THE UNHOLY THREE.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 17864, 4 June 1926, Page 16

THE UNHOLY THREE.

BAFFLING IN MYSTERY, SPARKLING IN ROMANCE, ASTOUNDING IN ACTION.

[By

TOD ROBBINS.]

[New Zealand Rights by arrangement with Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Pictures, exclusively.]

INSTALMENT 17. Uncle Tobias stole into his librarj' like a thief. It was past nine o'clock, and the room was a den of shadows. Walking on his toes to the little table in one corner, he lighted the reading lamp and then approached the wicker baby carriage standing a few steps from the open window. Bending down, he could just make out the black outline of a tiny round head against the snowy pillow. The eyes appeared to be closed, and the breathing was deep and regular. “He’s asleep,“ muttered the old man; and,' drawing his chair noiselessly to the casement, he sat down and rested hiV chin on his hand. It was a beautiful May night. Outside, directly below the window, his tiny garden lav dreaming through the dark hours. The perfume , of its sleeping breath caressed his cheek. Above, that other garden of immensity—the sky—was alive with star-flowers. They pushed their golden heads through the rich black soil on invisible stalks; and the breeze, coming from them, seemed to bring their fragrance to the world. What were the old man’s thoughts on this night? Was he happy? Who can tell? Perhaps he had conjured up another Hector M’Donald -when he had looked at the sleeping child. Very often our human werkness takes the form of forced affection. We lose a precious something and try to supplant it by another, driving the old love through new channels of the heart. But is it ever quite the same? Can we take back a gift from one and present it to another with all the joy of giving something new? For weeks he had been contemplating this step: for weeks he had been passing the little shop; for weeks he had seen this baby almost daily—and yet, during all that time, he had hesitated in taking some- : thing to fill his nephew’s place. | But having once decided, ha had acted firmly. He had talked tfie matter over with the sensible old woman who kept the store. He had expected trouble here—weak, womanly tears perhaps a feigned affection for the child, calculated to open his purse. But he had been wrong. Everything had gone quite smoothly. The sensible woman had proved to be very sensible indeed: some might have said unfeeling. No sooner had he explained to her his position in life; no sooner had he offered to adopt the child, to make himself responsible for its upbringing, then all the objections she might have had were put aside. She had given up her nephew without a sigh, without a tear, but with perhaps just the slightest trace of an enigmatic smile aboqt the lips. He had sent for his new possession that morning; and it had been brought, in due course, safe and sound. A baby in the house needs thought and preparation. Uncle Tobias had neglected both. Very much to his annoyance, he had been unable to secure the . services of a nurse immediately. Luckily, his cook was familiar with children and had taken “Little Willie” under her wing. Then there was the nursery that had been neglected for so many years. The servants had been working in it all day, but it was not quite ready for its new occupant. The child was to spend the first night in the library. He had been kissed and told to go to sleep, hours ago; and yet Uncle Tobias, like a baby with a new doll, could not resist watching him as he slept. At last the old man stirred in his chair, and, rising stiffly to his feet, tiptoed to the safe. It was a long time since he had taken the rubies out for their nightly inspection; and now, perhaps wishing to retrace his footsteps into the path of bygone habit, he noiselessly opened the steel door and took out a small leather bag. Walking over to the reading-lamp, he heard a faint clicking as the stones rubbed against each other. His eyes lighted up with anticipation as they had used to do. Under the shaded light, he poured the rubies on the table. They pattered down on the hard smooth surface like crimson hail. How they glittered lying there! Each one seemed to light up a story of the past. Perhaps they had seen a bloody past. This one had, at any rate. He remembered the man who had sold it to him, the man with the brooding face and flowing robes; he remembered the little shop of dark shadows and Eastern hangings. It was by such a man,

in such a room, that such a story should be told. All at once Uncle Tobias shook his head slightly, as though he were banishing something from his mind. His gaze wandered around the room until it finally reached the baby carriage. Then he started suddenly with a muttered exclamation of surprise. There, sitting bolt upright, he saw a tiny form —a tiny form with a shadowy face and beady eyes. It had risen from the pillow as silently as a well-oiled spring, and now sat staring with an unnatural intensity at the glittering pile of bloodred stones beneath the lamp. And Uncle Tobias, at that moment, fancied that the face of the child had ..changed; that he could see this change even through the shadows; arid that it had grown older—years older. The tiny hands, gripping the sides of the baby carriage, seemed thin and eager; and the eyes held something in their depths quite foreign to innocence. For an instant the tw-o remained as motionless as statues —the old man looking at the child; the child staring at the stones. Finally Uncle Tobias, shaking off his weird fancy, broke the silence. “You mustn’t sit up like this, Tweedledee. You ought to be asleep.” The child’s body relaxed; he turned : his eves toward Uncle Tobias. They were partly veiled now by black, drooping lashes. Suddenly be stretched his arms and smiled. “I wants the pwetty stones,” he cried. “Oh—please —the pwetty, pwetty stones!” “Will you go to sleep then?” The old man, now quite himself, smiled benignly, and, gathering the' rubies into the leather bag, deposited them beside his tiny protege. The child seemed delighted with his expensive playthings. Taking them up, one by one, he held them to the light, twisted them around and around in his chubby little hands, put them between his lips like cherries, and gurgled his infantile joy. For some time Uncle Tobias stood over the baby, enjoying the play. It reminded him of other nights and of other children. Finally, almost reluctantly, he said; “Well, you’ve played enough, and now you must, go to sleep.” Taking the rubies with him, the old man returned to his seat by the tablel As for the child, his obedience was of the best. Without a word of protest, he sank back on the pillow; and, a few moments later, his regular breathing showed' him to be in the land of dreams. Time passed; and the old man examined the rubies, one by one—the treasured collection of a lifetime —while through his brain past events thronged on hurrying, echoing feet, calling pp a host of long forgotten thoughts. Gradually the footsteps died away; the forgotten faces grew gray with mist; the distant thoughts, folding their tired wings, became shadows and unreal. ' Sleep was stealing over Uncle. Tobias. Slowly the grey head sank lower arid lower, till the wrinkled forehead touched the table and was still. The wall white hands lay open on the glitteririg heap of precious stones. A single ruby, like a drop, of blood, touched the pointed beard. It grew later still; and slowly, like a tiny ghost, a figure in white stole out of .a . shadow near the wall, and, creeping to the window on all fours, raised itself, then lifted its arms above its head. For a moment it stood thus, as though listening to the night; while behind it, in the silent room, the lamplight was dying out—dying out in a fretful, flickering flame. Suddenly a moonbeam glided in, and, shuddering, touched those black lack-lustre eyes. And then, as though this were a signal, that, which this silent little figure had been waiting for, came to pass. Slowly, outside the window, a glittering object was pushed up from below—an object resembling a black cane with a golden head. Quickh - , eager little hands seized it and pulled it. in. Now other hands grasped the ledge—great, straining, hairy hands—and in a moment more the stars had vanished, wiped out by the huge body of a man. Then two forms approached Uncle Tobias, two forms corriplete in contrast —the one, small and dangerous ; the other, gigantic and terrible. Now they were beside him; now they were bending over him: now the tiny figure, loosening his hold on the cane, handed it to the other. And if the light had been brighter, if we could have seen Tweedledee's face, I am sure it would have worn a ferocious yet pathetic smile. (To be continued).