The Bannatyne Sapphires

Taranaki Daily News, 19 August 1929, Page 14

The Bannatyne Sapphires

By

FRANK HIRD

FOR NEW READERS. Gervase Daynesford, head of a great stockbroking firm, is about to take into partnership Guy Meredith, the orphaned son of an old friend. Guy is engaged to Daynesford’s daughter Patricia, and the partnership was to be his wedding present. On the day before the articles are signed, Daynesford tells Guy that by rash speculation he has brought about the ruin of the firm, which in a few weeks will cease to exist. That same night Henry Bannantyne and his wife Alice are giving a ball in honour of Patricia and Guy. Henry Bannatyne is a wealthy banker and a cousin of Daynesford’s, and he and his wife have introduced Patricia into society and practically adopted her. Daynesford begs Guy not to let Patricia hear of the disaster until after the ball, and Guy agrees. On his way down to join Patricia, Guy meets Maxwell Wryce and his sister Julia, and Lady Latchmere, all friends of the Bannantyues, who will be at the ball. Feeling unlit for company, however, he travels alone. He finds Patricia, and she detects at once that he is worried. He evades the question, being unable to tell her of the disaster that has overtaken them. Pretending to be cheerful, Guy .takes Patricia - on to the ball. They are received by Mrs. Bannantyne, who • is wearing a sapphire necklace of im-, mense value. Mrs. Bannantyne is suddenly attacked by violent headache, and has to go to bed. She asks Patricia to help her put away her necklace in a safe, the whereabouts of which are known only to herself and her husband. The safe requires two people to open it. When they return from the ball they are horrified to discover that Gervase Daynesford has committed suicide. Guy discovers that all Daynesford’s property has gone, with the exception of some Mexican holdings which are considered valueless. Guy thinks otherwise, however, and goes to Bannantyne to borrow £3OOO which must be paid before the holdings can be worked. He tries first Bannantyne and then Maxwell Wryce, a young friend of his, but they both refuse. Ho receives a message from a man called Manuel Leofalda, who offers him £5OOO for the entire property. Guy tells Patricia the position and she says she will try to borrow the money. The following day she returns with £3OOO. She refuses to tell Guy

who lent her the money. Guy eventually sells the property to Leofalda for £s'o,oo'o. .He tells Bannantyne, who does not seem to be pleased.

Bannantyne’s grievance against Patriseia was still strong. Certainly, Patricia came to Brentland whenever Alice wanted her particularly. Only a little while ago she had come down at an hour’s notice so that Alice should not spend an evening alone. But she avoided him, yes, absolutely avoided him. She was civil before Alice and other people, but whenever by any chance they were alone she either looked at him as if she considered him a murderer, or walked, out of tho room. Guy ought to have come back to him when Leofalda made his first offer instead of Patricia running about to heaven knew whom. ' Curiously illogical reasoning this, by d brilliant, level-headed man of business. But the personal equation often biases the clearest judgment, and in Bannantyno’s case injured vanity added to the bias. Patricia was the first person who had ever thwarted his wishes, and, on the top of that, as he put it, to himself, “turned up her nose at him.” Yes, Patricia was an ungrateful girl, most ungrateful, seeing what he and Alice had done for her. He disliked her intensely. If it weren't for Alice’s sake he wouid never have the girl inside his house again! . “I suppose Patricia will give up that Billy tennis job now?” he said to Meredith, as the three men crossed the hall to the drawing-room. .“She finished there yesterday, thank goodness.” Wryce put his hand on Meredith s Shoulder. “That’s good news,” he said, “in fact, it’s splendid news! Im awfully glad. I suppose you and Patricia will be getting married soon?” Meredith laughed. “It’s funny you should mention that. Patricia and I were talking about it coming down this afternoon.” . , “Did you decide anything?’ asked Bannantyne. , . x j ' “No, Patricia thinks we ought to find a house first. There I don t agree. “Of course you’ll be married from

here.” , e _ . “That’s awfully good of you, Heniy, Ibut Patricia —” Meredith hesitated, then added hurriedly, “You’ll have to talk it over with her. That’s the bride’s affair, isn’t it?” ± .. “Humph!” said Bannantyne to himself. “They’ve talked it over, and Patricia has settled she won’t be married from my house.” When the three men went into the drawing-room, kind, gentle Mrs. Bannantyne wondered what could have been said‘ over the coffee. A glance at her husband’s face showed he was angry, badly angry, in one of what she called his “black ‘fits.” It was strange. Dear Guv and Maxwell Wryce never upset him. What could they have been talking about? , , , 'On Sunday afternoons many of her neighbours blessed Mrs. Bannantyne. She was always a “certain find” for tea, and if they had a week-end party and took their' guests with them, she was just ias pleased as they were Their guests, too, were equally delighted. Henry Bannantyne’s pictures were famous There was a Reynolds in the din-ing-room for which it was said he had given a prodigious sum. Besides, a visit to the magnificent great house was an interesting interlude in a country SunOn this particular Sunday afternoon some twenty people were gatheredat tea in the winter garden. Among t^ in were Bannantyne’s partner, Philip Cordelion, and his wife. They lived about twentv miles away, and with other guests had brought Lord and Dad) Templeforth. a recently married couple. Bannantyne had not seen Lord Templeforth since he had bought the sapphne necklace from him after his mother s death. There were two big round tables for tea. Mrs. Bannantyne being hostess at one, Patricia at the other. After tea some of the people went with Bannan--r ,-tvne to looK. at- hie pictures; others

gathered in little groups. This general movement left Lady Templeforth alone with Mrs. Bannantyne at the latter’s table.

She was a slender, pretty woman, considerably younger than her husband. “On the way here,” she said, “my husband told me about your famous sapphire necklace that used to belong to the Templefortlis. I told him I should ask you to lec me see it. He said I had better not, as it might make mb envious; or cross with, him for selling it. But-I shouldn’t be in the least. I don’t care about wearing jewels. Only this necklace has such a wonderful history. It would be so kind if I might see it. Might I?”

“Of course,” Mrs. Bannantyne replied immediately, pleased with this interest in the necklace. “If you won’t mind waiting till my husband comes back.” Glancing across the other table she saw Patricia getting up. “Oh, we needn’t wait until then,” she added, remembering that Patricia had helped her to put the necklace away. “If you will excuse me a moment, I’ll go and get it. ’ “Will you come and help me get the necklace?” she said, going up to Patricia. “Lady Templeforth wants to see it, and Henry is busy showing the pictures.”

Patricia followed at once to the door opening from Mrs. Bannantyne’s sittingroom into the winter garden. When they were inside, Mrs. Bannantyne locked it. , “Would you work the top spring ? she said, as she set the cupboard door, disguised as a bookcase, wide open. “You remember, there’s a spring just below the top shelf." Patricia got upon a chair and finding the small raised lump of wood, said, “Here it is.” “Wait a moment. Yes, here’s mine. Mrs. Bannantyne’s finger was on the spring just above the bottom shelf. “Now push." There was the clicking sound which Patricia had noticed when she helped Mrs. Bannantyne put the necklace away on the night of the ball, and, as then, the end of a small steel, rod shot from the wood work. She pulled it right out. “I forget Which book you' take down,’ she said.

“The third from the left.” Patricia pulled out the wooden box with its leather book-binding and its edges painted to represent gilt-edged leaves. “There’s your treasure,” she said, handing the imitation book to Mrs. Bannantyne, and preparing to descend from tho chair. “Wait a moment, my dear; I’ll take the necklace out and you can put the case back. Somebody might come into the room while I’m showing it to Lady Templeforth.” Mrs. Bannantyne pressed both the edges of the case. One of the leathercovered sides flew open. Patricia heaid a gasp of horror, and, looking down, saw Mrs. Bannantyne staring at the white velvet lining. There was no necklace in the case. It was empty. “It isn’t possible! It cant be possible!" Mrs. Bannantyne had sunk into a chair and was looking down at the empty case lying in her lap. “I haven’t worn the necklace since the night of your ball, the night you helpcd°me to put it away.” The case slid from her trembling hands on to the floor. Patricia picked it up. “Who can have taken it? Who can have known?” Mrs. Bannantyne asked in a terrified whisper; then, seizing Patricia’s wrist, cried, “Oh, .my dear, did you tell anybody where it was kept?” J “No, I’ve never spoken about the necklace to anybody, not even to Guy," was Patricia’s immediate answer. “Are you sure you haven't had it out since that night?” “Quite sure, my dear. That was the last time I wore it.” Mrs. Bannantyne took the case from Patricia, and turning it over shook it as if hoping that the sapphires were hidden somewhere beneath the white velvet. “What will Henry say?” she gasped. “He will never forgive me! He was always against my keeping the necklace in the house. But it seemed so safe in that case. And nobody knew except Henry and me—and then you! Oh, Patricia, what shall I do? What shall I do? My beautiful sapphires!" Between fear of her husband and the realisation of her loss, Mrs. Bannantyne broke down. Clinging to Patricia, the face, she sobbed, “I would rather have Jost everything—everything else I have. I’ve never in all my life cared for anything as I did for my sapphires. Oh, Patricia —who can have taken them?” There was nothing Patricia could say to- comfort the distressed and sobbing woman beyond a murmured, “I’m so sorry for you—so sorry.” Then she asked, “Shall I fetch Henry? . He ought to know.” Mrs. Bannantyne gave an exclamation of dismay. “Oh, no," she cried, ‘‘Not until these people have gone. Patricia, dear,” she pleaded, “go and make some excuse to Lady Templeforth. Say Im ill—anything. I can’t sit and talk and pretend nothing has happened. Get rid of them all as soon as you can, and then tell Henry I want him. I know so well what he’ll say,” she sobbed. Mrs. Bannantyne had not underestimated her husband’s . anger. Patricia never forgot the scene in the Louis Seize boudoir half an hour later.

After Patricia had made the conventional excuses for Mrs. Bannantyne’s absence, the guests had gradually drifted away, leaving the Wryce brother and sister’ Meredith and herself alone in the winter garden. “What’s this about Alice being ill? Bannantyne inquired, coming in through | the big double doors from the hall. “Half | the people have been asking me to say I good-bye to her. Has she got one of her heads?” „ “She’s in her room, and wants you, Patricia told him. He strode to the end of the winter garden and went into his wife s sittingroom. _ , . “Poor Alice, those headaches. I hoped she was getting over them ” . Julia Wryco was saying, when the sittingroom door opened and Mrs. Bannantyne called out in distress: f “Patricia! Patricia! come here! Patricia found Bannantyne standing iiiy the middle of the room, the sham wooden book in his hand. As she entered Mrs. Bannantyne closed the door and 1 stood with her back against it. She

was very white; her eyes dilated with fear.

“Henry won't believe me!” she said, an unusual high note in her voice. “He says we can’t have put the case back properly on the shelf.” Patricia looked at Bannantyne. His stolid, rather heavy face was crimson; his eyelids were flickering up and down; the 'back of bis neck, which bulged slightly over his collar, was crimson, too; the red ran up into a little point behind each car. This last was a stormsignal known to everybody who was intimate in the Bannantyne household. It showed his anger was beyond control. “How else can you account for it? How else can anybody have known where the necklace was kept?’

(To be Continued.)