THE WHITE GLOVE

Taranaki Herald, Volume LXIII, Issue 144713, 23 June 1915, Page 5

THE WHITE GLOVE

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(By William Le Queux,

Author of “The Room of Secrets,* “Tho Mystery of X.,” etc., etc.

CHAPTER X.—Continued,

Playcontinnod for nearly an hour, by the end of which time the hank had Won heavily. Zero had come up twice again, each time. as usually happens. wTien the total amount staked was exceptionally largo. “I’ll just Inure a- look round the house.” Westerton remarked, when, half an hour later, they were in the hall, preparing to separate. “Shall I come with you?” Mylne acl- “ Yes, do,” his host added, “You’ve never seen the back premises, have you?” ‘Only the part wo pass through on our way from shooting. Haven’t you anv dog in the house?” “No. I’ve had three watch-dogs out at the back, and one after another they howled so horribly on moonlight nights that 1 sent them away. We are not much in the track of tramps out hero, anyway, and I don’t suppose any burglar of any consequence is likely to come so far out of town.” “I’m not so sure of that. 1 oti vc got plenty of valuable stuff here.” “Yes, and it’s well insured. There's some of it I’d be glad enough to have 'stolen—valuable intrinsically; but I’d sooner have its equivalent in cash, with all one’s securities down as they are now. Como along, and mind that step at the baize door. Good night, you follows. Breakfast at a quarter to nine.” _ , It was a curiously planned house. Originally an old manor house, it had been added to by a succession of owners until its architecture had become a conglomeration impossible to classify. Tliero wore long corridors in quite unnecessary places, lofty rooms adjoining low-ceilinged little apartments which had formed part of tho original building, and there was a specially pointed out by Westerton, which led nowhere. “I think tho man who constructed that,” he said, with a dry laugh, “must have been mentally deranged. Of course, this part of the house is supposed to be haunted, hub the ghost hasn’t shown up since I have owned the place.” He glanced at t/ho fastenings of the two doors at the back, to find everything in order. When they returned to the hall, ho strode across to tho front door. , “Halloa!” he said, suddenly. “What’s the matter?” Myln© asked. “You didiit’ lock this door *when you came in just now?” “Oh, but I did. 1. remember perfectly locking and bolting it, and fastening the chain, too.” ■ .“Well, it’s all unfastened now. Look —-anybody could walk in.” He turned the handle and enca tho door. Mylne expressed surprise. “Really, Westerton,”' ho said, '1 wouh# swear on oath in a court of law that X locked and bolted the door when X came in. Somebody else must have undone it.” “Who could have?\ Tho two men went outside, and stood on tho gravelled terrace, finishing then* cigars. The moon had risen and lit up the frozen terrace for forty yards or more. , . ' . ~ “What is that white thing on the ground, over by that dark bush?” Westerton said, suddenly. Then, curiosity prompting him, he went over to it, the frozen gravel crunching beneath his feet, bent down and picked it up. “A white kid glove,” he called out to Mylne, who remained near the open door where ho stood silhouetted against tho glare of light inside the hall. “A left-hand evening I wonder who could have dropped it. Something seemed to leap inside Cecil Mylne, and his mouth became suddenly dry. He tried to say something in renlv, but tho words would not come His host was back beside him, and together they went into the hall again, after locking, bolting, and chainink tho door behind them securely. ' Standing beneath one of tho bnliant electric lamps beside the great wooden mantel over the wide old-fashioned fireplace, still piled with blazing logs, \\ esterton examined the glove closely, It appeared to be quite new. “Queer sort of stitching up the back, isn’t it Cecil he said. “Ever seen stitching like that before? 1 haven i. Mvlne took it, and examined it too, but his hands trembled. , He had turned suddenly pale. , “Why, Cecil, Ins host exclaimed in astonishment, “you are shivering. Are you cold? Bless me!” he added, quickly, noticing tho pallor on his guest s face, “you’re as white as anything. Aren’t you well ? Como along into tho card-room again and have some whisky. Or no, I have some extraordinarily old brandy in tho dining-room. That’s tho stuff to set you right in _no tune. You’ve caught a bit of a chill. That s what’s the matter with you.” “Yes, that is brandy,’ Mylne said, when ho had drunk s'ome of it. As he spoke ho attempted smile. “Have you got much of it. \Vostertou?” “Indeed, I wish 1 had. No, eight bottles at 'most, and I wouldn’t part with them if you offered me ten pounds a bottle. Have a drop more. By tho wav, what did you do with the glove? Mylne looked about, then, felt in his pockets. “Why. hero it is. I put it in my pocket without thinking,” and ho handed it to his host, who pushed it into tho pocket of his smoking jacket. “And now for bed,” ho said. “You’ll be all right to-morrow, I expect. 1 wish though, I knew how that door camo to be unfastened and unlocked, as you arc so positive you locked and bolted it. Doors don’t unlock themselves, do they? I expect that after all yon only thought you locked it. , Good night, Mylne.” “Good night,”

On his way to his room Cecil Mylne passed tho door of tho room where Doris Courtney slept. As ho came to it he stopped involuntarily. Strange thoughts were crowding into his hrain. He listened intently, and thought he heard someone move inside tho room ; then all was again still. Convinced ’that his imagination must have tricked him, ho went on towards his room. But there he wooed sleep in vain. Once more, ho tossed restlessly upon his bed, as ho had done so often at tho time of tho trial, and before it, not since. Would there never bo an end to this mental misery he was enduring, and that ho had hoped was at last done with for over? What if souse day tho whole truth should become known,

would bo have courage to face the horrible consequences, or would he, as so many havo done, have recourse to the coward’s oblivion sought in death? Then, all at once, there rose into his vision of imagination the figure of the woman he worshipped. What would Doris think if she knew? What would she say? Would she find it possible ever to forgive him At present sho believed in 'him so implicitly, in spite of all that had happened Ajid she had told him that all the time censorious tongues were busy blackening his name she had retained her trust in him—had believed implicitly everything ho had told her.

Innocent! The word made him wince. Then he laughed. After all, was it not grotesque, that thought that a woman, that anybody should doom him guiltless, while all the time he ought by rights be branded a malefactor, and hounded out of tho society of all honourable people? Tho irony of the situation, appealed to him, and he found himself laughing to himself as he lay there between the sheets. How hot it was—stifling. They, ought not to.have piled coal on that fire. He threw off a blanket, then got up and pushed the window further open. The moon had risen higher, and east a searchlight beam half-way ’cross tho park. His attention became arrested. What was that figure moving stealthily along tho grass beside the avenue of tall trees It seemd to be crouching; now it stood erect again. And now it was motionless. Something flashed where the figure stood, and he fe.lt a stinging paiq in his right shoulder. Instinctively ho put up his left hand find out what had happened. His pyjama jacket was wet with blood!

He sprang back out of sight, panting with excitement, to find that his right arm hung limp and lifeless. Ho had been shot. Yet he had heard no report! ' (To be continued.}