christchurch), Volume V, Issue 1360, 22 June 1918, Page 4

MYSTERY OF HERMAN WISE

[By CAPTAIN DALLAS, Author of " The Man Who Wasn't," " Private Smith," " The Amazing Mr Kran," etc.] [All Richts Reserved.] CHAPTER Yin.—(Continued.) THE PHOTOGRAPH. The young man felt himself snubbed and, as is the manner of his kind, allowed his resentment to be seen. "I am sorry to have to say, my lord," he returned with a .watery smile, "that Lord Mervyn died under circumstances which it gives mo great pain to have to recount. "Mr Millar, if it is possible for you to state the plain facts/' s_aid Lord Merrifield,.," I shall esteem it a favour if you will do so. I will waive both your sympathy and your comments." "Then, since your lordship forces me to confine myself to the bare facts, I have to report that your son, Lord Mervyn Restleton, was shot in a gambling den in Santa Fe." The Marquis's face hardened a little, but otherwise its expression never changed.

"You have doubtless provided yourself with proofs of this," he remarked calmly. "Certainly. I should not have expected your lordship to be satisfied with my bare word."

He took out a large pocket-book and produced a document to which was attached a large seal. "This," he said, "is a certificate signed by the alcalde of Santa Fe, setting forth the particulars of your son's death.. You will observe that it is also signed by the Chief of the Police." Lord Merrifield took the paper from his hand and glanced over it. "This appears to be in some foreign language. I cannot read it." "It is in Spanish. I have here a translation."

The Marquis took the second paper and read it carefully. It simply stated that a man known by the name of Mervyn Restleton had been shot in an altercation during a gambling .transaction.

Lord Merrifield folded up both papers slowly and put them in his pocket. "I am obliged tc you, gentlemen, for the trouble you have taken," he said. "I will not detain you longer. Good day."

He had been too proud to allow his feelings to be seen by the two men. Indeed, throughout the interview he had maintained a composure which might have induced the belief that the subject of the discussion was of little interest to him. But when they had gone his whole manner changed. It was as if years had been added to his age. "Mervyn shot in a gambling den!" he murmured, his voice charged with agony. "Mervyn, my boy!"

The following afternoon Sydney came to see him.

"Lord Merrifield," she said indignantly, "I don't believe it." "But, my dear, that man Millar has has brought the proof; a certificate signed by the chief magistrate of the place." "I don't care. You ought to know your son better, Lord Merrifield. You know how fastidious he was about the people he mixed .with. Shot in a gambling den! Why, it is ridiculous."

"You think that the story is not true? That he met his death——" "I don't believe that he is dead at all!"

"But, my dear, my dear, the certifi cate "

"I don't care about any certificate," said Sydney obstinately. "I am convinced that Mervyn is not dead." "But—but why " "Oh. don't, ask me for my reasons. I have no reasons to give; but I feel that ho is alive. Put it down to a woman's intuition if you like, but I am as certain that Mervyn is living as that I am mvself."

The Marquis looked at her curiously

"God grant that you are right, my dear," he said fervently. "Sometimes I also have a feeling that my son is alive. But that document "

"I would lie inclined to put more faith jn it if it, hnd come from another source," said Sydney. "For Mervyn to have met his death in that way is to me unthinkable."

That evening, when her maid went to her room to assist her to dress for dinner, she noticed that the gild's face was Hushed and her eyes swollen, as If she had been weeping. She knew Gertrude Selby's history, and took a strong interest in her.

"What is the matter, Selby?" she asked. "Has anything happened to upset you?" "Nothing that matters, miss," Gertrude answered. "Only I hope that you won't think mo ungrateful for all your kindness to me, but I must give notice to leave." "To leave me! Why do you want to leave? Are you not comfortable?" The girl smiled drearily. "I have received nothing but kindness from you, miss," she answered. '' Then what is it ."' "I would rather not say. I think it would be better for me to leave." Sydney looked at her thoughtfully. "You have some reason, but I'm not going to force you to tell me what it is since you seem disinclined to confide in me. Perhaps I can find out some other way. But I am not going to let you go," she continued, smiling. "Now, get out my things. There is some old lace in the second drawer of ray wardrobe, which T shall wear to-night."

She could hardly have accounted for her wisli witli regard to the lace. Perhaps it was because s'he had worn it. on the evening that Mervyn Restleton proposed to her. She hail never worn it since.

Gertrude went to the drawer which hgr young mistress had indicated and pulled it out. Lying on the top of the odds and ends which women love to collect was a photograph. The girl took it. in her hand to lay it aside, then, glancing at it she gasped, uttered a low cry of amazement, and stood as if transfixed.

"What is the matter, Selby?" asked Sydney in astonishment.

"This —this photograph, miss -" "Well?" "It is the portrait of someone I knew—Mr Herman Wise." Then a flood of memories rushed to her brain. Vividly before her mental vision rose the room over the hairdressing establishment in Southampton Row. The portrait of the girl in the silver frame was that of Miss Sydney Broadhurst! CHAPTER IX. MR. FORTUNE MEETS MYNHEER VANBUIZEN. "And what do you think of doing now?" asked Doctor Clayton. "Arsk somethin' as ain't so 'arc! to guess," answered Mr Fortune. "I ain't no good at prize competitions." "If you take my advice you'll get away from this filthy country as soon as you can." "Ah! That's all very fine, doctor, but none of them 'ere really first-class liners touch in 'ere," remarked the little man sarcastically.

"My good fellow, I am not joking, This is no place for a white man." "Yon seem to stick it all right."

The doctor cast his sad, weary eyes out beyond the grim old castle from which the town derives its name, till they rested on the dimpling blue waters beyond the line of surf. The sky was like the roof of a brazen furnace, yet the air was fully of a clammy vapour charged with the heavy, acrid odour which is the smell of "The Coast," the smell which can be sensed fifty miles out at sea. "Yes," he answered with a sigh, "yes, I stick it, as you say. I am here, and here I must stay; but I curse the hour that I came. Man, if I had only two years to live anil by cutting off my right hand I could spend those two years in England, I would think it cheap."

"And why carn't rorl" asked Mr Fortune incautiously.

"That's my business," answered the doctor abruptly. "Beg yer pa'don!" said the little man with contrition. " 'Opes as 'o\v I didn't offend." The doctor laughed mirthlessly. "You don't road Kipling, I suppose." "Who's 'e?".

"A man who knows a good deal about human nature in all its aspects, and they are manv. He wrote a poem called ''The Lost Legion.' I'll lend it .to you. When you have read it you will understand." Thomas Fortune nodded slowly. He had no need to read the poem. "Bo~en 'ere long."' he asked after an interval, during which he had sat puffing at his pipe.

The doctor looked at him in a way that caused him regret at having put the question; such a look as a wounded animal might give when the dogs are tearing at its throat. "Yes," he answered, "I have been here long; an eternity of torture.

Twenty rears I have been on the coast. ] Twenty years—of hell."

For a space he sat with his chin in the cup of his hand, his empty pipe dangling from his mouth. Fortune watched him, not daring to speak. Presently he raised his head and laughed. "Come and have a drink," he said. "Bit too early, ain't it," returned | the little man. "It ain't not more'n ten o'clock." "You are right. Tt is 100 early for you. You'll excuse me if I leave you.'' lie rose and went into the little bungalow, which served both as hospital ami medical officer's residence. Presently lie returned and sat down again. "You get away from here as soon a? you can, my boy," lie resumed. "There will be a ship in in a day or two, ami I know the captain. I'll lie able to fix things up for you.'' "You're a good 'mi, you are," said Mr Fortune. "There ain't many as 'ud 'ave done for me wot you 'ave, a-mirsin' of me an' all. I ain't likely to forget it ''

"That's all right.'' interrupted the doctor. "You take my advice. Get out of it.'' The little man shook his head. "Mind yer. it ain't as I don't fink ye 're right, but I earn't go back to England.'' "Why not?" He laughed in a sardonic bitterness. "You haven't been bringing disgrace on your people, have you ?'' Mr Fortune expectorated- with difficulty from a dry throat. "Naw," he answered. "Ain't got no people ter bring disgrace on. 'Sides, I ain't done nuthin' ter be ashamed of.'' "Haven't you? Then all I can say is you've been devilish lucky. There are few men living who could say the same. The strange thing is that it is always our foolish acts that we are ashamed of; seldom our wicked ones. Curious, isn't it? Yet there are exceptions. 1 met one a week or two ago—but I'm boring you with my preaching." He rose and yawned in weariness. "Think over what I have told you. Get away from this cursed country." Mr Fortune looked after him as lie strode into the blazing sunlight. "Poor ol' beggar!" he murumred. "It ain't the country, it's the whisky.'' (To be continued.)