OUR SERIAL STORY

Taranaki Daily News, 15 June 1927, Page 11

OUR SERIAL STORY

“Love Conquers Treachery”

By HAROLD BINDLOSS

Jill Rights Reserved.

CHAPTER. XIII. Hazel hedges, battered thorns and dry-stone walls melted behind the speeding ear; in front were red moors and blue folding hills. Lawrenee slowed the engine and heard a beck splash in a ghyll. A flock of birds skimmed the heather and a cock grouse called. Nothing indicated pursuit and Lawrence imagined Mrs. Hestan’s agents would not be allowed to borrow the American’s car. Another was in the garage, but the engine was down. At all events, the road was narrow and bordered by a ditch, and he had some cans of petroi he had ordered at Madam’s expense. Lawrence launched one overboard, and then swerving, dropped another, which he imagined burst. By and by he dropped two more. In a narrow road, a petrol can is an awkward obstacle, and if he were followed at high speed, his pursuers might not risk a collision. Anyhow, he did not want the stuff, since to steer for Northumberland on board a stolen limousine was obviously rash. Where he was going, the telegraph wires did not run and a man in brown shooting clothes would not be conspicuous. Lighting a cigarette, he looked about. The moor had faded to dusky purple, the folded hills were black and a pale star shone behind one’s broken top. In front, the road curved about a boggy hollow and Lawrenee saw wild cotton and water flags on the side where the ditch was not. He did not want to wreck the noble car, but the bog was soft. He drove slower, jumped from the board and let her go. After a few moments, the car left the road and lurched, like a ship at sea, across the heather. Then she stopped, and the roof tilted. That was all, but a Pennine bog holds all it seizes and before the limousine again took the road Lawrence imagined ropes and planks and horses must be used. Moreover, the loser paid, and Mrs. Hestan must meet the bill. If Lawrence’s ingenuity did not fail him, the account might yet be larger. Pushing his arms through the ruck-sack slings, he looked for the North star and plunged into the heath.

The night was not dark and by and by Lawrence found a curving sheep-path. The path went by a peat stack, and although he did not see a light, it looked as if a house were not far off. His lunch was a small packet of sandwiches and he had not stopped for dinner, but he must conquer his appetite. Searching for the house, he might encounter a suspicious dog and if a gamekeeper occupied the croft, he might want to know why Lawrenee roamed the moors at night with a bag and fishing rod. Then, the stack’s hollow front was drier than dug-outs he had used in France, and stretching his legs in the soft peat dust, he was soon asleep. A curlew called on a high note and Lawrence saw the dew shine in the rising sun. Blue smoke floated across a battered fir wood and a beck sparkled in a hollow. Lawrence steered for the beck and the cold water banished the stiffness he had got from sleeping on the ground. Then he remembered that the trout, packed in fern, were yet in his bag, and he started for the croft. An inquisitive but friendly dog met him in the path and when he talked to the animal a woman and a strong lad came to the cottage door. Lawrence advanced carelessly, the large dog by his side. ‘‘The morning’s fine,” he remarked. “Would you like some trout ” “Yan’s a white fish,” said the woman. “Where’s ta get them!” “Oh well,” said Lawrence, “I don’tthink you ought to ask; but if you invite me to breakfast, you can have the lot. To get rid of feathers is awkward, but you can put fish bones in the fire.” The woman studied the big trout; the brown-faced young fellow grinned. “He’s rcet sort, mother. Will you walk in, sir?” Lawrence waited. To admit him was the woman’s business, and if one knew where to search, he imagined one might find grouse feathers in the neighbourhood, and perhaps a long, thin partridge net. It, however, looked as if she were satisfied, for she beckoned him into the brick-floored kitchen. On the table were a loaf and a tea pot; In a frying pan on the peat fire, two very small rashers. The woman dressed the trout and hesitated; and then, as if she resolved to be extravagant, put all the fish in the pan. When Lawrence’s keen appetite was satisfied, he gave the lad his tobacco pouch and asked his hostess: “Can you put me up some lunch?” She gave him bread and cheese and sandwiches of wild raspberry jam and at first refused his money. “You gave us the trout and we dinnot rob travellers? “If I spot a likely pool at sunset, I can get some more. You, however, are some distance from a shop and I have paid a large sum for breakfast I did not relish half as much.” “Summat depens on where you was t‘neet before,” the lad observed with a grin. “It’s possible,” Lawrence agreed. “All the same, I hardly think you ought to know. Suppose you tell me how, cuti'nu out the main roads, I can get to Appleford ?” “It’s a gey lang road; I doubt you’ll not can get there by dark,” the lad replied and looked at his mother. “Mayhappen if he stopped at Redsyke, they’d put him up for t’neet?” “If you’ll give me my line, it’s all I want,” Lawrence replied. The line the young fellow drew across scar and bog might have daunted a city man, but Lawrence pulled on his pack and cheerfully took the heather. The morning was fresh and a bracing wind swept the moor. He imagined he had helped his hostess’s frugal housekeeping, and if somebody inquired for him, she would use reserve. He liked the rather grim North-country folk; so long as they trusted you, they were stanch. As a rule, people did trust Lawrenee Blake. White clouds rolled up from the south-west, trailed cool shadows along his path and rolled ahead. Wild cotton waved about the dark peat hags and where a ghyll pierced the slopes the mountain-ashes were checkered red and green. Sometimes a pike on a round moor tip marked the track across the waste, but for the most part, Lawrenee kept the shoulders of the hills. On the skyline, a lonely man would be J conspicuous; with the brown slopes for i a background, his shooting clothes melted in the heath. Sometimes guns cracked, but when : small scattered figures cross a ridge I Lawrence went the other way, A !

grouse-shoot was planned like a campaign, and if he spoiled the drive, he might be forced to account for his trespassing. Moreover, he was a sportsman, and gamekeepers must live. Now profiteers had bought the shooting rights, sport, so to speak, was commercialised, and the men who planned the drives were paid by results. A good day cost one something, but when the birds were scarce and wild, the tips were small . In the circumstances, an ambitious I keeper was justified to guard his moors but some were not satisfied to do so honestly. They removed suspected crofters by methods like the methods used by Russian police, and fastened imaginary offences on harmless tramps. Lawrence knew that sort, and for him to be seized for a poacher might be awkward. Since he went cautiously, nobody bothered him and he ate his lunch in a limestone ridge that commanded three counties and the faint Scottish hills. In the afternoon, he crossed a high moss where orange cloud-berries grew and until the sun got low pushed on steadily. Then the moors in front rolled down to a wide hollow, rounded like a bowl, and a railway and a river curved about the gap. Lawrence, sitting in the heather, his back against an old lime kiln, smoked his pipe. Ploughing across the bog and tangled heath |is a strenuous job and he had had ' enough. His bread and cheese was not all gone and if he gathered some heather, he might sleep in the hollow under the lime kiln hearth. Yet he did not know —for twenty-four hours he had vanished, but his business was to mark his path, like the hare in a paper chase, although he must not be caught. When he started, he had engaged, for fourteen days, to keep the men who looked for Jim employed. Lawrence did not know who they were; two or three asylum warders, for example, could not usefully search the wide Pennine bogs. Mrs. Hestan had perhaps engaged private detectives, and Lawrence imagined the police were entitled to stop him. He had a hazy notion that if a lunatic could keep his freedom for fourteen . days, his guardians’ authority was gone, but he did not know. In fact, now he thought about it, before he started on his excursion he ought to have seen a lawyer. Two days were gone, but if the others were as strenuous, when the shareholders’ meeting was over he might need a fresh holiday. | At the bottom of the valley, he saw a little town. This smoke floated about the roofs, and except where the river I sparkled, all the dale was blue. It got narrow and sloped north-west, a deep, shadowy rift, darker than the enclosing hills. Larry’s road w’as north-west, ana although lie doubted if he ought to use the train or motor bus, ho knocked out his pipe and started for the town. At an inn he might give Mrs. Hestan, a fresh clue, and after the peat stack, a comfortably-furnished bedroom had some attraction.

Plunging down through fern and heather, he noted that a black trunk road and two railways followed the valley. The nearest station was about a mile from the town and Lawrence steered for the spot. Since the police perhaps looked out for him, to fix his line of retreat was prudent. He thought he might usefully occupy a few minutes by studying the time tables. CHAPTER XIV. After a first-class supper, Lawrence thought himself entitled to loaf. It did not look as if his arrival at the hotel interested anybody, and he carried a newspaper to an easy chair by the smoking-room window. Although the days got shorter, the evening was hot and groups of young people drifted about the wide street. A motor bus rolled by, somebody noisily cranked a car and Lawrence thought the fellow swore. Then, across the valley the rumble of a Scotch express echoed in the hills. Afterwards all was quiet but for the occasional beat of heavy boots on the stones. The smoking-room was unoccupied, and Lawrence tranquilly studied the important provincial newspaper. He liked the old-fashioned hotel and if Mrs. Hestan left him alone, he might stop for a day or two. He pondered an ambitious politician’s remarks about British industry. A speech like that might go in London, where the company-floaters were, but it would not persuade the forgemen who sweated in the North.

i Lawrence could tell the fellow much; 'Jim, without an effort, could explode his • argument. Well, it was not important and Lawrence had not much use for I argument. His business was to make j things, and his proper tool was the graduated scale. Yet, if he were forced ■he could use a fishing rod—Lawrence’s .smile vanished, for when he turned the , sheet a caption fixed his glance. .1 Marborough manufacturer’s disappear- ' ance. i The paragraph was the sort of para- , graph newspapers print, but Lawrence thought he knew Mrs. Hestan’s touch. llt narrated that Mr. James Hestan had ’ left his house at night, without stating where he went, and had not returned. i Since he had not altogether recovered torn injuries receive! in France and had been very closely occupied at he company’s office, his relations imagined the strain might account for a loss of memory, and they were anxious for news. Particulars about his height and clothes, and so forth, were accurately supplied. The writer added that the leather had been removed from the shoulder of his shooting coat. (To be Continued.) PROTRUDING PILES CURED. Mr. B. W. writes from Christchurch:— ‘‘My wife suffered for yeans from protruding piles, making it misery for her to get about. A course of Zann Pile Treatment proved simply wonderful—found relief after first application—completely cured by first jar of ointment and two boxes of cones. It’s the most satisfactory money I ever spent in my life.’’ The Zann Double Absorption Pile Treatment can be applied in your own home, without trouble or operation. Money refunded if not satisfied. Send ninepence in stamps for generous trial treatment. Address, in confidence, Zann Proprietary, Box 952, Wellington. Booklets and stocks of “Zann” can be obtained from Teed and Company, Chemists, Devon St., New Plymouth. ' 5.