THE SHUTTERED HOUSE.

Taranaki Herald, Volume LXVII, Issue 16448, 30 May 1919, Page 8

THE SHUTTERED HOUSE.

EXCITING STORY OP SENSATION AND LOVE.

By WILLIAM GUIDOTT,

Author of “111 rough the Silent Night,” “What Delia Dared,” etc., etc.

CHAPTER XX,

Isolde was only just in time As her car slid, swiftly up to the artists entrance she espied Oscar Bernstein at the door. , Ho ran out to meet her. Thium heaven you’ve come,” he exclaimed. 1 thought' somethin,g had happened, jjou will be on in about five minutes. You ve run it very close.” , . Isolde almost brushed past him. “Where is a telephone? I. must telephone immediately. It’s urgent. “What has happened?” • “Nothing.” She_ smiled. _ Its an ri'dit, don’t he afraid. I’m in voice, 1 shall sing, but 1 must telephone,” she persisted. f i , He took her into an office, where she again attempted to got an answer from the Blythes, hut all to no purpose. Bomb of perspiration stood on her forehead and her hand was shaking. “For goodness sake don’t get upset,” Bernstein hogged anxiously. “Wait till afterwards. Can’t your business wait?” Isolde turned. Her white, sot lace frightened him. There was something almost noble in its expression, and he wondered what momentous thing was patsing through her mind. “Yes, it must wait. Her voice had the calmness of resignation and despair. ... , “Thai’s right,” he urged. Come along and take off your things, the symphony is almost over. ion must relax your '.thoughts for a moment ; compose yourself. You’ll he all right. “Oh, yes —w;s. Don t bother, leave mo alone. I'shall he—l am perfectly all right.” she laughed. ( “Am I the sort of woman who fails?” Bernstein patted her on the shoulder, reassured. , , , , Isolde slipped oft her long fur coat, and stood before the glass. Her* wonderful frock’ fell in glowing, shimmering lines around her. “Do I look all right now? She turned confidently and smilingly towards him. A distant rumble of applause was faintly heard. . , , “The symphony is finished. Are you ready?” Isolde nodded. She ran her voice joyously up and down a scale or two, ending with a series of soft trills. “Yes.” They wen out into the corridor. At the foot of the stops the famous chef d’orchostra mot her. She gave him her hand and walked slowly out on to the platform. , Sure of hprsolf and her voice, she came on quite simply and unaffectedly, omitting the usual smiles and mannerisms of tho'star prima donna. The effect had been carefully calculated, and her r«hu, youthful dignity, as almost unsmiling she faced the sea of faces and bowed to the fair amount of applause she received, made a distinct impression on an audience more critical than she was wont to face at night at the theatre. % But with the first few tones she had conquered them. They listened .spellbound until the final notes rose high and clear, filling the hall with lovely bell-like sound.

Then the applause broke out unrestrained anti sincere. Those who had coin© to criticise and disapprove unbent and shouted with the rest. Her triumph was complete, unquestioned. Time after time she was recalled. “Shall I sing something else?" she asked Bernstein, hurriedly. “You said not.” No—no!” ho answered. “Dont; just go on bowing until they are tired. Don’t sing again; they ail’d© it.” He pushed her towards the curtained entrance,

At lust, the applause died down when the conductor took up bis position resolutely for the next number, and Isolde was free once more and in the artiste’ room. “Keep those people away from mo,” she almost screamed to Bernstein. “I must he quiet-—alone.” He looked at her a little surprised. Accustomed as ho was to the vagaries of prima donna, it was not their usual custom to avoid congratulations and adulation. # . “Como in hero,” ho said quickly, taking her by the arm. He stopped a moment to speak to an attendant. “No —no ; I told you no flowers at all until after the second number—none! Bring them up to the platform then.” Out of the corner of her eyes Isolde dimly saw masses of wonderful hothouse blooms, but she had dio thought for them. ‘“ls there any message for me? Has anyone come or sent any messenger?” she persisted.

Leaving her in the corridor, Bernstein went to inquire. Isolde pressed a loose, scarf over her throat and mouth and waited. “No, there’s nothing. No one has been. Come along and rest quietly till you have,to .go on again.” Isolde nodded silently, and dropped into an armchair. She rested her head on her hand and tried to collect her thoughts. For a few moments her great reception had eliminated ail cares and anxiety, but now these had come back with re-doubled intensity. It was useless trying to got a message through to Mrs. Blythe now. By this time Robert would have reached the house, or might even have been over it and . She pressed her

throbbing temples and dloscd her eyes. There was just one ray of hope. He might go into the house where Jill was—a, chance that he might have no key, and the Blythes being out, no one would answer the door. ? She tried to bring herself to believe that this was almost a certainty. 'She got up and paced the little room. Yes, there was a chance, she might yet escape. Her brain reeled before the consequences if he should go in! All her hopes and desires—her very Life, depended on this one thing. Forcing herself to bo calm, she left the room and went towards the artists’ room. She would not think of these things; with her tremendous strength of will she forced herself to believe, that she would ho safe. Ho would not go into that other house.

There were a few people, friends of the great conductor and Bernstein, and the manager of the hall in the room. Her entrance into it caused a break in the conversation of the little group. Bernstein came towards her, and the others crowded round. Gaily Isolde replied to the flattering words of congratulation. They were all obviously genuine and touched the artistic side of her nature deeply. Success wasi very pleasant. She would find it hard to give it up if anything —happened. Bernstein looked at his programme. “You will be on again soon, but there’s plenty of time.”

Isolde nodded brilliantly. She- turned away to speak to- someone else as an attendant came up to him. Suddenly she felt a touch on her arm and started- nervously. “Yes?” “Someone has called to see yon. “Who?” ;

“An eklwdy’ lady, madame,” answered the commissionaire. “Mrs. Blythe, I think she said her name was.” Isolde bit her lip with the effort to keep calm, “Oh yes, I will come immediately,” she said following the man. In the artists’ entrance, just inside the street door, Mrs. Blythe was standing. “Come in here, Mrs. Blythe, will you?” Isolde called pleasantly as she held open the door of her room. As she closed it on themselves, her tone changed. “Well, what is it?” she asked, in a high, strained voice, little above a whisper. Mrs. Blythe panted 9 little. “He’s found her!” (Continued dully.)