SERIAL STORY.

Taranaki Daily News, 18 September 1924, Page 10

SERIAL STORY.

FASCINATING LOVE STORY BY A CHARMING WRITER. THE SPLENDID SACRIFICE. By J. B. HARRIS-BUR LAND. Author of “The Half-Closed Door,” “The Black Moon,” “The Felgate 11 Taint, ” “ The Poison League, ’ ’ etc., etc CHAPTER VI. Sir Richard Pynson in the great library at Caine Court. The desk in front of him was strewn with books and papers, and light was thrown on them by a single electric lamp with a green silk shade. He wrote slowly and steadily in a diary—a. large, costly book, bound in purple Morocco. A telephone -instrument stood within a few inches of his right hand. There was an air of modernity ibout the scene, visible in the small circle of light, that contrasted strangely with tiie rest of the room, now hidden in darkness. The desk was such as one might expect to find in an office. The telephone, a typewriting machine, the bell-pushes set in the table, whereby Sir Richard could summon his secretary, his footman, his housekeeper, or his chauffeur in the far distant garage, were all out of place in a fifteenth century room that still retained its timbered roof, and its windows with their stone tracery and pointed arches. This room was the only part left of the old abbey which bad been granted to Sir Richard’s ancestor on the dissolution of the monasteries. The rest had been pulled down by a Pynson of the 18th century, and most of the material used for the building of a splendid new mansion, decorated and designed by Robert Adam.

Tt was this one room in all the house that Sir Richard Pynson had always loved, even in his boyhood. As a bachelor he had practically lived in it. and now that he was married he worked there in the mornings, and read there in the evenings when his wife had gone to bed. Rarely could he got Joan to stay in it for more than a few minutes af a time. “It depresses me. Dick.’’ she said. “I think of all those old monks. And you say it was once the chapel. I don’t think one ought to use the chapel as a library.” So, whenever Sir Richard wanted to be alone, he went to the library, and he was sure that he would not be interrupted. He was still an ardent lover, but he was old enough to realise that a wife and husband ought not to be constantly in each other’s company. Joan seemed to realise that too, for she never raised any objection when he said he wished to read or work. She had her own boudoir—her own books, her own dogs—everything that she wished. Sir Richard had showered gifts ujx>n her, but among the gifts there was not a single article of jewellery, except her engagement ring. “You need no adornment,” he had said, when she had commented on his peculiar objection to jewels, "and besides, jewels are unlucky in this family. Mvtmolher never wore any—nor my grandmother. There is some sort of a curse. I believe.” "An odd sort of curse,” Joan had thought when she accepted this explanation, and she would have thought it still more odd if she could have looked over Sir Richard’s shoulder, as he sat at his desk and had seen the writing in his diary. “Paid X £350 to-day,” he had written, ‘‘for ruby ring that was stolen by lx* T. in the burglary at X’s house, and recovered by the police. Le T. will bo hanged on Friday for the murder of X’s footman.. It is curious to what lengths men and women will go to possess a jewel. Le T. gave this ring to his wife. A woman wnuld sell her soul for a jewel, and send the soul of a man to hell. ’ Sir Richard closed the book, locked it and placed it in«i drawer, which he also locked. Then lie filled his pipe, lit it, and leant back in his chair. 'lllis was a curious hobby of his—this collecting of jewels which had cost mon their lives and women their honour. There was no morbid love of the horrible in Sir Richard’s mind. Hr was writing a book on the subject—a hook that would one day be published at his. own expense. It was doubtful if many copies of it would be sold, but it would ajways remain one of the curiosities of literature.

It was a strange hobby, and a secret one, for Sir Richard went to work very carefully to secure his specimens. Not even the keenest journalist had so tar discovered this admirable subject for a sensational article. Everything had been acquired through trustworthy agents. The jewels were kept in a special safe in the library. No burglar had over tracked them down to their resting place. The hobby was a secret, but it would have been no secret from Sir Richard’s wife if it had not been for Sir Richard’s sister-in-law. Under the circumstances it would have been hardly possible for Joan to have been taken into his confidence. She would—so he thought—have instantly demanded the sale of the whole collection. She could not have Jived in the house with them. To Sir Richard these jewels had. by a stroke of fate, become a sort of skeleton in his cupboard, to be hidden away from his wife. Most certainly if he showed them to her, she would wish to wear some of them, and unless he explained the object of the collection, she would rightly regard him as an unreasonable tyrant. And if he did explain—well, that would make things even more difficult. But he was not going to give up the work of years—even to please Joan. So there were the jewels—for his ow n eyes alone. He walked to the door, locked it, and then opened the safe. Ono side of it consisted of a nest of shallow white enamelled steel drawers set one on top of the other. He pulled one of the drawers towards him, and there was a. soft flashing and twinkling, like a galaxy of white and coloured stars. Every jewel was numbered, but there was no other clue to its history. He picked up No. 7, a beautiful Renaissance gem—a ship in full sail, made of enamels and rough cut emeralds and baroque pearls. It was not the kind of thing a burglar would have selected, but it was worth two thousand pounds. It had once hung round the fair neck of Lucrezia Borgia.

He replaced it and shut the drawer. He was not in the mood to gaze with rapture on his collection. The safe had a combination lock, nad he reset the letters into the word Lover. Then he closed the great door of the safe and

moved the discs until they formed no word at all. And, as he returned to the desk to put away his books and papers, ho heard a loud knocking on the door. Sir Richard Pynson paid no immediate attention to the Knocking. He quietly put away his papers, and then went to the door and unlocked it. "What do you want?” he said to the footman, "Don’t you know my orders? You can telephone to me from the hall.” “1 did not know the door, was locked, Sir Richard. And then—l lost my head.”

“What’s the matter? You look scared? What’s happened? Come in. Don’t .stand there like a fool.” The man came forward into the room and Sir Richard closed the door. “Now what is it?’’ lie said. “You look as if you’d seen a ghost.” The young man—he was a very thin, tall young man. with a clean-shaven face—answered, “Yes, Sir Richard —it must have been a ghost.” "Stuff and nonsense! Why didn t you lay hold of it?” ‘“lt was the ghost, sir—the one they ah talk about in the servants’ hall. One of your own family, sir—meaning no disrespect—the gentleman that was drowned m the lake ever so long ago. "Oh, that foolish story! Well, Ive never seen him ; but you’ve had better luck. Tell me all about it.”

"Weil, sir, 1 was just taking a stroll through the grounds before going to bed. and smoking my pipe, when 1 uamo down to the lake by the path that leads through the rhododendron shrubbery.’’ “By yourself, Daniels?” The young man blusheu. “Not exactly by myself, sir,” he replied. ... , “All right,” laughed Sir Richard; “go ahead.” "We sat down by the hike, sir—on that little wooden seat— — “Yes, I know. A snug little placebushes all round it, except on one side, where vou can see the lake.” "Yes", Sir Richard. But we couldn t see anything, because there’s no moon to-night. And then, after a little while, we asw something white, long and narrow and white it were, sir like a. boat. It seemed to be on the lake. Sir Richard, and it came closer and closer and we could hear no sound. And when it came near enough, wo saw that someone was rowing it—someone all white—and—and queer.” “Queer, eh? What do you mean by that?” "Well, Sir Richard—not as you and I might be ”He paused, and then he blurted out. “It was dark, sir, and i could see the boat and that man that rowed it.” . , "Luminous piant,” said Sir Ricnard.

"Well, go on.” "We ran, Sir Richard—we just ran as fast as we could. Of course it was Sir James—him that was drowned in the lake ever so many years ago. Queer old clothes he wore, sor—like those in the picture.” “Could vou see his face?” “No, Sir Richard—there weren t no face. It was a blank so to speak. His hat and coat I could see, but not his face. And they tell me, sir, that when they took Sir Janies from the lake, there was no face to speak of. Sir Richard laughed heartily. see, Daniels,” he said. "You had all the story cut and dried before you the ghost. Daniels, are you quite

"I drink two glasses of beer a day, sir—witli my meals. Besides, Sir Richard, my friend saw it all quite pkiin. Shell bear me out in what I say.” Sir Richard Pynson lit a cigarette, and. opening a drawer in his desk, took out something which he placed in the pocket of his dinner jacket. "We will go out and find this ghost,’’ he said. "Bring a good thick stick with you, Daniels. You will find one in the hall.” Sir Richard locked the door oi the library behind him, put on an overcoat and left the house by a side door. Daniels, who had managed to s«vure a heavy ebony stick, its handle downed with the head of a most formidable bird, followed his master.

• I think,” said Sir Richard. that we will also lock this door, Daniels. There may lx? thieves about.” Daniels locked the door, and they birolled quietly along a broad grass walk that was bordered with shrubs. It ran straight down to the lake, but before they reached the end of it .they turned aside down a harrow winding path, and came to the little wooden seat hidden among the hushes. It was a dark night, but Sir Richard had brought an electric torch with him, and he let the light play on the ground by the seat.

‘ You heard nothing?” he queried. "Nothing. Sir Richard—but 1 saw tin* man and the boat.” "You didn't wait tor him to laud?” "Not I. sir. They say that if he lands, it means death to someone in the house.” "Oh, they say that, do they? Capital ! These legends grow. Daniels like ivy on a ruined wall. Generations of servants add to them, piece by niece. Now. do vou know, I’ve never beard that hit about the ghost landing. - ’ "Well, Sir Richard. Markham told me. I haven’t been here long, Sir Richard, as you know.” "H’m,” said his master. Markham was the butler—a man of fifty with a humorous eye. No doubt he had pitched a very fine yarn about the family ghost—something that ought to have kept you young footmen from walking about the grounds at night. Sir Richard walked forward to the

edge of the lake—some thirty yards away from the scat, and let the light play upon the water. The hike was very shallow at this part, not more than six inches in depth for quite ten yards from the shore. And there was a bed of reeds. It was very unlikely that anyone would land there; and it was quite certain that no one had landed, for not one of the reeds was broken.

Yet something real and material lay behind this silly story of a ghost. Someone, for some purpose or other, had played a foolish trick. Markham? No, Markham would hardly have gone to all that trouble to frighten a young footman. "1 wonder what the game is?” thought Sir Richard, and then he told Daniels to remain on the seat while he walked along the bank to the land-ing-stage at the bottom of the broad grass walk. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he added. "Keep a firm hold on your stick. ’ ’ lie walked very slowly towards the landing-stage, and reached it without seeing the trace of a man’s footsteps on the wet turf. The stage itself was built of wood, and ran out like a pier into the lake. The water at the end of it was ten'feet deep. It had been carried out thus far because the lake rose and fell with the level of the river that passed through it on the further side. There was no right of way through this part of the river, and, at either end of the lake it was guard; e-d with a barricade of posts and chains and barbed wire. It was a narrow

river—the upper reach of the same stream that widened out into the Cobie at Mirchester. It was a famous trout stream, but Sir Richard knew well enough that no one kept a boat upon it—within two miles of his park. He had boats of his own—a small dinghy and a punt, and a Canadian canoe. They were kept in the boathouse near the end of the pier. He examined the boat-house, and saw that the gates were locked, that the lock had not been tampered with. “Where did the fellow get the boat from?” he said to himself. There was something about this affair that he did not like at all. He could not regard it as a silly trick. He walked slowly back along the landing-stage, and when he had reached the grass walk he flashed the light of his lantern on the shrubs that lay to the right of him. Something white caught his eye, and ho bent down and picked up a handkerchief—a tiny square of fine linen edged with old lace. He examined it, and drew in his breath sharply, as lie saw the initials embroidered in one of th# corners. “Joan!” he said to himself. “Joan’s handkerchief?” He thrust the scrap of lace and linen into his pocket, and made his way back to Daniels. “Seen anything?” he queried. “Nothing, Sir Richard, but I'm glad you’ve come back.” “Glad, eh.’’ “Yes, Sir Richard. I’ve felt queer and creepy ever since you left me. ’ ’ “We’ll go back to the house,’’ said Sir Richard. And he began to walk so quickly that the footman could scarcely keep pace with him. (To be Continued.)