OUR SERIAL STORY

Taranaki Daily News, 9 October 1928, Page 15

OUR SERIAL STORY

| “The Lady at the Door” I

j-F (By-1 vZ.

EDGAR WALLACE)

CHAPTER I. THE VOICE. There were two-subjects which irritated the' mind-of Margaret Belman as the Southern express carried her towards Self ord Junction and the branch line train which crawled from the junction to Siltbury. The first of these was, not unnaturally, the drastic changes she was now contemplating, and the effect they already had had upon Mr. J. G. Reeder, that mild and middle-aged man. When she had announced that she was seeking a post in the country, he might at least have shown some evidence of regret; a certain glumness would have been appropriate, at any rate. Instead, he had brightened visibly at the prospect. “I am afraid I sha’n’t be able to come to London very often,” she had said. “That is good news,” said Mr. Reeder, and added some banality about the value of periodical changes of air and the beauty of getting near to nature. In fact, he had been more cheerful than ho had been for a week.

Which was rather exasperating. Margaret Belman’s pretty face puckered as she recalled her disappointment and chagrin. All thoughts of dropping this application of hers disappeared. Not that she imagined for one moment that a six hundred a year secretaryship was going to drop into her lap for the mere asking. She was wholly unsuited for the job, she had no experience of hotel work, and the chances of her being accepted were remote.

As to the Italian man who had made so many attempts to make her acquaintance, he was one of the unpleasant, com-mon-plaeed so familiar to a girl who worked for her living that in ordinary circumstances she would not have given him a second thought. . But that morning he had followed her to the station, and she was certain that lie had heard her tell the girl ; who came with her that she was returning by the 6.15. A policeman would deal effectively with him—if she cared to risk the publicity. But a girl, however ‘ sane, shrinks from such an ordeal, and she must deal with him in her own way. I

That was not a happy prospeet, and the two matters in combination were sufficent to spoil what otherwise might have been a very happy or interesting afternoon. As to Mr. Reeder —

Margaret Belman frowned. She was twenty-three, an age when youngish men are rather tiresome. On the other hand, men in the region of fifty are not especially attractive; and she loathed Mr. Reeder’s side-whiskers, that made him look rather like a Scottish butler. Of course he was a dear.

Here the train reached the junction. She found herself at the surprisingly small station of Siigbury before she had quite made' up her mind whet he? she was in love with Mr. Reeder or merely annoyed with him. The driver of the station cab stopped his unhappy looking horse before the' small gateway and pointed with his whip. “This is the beet way in for you, miss,” he said. “Mr. Daver's office is at the end of the path.”

He was a shrewd old man who had driven many applicants for the post of secretary to Larmes Keep, and he guessed that this, the prettiest girl of all, did not come as a guest. In the first place she brought no luggage, and then, too, the ticket collector had come running after her to hand back the return half of the railway ticket which she had absent-mindedly surrendered. “I’d better wait for you, miss?” “Oh, yes, please,” said Margaret Belman hastily as she got down from the dilapidated victoria. The cabman was a local character, and local, characters assume privileges.

“I ast you,” he explained carefully, “because lots of young wimmin have come up to Lannes without appointment and Mr. Daver wouldn’t see ’im. They just cut out the advertisement and oome aleng, but the ad. says write. I suppose I’ve made a dozen journeys with _young wimmin who ain’t got appointments. I’m telling you for your own good.” “You might have warned them before they left the station,” she said goodhumouredly, “and saved them the cab fare. Yes, I have an appointment.”

From where she stood’ by the gate she had a elear view of Lannes Keep. It bore no resemblance to a hotel, and less to the superior boarding house that she knew it to be. That part of the house which had been the original Keep was easily distinguishable, though the grey, straight walls were masked with ivy that covered also part of the buildings which had been added in the course of the years. She looked across a smooth green lawn, on which were set a few wicker chairs and tables, to a rose garden which, evtn in late autumn, was a blaze of colour. Behind this was a belt of pine trees that seemed to run to the cliff’s edge. She had a glimpse of a grey-blue sea edge, and a blur of dim smoke from a steamer invisible below the straight horizon. A gentle wind carried the fragrance of the pinks to her, and she sniffed ecstatically. “Isn’t it gorgeous!” she breathed. The cabman said it “wasn’t bad,” and pointed with his whip again. “It’s that little square place—only built a few years ago. Mr. Daver is more of a writing gentleman than a boarding-house gentleman.” She unlatched the oaken gate and walked up the stone path towards the sanctum of the writing gentleman. On either side of the crazy pavement was a deep border of flowers —she might have been passing through a cottage garden. There was a long window and a small green door to the annexe. Evidently she had been seen, for as her hand went up to. the brass bell-push the door opened. It was obviously Mr. Daver himself. A tall, thin man of fifty, with a yellow, elf-like face and a smile that brought all her sense of humour into play. Very badly she wanted to laugh. The long upper lip overhung the lower, and except that the face was thin and lined, he had the appearance of some grotesque and foolish mascot. The staring, round brown eyes, the puckered forehead, and a twist of hair that stood upright on the crown of his head made him more brownie-like than ever. “Miss Belman?” he asked, with a certain eagerness.

He lisped slightly, and had. a trick of clasping, his hands as if he were in an

agony of apprehension lest his manner should displease. ' “Come into my den,” he said, and gave such emphasis to the last word that she nearly laughed again. The “den” was a very comfortably-fur-nished study, one wall of which was covered with books. Closing the door behind her, he pushed up a chair with a little nervous laugh. “I’m so glad you came. Did you have a comfortable journey? I’m sure you did. And is London hot and stuffy? I’m afraid ,it is. Would, you like a cup of tea? Of course you would.”

He fired question and answer so rapidly that she had no chance of replying, and he had taken up a telephone and ordered the tea before she could express a wish on the subject. “You are young, very young,” he shook his head sadly. “Twenty-four—no? Do you use the typewriter? What a ridiculous question to ask!” “It is very kind of you to see me, Mr. Daver,” she said, “and I don’t suppose for one moment that I shall suit you. I have had no experience in hotel management, and I realise from the salary you offer—”

“Quiet,” said Mr. Daver, shaking his head solemnly, “that is what I require. There Is very little work, but I wished to be relieved even of that little. My own labours” —he waved his hand to a pedestal desk littered with paper “are colossal. I need a lady to keep accounts —to watch my, interests. Somebody I can trust. I believe in faces; do I you? I see that you do. And in the characters of the handwriting? You believe in that also. I have advertised for three months, and have interviewed thirty-five applicants. Impossible! Their voices—terrible! I judge people by their voices —so do you. On Monday when you telephoned I said to myself: ‘The voice!’” He was clasping his hands together so tightly that his knuckles showed whitely, and this time her laughter was almost beyond arrest. “But, Mr, DaVer, I know nothing of hotel management. I think I could learn, and I want the position naturally. The salary is terribly generous.” “Terribly generous,” repeated the man in' a murmur. “How curious those words sound in juxtaposition! My housekeeper. How kind of you to bring the tea, Mrs. Burton.” The door opened and a woman bearing a silver tray came in. She was dressed very neatly in black. The faded eyes scarcely looked at Margaret as she stood meekly waiting whilst Mr. Daver spoke. Mrs. Burton, this is the new secretary to the company. She must have the best room in . the Keep—the Blue Room. But—ah!” he pinched his lip anxiously —“blue may not be your colour?” Again Maragret laughed. “Any colour is my colour,” she said. “But I haven’t decided —” . _ “Go with Mrs. Burton—see the house, your office, your room. Mrs. Burton!” He pointed to the door, and before the girl knew what she was doing she had followed the housekeeper through the door. A narrow passage connected the private office of Mr. Daver with the house and Maragret' was ushered into a large and lofty room which covered the superficial area of the Keep. “The banquitlin’ ’all,” said Mrs. Burton in a thin Cockney voice, remarkable i for its monotony 7. “It’s used as alounge. We’ve only got three boarders. Mr. Daver’s very partic'lar. We get a lot for the winter.” “Three boarders isn't a very paying proposition;” said the girl. Mrs. Burton sniffed. , “Mr. Daver don’t want it to pay. It s the company he likes. He only turned it into a boardin't house because he likes to see people come and go without having to talk to ’em. It’s a nobby.” Beyond the hall was a small and cosier sitting room with French windows opening on to the lawn. Outside the window three people sat at tea. O-e was an elderly clergyman with a strong hard face. He was eating toast and reading a church paper, oblivious of his companions. The second of the party was a pale-faced girl about Margaret’s own age. In spite of her pallor she was extraordinarily beautiful. A pair of big dark eyes surveyed the visitor for a moment, and then returned to her companion, a military looking man of forty. Mrs. Burton waited until they were ascending the. broad stairway to the upper floor before she “introduced them. “The clergyman’s a Reverend Dean from South Africa, the young lady’s Miss Olga Crewe, the other gent is Colonel Hothling—they’re boarders. This is your room miss.” It was indeed a gem of an apartment—• the sort of room that Margaret Belman had dreamt about. It was exquisitely furnished, and like all the other rooms at Larmes Keep (as she discovered later) was provided- with its private bathroom. The walls were panelled to half their height and the ceilings heavily beamed. She guessed that beneath the parquet was the original stone-flagged floor.

Margaret looked and sighed. It was going to be hard to refuse this post —and why she should think of refusing at all she could not for the life of her understand.

“It’s a beautiful room,” she said, and Mrs. Burton cast an apathetic eye round the apartment. “It’s old,” she said. “I don’t like old houses. 1 used to live at Brixton—”

She stopped abruptly, sniffed in a deprecating way and jingled the keys that she carried in her hand.

“You're suited, I suppose?” “Suited? You mean, am I taking the appointment? I don’t know yet.” Mrs. Burton looked round vaguely. The girl had the impression she was trying to say something in praise of the place—-something that would prejudice her in favour of accepting the appointment. Then she spoke. "The food’s good,” she said, and Margaret smiled.

When she came back through the hall she saw the three people she had seen at tea. The colonel was walking by himself, the clergyman and the palefaced girl were strolling across the lawn talking to each other. Mr. Daver was sitting at his desk, his high forehead resting on his palm, and lie was biting the end of a pen as Mrs. Burton closed the door on them.

“You like the room? Naturally 7 . You will start—when? Next Monday week, I think. What a relief. You have seen Mrs. Burton.” He wagged a finger, at her roguishly. “Ah, now you know. It is impossible. Can I leave her to meet the duchess and speed the duke ?. Can 1 trust her to adjust the little quarrels

that naturally arise between guests? You are —I can't —I must have a lady here —I must, I must!”

He nodded emphatically, his impish brown eyes on hers, the bulging ujiper lip grotesquely curved in a delighted grin. “My work suffers, as you say; constantly to be brought from my studio to settle such matters as the fixing of a tennis net- —intolerable I

“You write a great deal?” she managed to ask. She felt she must postpone her. decision to the last possible moment.

“A great deal. On crime. Ah, you are interested? I am preparing an encyclopaedia of crime.” He said this impressively, dramatically. “On crime?”

He nodded. “It is one of my hobbies. I am a rich man and can afford hobbies. This place is a hobby. I lose four thousand a year, but I am satisfied. I pick and choose my own guests. If one bores me ,1 tell him to go—that his room has to be taken. Could I do that if they were my friends ? No. They interest me. They fill the house. They give me company and amusement. When will you come?” She hesitated. “I think —”

“Monday week? Excellent!” He shook her hand vigorously. “You need not be lonely. If my guests bore you, invite your own friends. Let them come as the guests of the house. Until Monday!” She was walking down the garden path to the waiting cabman, a little dazed, more than a little undecided. “Did you get the place, miss?” asked the. friendly cabman. “I suppose I did,” replied Margaret. She looked backwards toward Larmes Keep. The,lawns were empty, but near at hand she had one glimpse of a woman. Only for a second, and then she disappeared in a belt of laurel that ran parallel with the boundary wall of the property. Evidently there was a rough path through the bushes, and Mrs. Burton had sought this hiding place. Her hands covered her face as she ftaggered forward blindly, and the faint sound of her sobs came back to the astonished girl. “That’s the housekeeper —she’s a bit mad,” said the cabman calmly. (To be continued.)