Our Short Story. THE STOLEN HEIRESS.

Taranaki Herald, Volume LX, Issue 143767, 16 April 1912, Page 8

Our Short Story. THE STOLEN HEIRESS.

By ARTHUR APPLIN,

Author of “The Gamester’s Wife,” “The Chorus Girl,” “The Priest of Piccadilly,” etc. CHAPTER IX, A DANGEROUS VENTURE. Always suspicious, Mrs. Smithers had of late lived- a treble life—whenever the bell rang or the knocker clattered, her body grew as stiff as the bugles on her faded bonnet, and she rattled like the aforsaid trimmings of her ancient head-piece. She opened the door some two inches and peered round the corner at Yvette Libertie. At first she thought: 1 ‘Some hussy from the next door house!” A second glance made her. doubtful. A hussy of course, because she was a female. Never tolerant of her own sex, lately . Mrs. Smithers. abhorred them. It was a woman , who had driven her young man 'to crime! And all women should suffer at her hands for that unknown creature's perfidy. “An’ what may you be wantin’?” she snarled at Yvette. “Mr. Martin lives here; X want to to see him.”

The faded bonnet shook wrathful music in Yvette's face. The door slowly commenced to close; but Miss Libertie calmly placed a delicately shod foot on the threshold.

“Mr. Martin ain’t living here now — went away, some days ago.” The door closed' on the little foot; but Yvette did not move.

“I know,” she said quickly, lowering her voice. “I know everything. I’m his friend, and so are yon, I’m sure! I’ve a message for him of the utmost importance.” l She took a risk, but she was a good judge of character. And Yvette T ibertie was neither so young nor so innocent as she looked. Her words impressed Mrs. Smithcrs. She hesitated. She. too, was a judge of character; she had not lived her long and weari? life in Pimlico for nothing. “I’ll send on any message you care to give,” she replied, and commenced to put pressure on the door. Yvette’s pretty lips puckered up with pain. “Please let me in, and I’ll explain.” As she spoke she turned her head, afraid lest anyone watched or listened. She saw peering at her from behind the curtains of the bay-windows of the adjoining house—the house of the murdered man —the bloated face of a middle-aged woman. Mrs. Smithcrs saw it, too—and Yvette leapt back with a cry of agony as Martin’s faithful landlady closed the door with a fierce bang. But Yvette was undaunted. Hie face had disappeared from the window. She was convinced that its owner held the key to the mystery. Stepping across the lon- balustrade, she knocked at the door. Directly it commenced to open, she pushed hor way into the hall. It was dark and evil smelling. The woman confronting her a foreigner—probably a German. She gave Yvette a dreadful feeling of nausea; but she had put her hand to the plough, and was not going back. She was playing a dangerous game, but the stakes were high. She might win great wealth, or obtain revenge. Both dear to the heart of some women. “I would like five minutes’ conversation with you,” she said, haughtily. Without a word, the woman led the wav into the sitting-room. It had been furnished with a vulgar and dismal attempt at luxury. Yvette stood with her back to the window; she saw that the woman was evidently frightened. That gave her courage and daring. “Now,look here,.l’d better warn you that I know everything,” she said, speaking slowly and emphatically; “so he careful what you say.” The woman moistened her flabby lips. “You’ve come about—my husband's death?. Who are you? I've had no peace since he died. Watched ‘night and day; I’m a prisoner in my own house, that’s what I am.” While she spoke she nervously fingered a small hand-mirror. “Then why don’t you confess the truth— —” . “I have,” the woman cried, threateningly. “And who are you, coming here, spving and questioning?” Yvette drew back the window curtain and glanced across tho road at the policeman. The woman misinterpreted the action. She began to whine: “If you’re from the police, say so. Ivc had detectives hero night and day. I’ve told them all I know, I swear it, Miss.” “About the young lady who was sent here the afternoon of the—accident?” The woman’s face changed colour. She crept away, dropping the mirror on to the table. “Who told - you that?” She caught hor breath, staring stupidly at Yvette. Her fear condemned her. . “I tell vou I know everything! “She cli'd it—the girl,” the woman cried, "I swear it. I’d have shielded her because—well, it wasn t fair, A eentleman sent her here—to board with us a hit. We’d have made her comfortable and happy; but my husband was hot-tempered and obstinate. And she —she was sort of scared, and made a row; and then—l don’t know how it happened, but he threatened her. I left them to fight it out; and later on I found bis dead body.” She halted, her eyes moved uneasily around the room. It was easy to see she was lying now. “The knife was found beside his body—he was stabbed. I daresay it was an accident; but the girl did it, I swear.” Yvette had advanced towards the woman while she was speaking. Something about the hand-mirror on the table attracted her attention. She found herself staring at it. Where the woman had touched the glass it was blurred and stained. Finder prints! With the naked eye Yvette could trace the outline of a coarse spatulato thumb. “What about the knife?” she said, speaking now sub-eonscioiisly. “The police took it; they took everything. I’ve done all in my power to help'tliem—only I didn’t mention the young lady because “You were paid to hold your tongue hv the man who .sent her here,” Yvette interrupted sharply. “She was sent here to he got rid of, eh?” “We’d have treated her well, I swear it!” . . Yvette wa« still examining the mirror. Presently she raised her head and looked at the now terrified woman. “The police have the knife with which veur husband was stabbed ; they have by now found, on it the finger-prints

of the man or woman who used it. Ah. you didn’t think of that! You ve'been lying—You killed'your husband I lou are nis murderess’!” It was an inspiration, born of subconscious suggestion, the woman’s obvious terror and the marks on the mirror. The creature’s face condemned her--her cowering figure, the coarse hands raised appealingly. Rut Yvette Libcrtie gave her no time to think, to deny, to explain. *‘l told you I know everything. Now, you’d better confess to me, the whole truth; by so doing I may be able to help you. I can promise nothing. I’m acting on behalf of the girl whom you and your husband were paid to get nd of. So, be careful!’’ (To be continued.)