THE SOLITARY HOUSE

Star (Christchurch), Issue 12344, 14 June 1918, Page 8

THE SOLITARY HOUSE

. JBy E. R. PUNSHON)

. CHATTER. VII. THE BROKEN’ BICYCLE.

Why This should- surprise him he did not know, but it did, and he stared in 'blank bewilderment "as she came briskly on. wheeling her bicycle before her. He did not show .himself, but stood watching from his place of concealment, and die passed on quickly, so that in a moment or two a turn in the path hid her .frdm him.; He gave a little start then atid rubbed his eyes os though he had ceea a vision - and, was not sure that it was real, and at once hurried after her. Soon he caught sight of her again. She did not look round and so she was not aware of his proximity, and as the ground was more open here and the path, straight, he was able to keep her in sight ivithout pressing'too close upon her, till presently , she stopped, mounted her bicycle, and rode on. He had not anticipated this manoeuvre, and stood still,, not quite sure wbat to do.' Before' he had decided she was some distance away and had disappeared amidst the trees. Evidently her destination was the house, and-Keith hurried on after her. It'was very quiet here under the trees, and the-darkness was gathering fast, hut there was still sufficient light for him to see her plainly, riding on ahead at a good pace though sometimes she would bo hidden by a turn of the path or intervening trees’ and theu. Almost at once come into view, again.' / Very quiet and peaceful was it in • the wood,'amidst the trees and the fast falling shades of night. Keith heard nothing, saw nothing: he was aware of no foreboding of evil, but he found himself all at once running his fastest, so that' she on her bicycle should not

get too far ahead of him and have too long to, wait when she arrived at the house and found it locked up and empty. He could not. see her now, for the turnings of -the path and the thicker growth of the trees hid her from him as ho ran. The. silence all around seemed Fo increase; the.Stillness grew ominous' as though to .witness some catastrophe; all nature held .breath and was still.,; ' The 'shadows lengthened and lay more thickly; it was a s though there, were something that they wished to hide. i He ran faster and faster; lie had the impression that the utmost haste was necessary : ;- that“--unless he sped more quickly ; yet-wn::a.wfuhntliing might happen in this silent wood, beneath these' overhanging trees, amidst these dark and quiet places ■where the night was rising in great spreading pools of darkness and stillness. On he flew, and he knew, though he knew not why, that a great cry trembled .on his Ups, a cry ■of panic and of horror. He turned a corner 'of. the .path. - and there beneath a great; far-spreading oak lay a broken hicycle; r but of the girl', who. had ridden it no sign or trace was visible, neither to the right nor to the left, neither, in front, nor behind. He stood still, and before him lay the ■' broken.'-biqy_de, ...and. all around was heavy. ...gloom,.■ . and' a great silence, through which there reached him- nofaintest, sound to. tell him what had happened ;0r what'her fate had.been. For a moment sheer panic overwhelmed’him, so. that he could have screamed aloud like a frightened child and set off running and never stopped till he fell exhausted. But by an effort be controlled himself, clenching his fists and holding his breath and shutting his-eyes and then opening them again, and at his feet still lay the broken bicycle. .

He asked himself dully, what could have happened? What had broken the machine, and why was it lying there, and what had become of its rider? And he remembered with sudden extraordinary clearness, with the very tone and accent with which they had been spoken, the words of Mr Morgan, to the effect, that in this place there haddbeea many mysterious disappearances.

It seemed to him that this was not the least, mysterious among them all, p.nd when he looked about Mm it seemed to him also that this wood was an. evi], place and the home of some very dark and evil mystery. He could not have been very far away when it : happened—whatever had happened.. Yet he had heard not a; sound, not one sound to break the utter silence of the softly coming night, nob a cry of any sort, no echo of any struggle- ■ Yet she had vanished all in an instant, snatched away as it were into middle air, and her bicycle lay broken at his feet. At that moment he would not have been surprised had the trees parted and shown some awful and unimaginable apparition and the lost girl in its power. All at onco he found himself running between the trees, this way and that, quartering the ground like an eager hound: searching for scent. Backwards and forwards, to and fro, crouching low, sending swifa glances on every side, he went, and ( onoe he found himself upon the thorns of a bush a piece of torn ribbon and once a little farther on. towards a denser growth' of trees and mass of tangled undergrowth, ho

name upon a little handkerchief, edged i with dainty lace, lying in tho middle of

v: Author of "Arrows of Chance," etc., etc.

a small puddle where a fallen branch rotted.

These at least wore signs, and he ran on lightly and very swiftly, his quick eyes, everywhere at once, every taculty that he possessed- strung to tho highest pitch, and all concentrated on tho one task_ of discovering some sign of tho lost girl, and suddenly beneath a tall beech tree he saw something white and huddled lying on the ground. He ran towards it, and as lie dreW near from a bush upon ’ his right came a sound like nothing he had 6vtr heard before, not human, not animal either, but as it were betwixt the two, and somehow vibrant with bate and fury and obscene disappointment. The moment that be heard this Sound he turned and leaped right at the bush whence it had seemed to Collie, and as he sprang he saw something—but what he could not tell—slip away and vanish behind a tree, something quick and low and small, crouching near tho ground and running quickly. His instinct whs to rush in pursuit, but he checked himself and turned and ran back to the prostrate girl, feeling that the first necessary tiling above all else was to assure her safety, and that if he let himself bo drawn away, for no matter how short a time or distance, she might have vanished before he could come again. She was quite unconscious when ho ■reached her side,, her face was very’ pale, her skin cold and clammy to the touch, so that for one dreadful moment he thought that she was dead, till he saw that she was breathing faintly. Her long soft hair had become disarranged and lay about ber shoulders in a mass > but so far as he could tell she did hot seem to have sustained any injury. For a moment or two ho hesitated,* but plainly he could not lea J e her there, and so he stooped and lifted her and carried her away, hardly feeling her weight at all, for she was light and he was strung to the highest pitch of his powers. As he went thus through the trees, walking very quickly,,-her unconscious form in his arms with her. head upon his shoulder and her-long loose hair hanging down i uko i a soft and scented cloud, he had again that sensation he had experienced once before in this wood of being watched and followed. And once lie beard or thought,he heard, close behind him that same indescribable sound, not . human, hardly ’even animal, he had ; heard before, charged with anger, , hatred and vilest threat.

He walked on quickly, taking no rotioe, but alert and ready for any ata and up to the rery edge of the he stilt had the idea that he was being followed and watched bv something unknown and a little ‘terrible and yery vile. But the pursuit,' ‘if so it can be called, ceased once he was away from the trees, and unmolested he carried his unconscious burden from the wood .and through the garden to the front door. He had to put her down while he got the door open, and only then was-he" aware how much he was exhausted. He stood for a moment panting and resting, and then he - stooped and lifted her again and carried her within and put her down on the sofa in the drawing-room. It was nearly dark indoors by now, and the first thing he did was to strike a match and light the lamp that stood in the drawing-room, and the other hanging lamp in the hall, and he found their light and the radiance they gave very comforting indeed. Quickly he secured the front door, and theh went back to the unconscious girl.

She was still very pale, and her skin still had that cold and clammy feeling that had frightened him so much, but her breathing remained perceptible. Very hurriedly—for he could not free himself from the fear that if he left her even for a moment she might vanish in some mysterious new way—he nm into the kitchen and got some water with which he bathed her temples and sprinkled her face in the hope of restoring her senses. But his efforts were unavailing, and ho ceased them soon, fearing to do harm, and stood by her side, wondering what to do and bow to get help. He dared not leave her; no matter how secure ho made the /house lie could not think her safe in iff when ho remembered tbo strange and mysterious attack that had been made on him during the night. And he saw no way of summoning .assistance. The spot was lonely in the extreme; it whs rare for anyone to pass even (faring the day, and so far as he knew there was no other dwelling within miles. It seemed to him all he could do was to wait till morning in the hope that whoever had left the milk and eggs he had found on the. sill of the kitchen window would come again on the morrow and would be willing to go for help.

For a little indeed he debated within himself whether ho ought to make an effort to carry or convey by some means the unconscious girl) to some place where sho could have help. But he dismissed the notion as impracticable; it had taxed his strength to the full to got her even the short distance from where he had her to the house ;

and besides, he dared not take the risk when'he knew that in the night without there lurked some unknown and hostile force ready to take him unawares and at a disadvantage. ' There seemed to him nothing for it but to watch and wait till morning, and so he made his patient 'as comfortable as he _ could, removing- heir shoes and loosening her clothing at the throat, and covering her up warmly with rugs he found upstairs. ' _ He left the lamp burning by her side, and, taking an armchair, lie placed it in the hall on the threshold of the drawing-room and prepared to pass the night there-

_ Slowly tho hours passed away. When ho could no longer sit still, he got up and walked about the' hall, and every now and again ho went to the side of the unconscious girl to see how she was. So far as he could tell no change took .placo in her condition, and a dreadful' fear possessed him that she would never recover, but would pass from life like that, before he could summon help. It seemed to him that never since the world began could any night have been as long as this night. Every second was a torment, every minute was an agony, every hour an eternity of dread and- suffering. But thisis written and changes.not., tbht all things come to their appointed end, and so at last,_ he heard about halfpast six approaching footsteps. They were those of a boy coming with the milk, and Keith hurried at once to meet him and told him there was some one ill in the house, giving him also a noto and asking him to hurry with it to the nearest doctor at his utmost speed. The boy seemed intelligent and . to, understand and went off at a trot, and Keith returned to the house to wait with what patience ho might. But he had three hours more, of eternity to endure before at last ho hoard tho glad sound of an approaching motor containing a doctor and the nurse, for whom he had also asked in his note. ■

The doctor was a brisk, elderly man, who seemed very horrified to think his patient had been left so long without attention, and by no means inclined to listen to or .accept Keith’s -explanation that he had not thought it safe to leave her.

“ Not safe to leave her in that state, you mean,” he said severely. “How did it happen?—a fall?” Keith told his story briefly, saying that apparently she had been attacked, though by whom he could not say, and the doctor seemed a good deal puzzled and slightly incredulous. ‘•'l don't see who could attach her there,” be said. “It can’t have been poachers, for there is nothing in that wood to poach, and tramps and so on give it a vide berth. Don’t you think it may have been an accidental fall from her bicycle?” Keith said he was sure not, Tint the doctor appeared inclined to'keep his own opinion.

“ There is no sign of any violence except for the blow on the head,” he said, “ and that seems very like the result of a fall Still. I suppose you had better inform the police v h£r—er?”

“;Wentworth,”' said Keith after a moment’s pause, thinking perhaps- it might avoid complications if he adopted the name which seemed to ho that of the rightful tenant of the house. “ And —?” continued the . doctor, glancing at his patient and at her left hand oh which there was no ring. ‘ ‘ On—er —my sister, ” said Keith hurriedly, realising that she had to be accounted for, and not knowing what else to say. The doctor did not make any remark, though he did not look too satisfied, He and the nurse conveyed Keith’s newly-adopted relative to the'room'upstairs and put her to bed there, and after a time the doctor came down again, leaving the nurse in charge. He still seemed, a good deal upset that his patient had been left so long without attention, and was evidently inclined to regard Keith with some, suspicion. To Keith’s relief, however, he did not appear to think her condition very serious.

“It's a- case of concussion,” he said—- “ rather a bad one, but I see no reason why she- should not pull round. I’ll look in again later on to-day.”

He went off then, and presently the nurse he had left came downstairs for something she wanted. She seemed a pleasant, amiable woman, but not very intelligent, and she was not trained at all. She went hack to her patient, and Keith got himself some food, of which he was beginning to feel the need, and then sat moodily in the kitchen, asking himself what was going to happen next and wondering what he ought to do.

“ I’m in a. jolly hole,” he thought. “ The first thing she'll let out when, she comes round is that she isn’t ray sister, and then there’s sure to he trouble. But what the mischief could 1 say? The doctor was suspicions enough as it was. It only needs the genuine Wentworth to turn up to put the top on the whole show.” He reflected dismally that so far a-s ho could see there was no possible way out for him from the complications in which lie, had become involved, and then about one o’clock the nurse came to the head of the stairs and called him.

“She's conscious now," she said, “but she doesn’t know anything.” “She doesn’t know anything?" repeated Keith, puzzled. “No," answered the nurse, “she doesn’t, know what her name is or where she is or anything—her memory’s quite gone. The doctor said it might he like that when she came round." (To he continued.)