THE UNHOLY THREE.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 17865, 5 June 1926, Page 24 (Supplement)

THE UNHOLY THREE.

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

[By

TOO ROBBINS.

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

INSTALMENT 18. The hour-hand on the face of the slow- ticking clock had made a complete revolution before Hector M Donald awoke. During the night, people had come and gone about him. Once “Cousin Harry” had talked into the little room, carrying in his arms what appeared to lie several pieces of broken wood. lie had' bent over the stove with his burden and. a 4 -little later, a red. evil flame had leaped up like a blood\", silent tongue. At that moment, the giant had been outlined against the tierce light and his shadow had enveloped the sleeping figure on the couch. Morning had come and gone: the afternoon was well advanced before M'Donald awoke. Rubbing his eyes, ) he sat up and stretched himself. His head ached and his body felt as heavy as lead. Every movement required an I exertion of the will. His eyes were | so misty that he seemed to be looking out at the world through a line, grey veil. “ I wonder how long I've been asleep?” he muttered, looking about him vacantly. “ The sun is still up. .1 see.” J “ You've had a long, long sleep, Mr , M’Donald.” said the old lady’s voice, j She was sitting in her accustomed place r with her knitting on her knee. “ But I couldn't have been sleeping so verv long. Mrs O'Grady. I didn't get here until four: and I see by your clock that it’s only six.” "It was yesterday that you came. F 1 1" What! And I’ve been sleeping all that time?” " Exactly. You were very tired.” “ I must have been ! I never slept as long as that before! Why didn't you wake me up? must have bothered you. lying here.” “Bothered me? Oh no. sir, 'said the old lady with a bright smile. “ A ou were no more bother to me than a corpse—and thev re no bother to me, Mr M'Donald. ... Except when they bleed.” she added in an undertone; and her expressive face darkened. The young man shivered involuntarily. ' His nerves were throbbing to the winds of fancy. And there was something in Mrs O Grady s eyes, something in her voice, something in the way she held her head, that affected M'Donald more than any of her wildest mental-wanderings had ever done. He longed to get out into the street; to leave this tiny room and this madwoman—this mad-woman with her white, rustling hair and nervous, gliding fingers. ", "Where arc my shoes, Mrs O Grady? he asked. “ I must go. There are several things I’ve got to do. “So 3’ou're in a hurry? she said, rising to her feet “ Isn tit strange that you should be in a hurry?” She looked at him for a moment in astonishment. and then repeated in almost a whisper: ‘‘lsn't it strange that hr should be in a hurry ? “ YOll see I've got several things to do.” said the young man quickly, looking about him on all sides. ( an vou find my shoes for me, Mrs O'Grady?” The kind old lady walked out of the room and returned a moment later with M Donald’s shoes. They had been brushed and polished. As - she handed them to the young man, her face was transformed into a mask of sorrow. Bright tears gathered in her And why do you want these shoes?” she asked softly. “ Because they're mine.” said Hector wearily “It's a custom to wear shoes these "days. Mrs O'Grady, and were all creatures of custom, you know. ” But these shoes!" said the kind old lad'-, shaking her head at him, while a tear trickled down her long, -lender nose. ' These black. treacherous shoes!” A 1_ , At another time Hector jWigrK nave burst out laughing; but nAp v > ,n his

| mosphrre of the tiny room seemed charged with insanity. He felt that if he took a long breath, madness might enter with it: that he might soon be repeating with her: “These shoes, these shoes, these black treacherous shoes! ” He must leave here immediately. Hastily putting on his shoes, he started for the door. The old lady j followed him. muttering in a broken voice: “Those shoes, those black treacherous shoos!” Before leaving the bird store, the young man turned with outstretched hand. The memory of Mrs O’Grady s kindnesses for a moment overcame the fanciful terrors in his mind. lie blushed for his bruskness. \ "Good-bye. Mrs O’Grady,” he said. " Perhaps it will be a good many days I before you see me again. I'm going to leave the to-morrow. I’m j bound for the country, where everv- » thing is bright and happy, where. the wind plays through the meadows your friend, the wind, Mrs O’Grady.” lie leaned forward and patted her reassuringly 011 the shoulder. At that very moment, the fast waning day shot one of her departing arrows j through the window and straight into Ithe young man’s face. His forehead was stained a vivid crimson: and the old lady, seeing it between her trembling fingers, dropped her hands to her throat. “Wipe it oft!” she screamed. “Wipe it off.' before the people see! It's Tweedledee who's done this. Wipe it off!" • And drawing a handkerchief from her pocket, she rubbed feverishly at the splash of crimson sunlight, muttering between pale, trembling lips: “ Wipe it off! It's Tweedledee’s mark, so wipe it off!” When Hector M’Donald left the birdstore, he was still in a kind of mental stupor. The dregs of his prolonged, unnatural sleep were with him yet, and the misty veil still hung before his Perhaps it was his mental state, or 1 perhaps it was his anxiety to leave the mad old woman, that had made him - quite forget his one means of procuring » | money the heavy gold-headed cane. ; At last he remembered it. and stopped short. He half turned about > J. as though to retrace his footsteps,, but Ij as he stood there, hesitating, all his t f fanciful fears returned and his nerves • { began t<> throb. lie felt that in his > J present state of mind it would be im- - I possible to return. lie must wait until nature dusted the cobwebs from his brain. It would be horrible for him to go back- now—to look into those large, wandering eyes, at that ; white, nervous face, at those feverish, moving lips--to hear that insane voice whispering in his ear. No, that was 5 more than he could do at present. Be- ; sides, the cane would be safe where it was —quite safe. He would say - good-bye t<» Dorothy, and afterwards t he would call for it. Then his nerves would be quieted. M’Donald continued up the street: and gradually, as he walked along, his 1 brain grew clearer. The May breezes s blew the mis.t out of his eyes, and he could think with his usual clearness, c Fixing his eyes on the future, the r buoyancy of his nature reasserted itI self; - the young man soon began to e build air-castles. r So engrossed was Hector in his f thoughts that he saw nothing about r him. The hurrying people might just as well have been so many ghosts. There was a policeman standing 011 one corner who seetned interested in r the young man. Perhaps if he had s seen the policeman’s face—perhaps if e he had glanced at that open mouth. at those staring eves, at the bristling cl astonishment depicted by that white c moustache —he would have stopped r and spoken to him, instead of hurrying s on. As M’Donald walked by. this officer, stretching out a detaining hand, e moistened his lips as though about to s speak and then apparently thought t- better of it.

A moment, later, a short, fat man stepped up to the policeman and whispered something in his ear. “ I tell you it is.” he whispered fiercely. “ I know it is.” But Hector saw, nothing of this. ITe pursued his way oblivious to everything about him; and it was not until he had reached the Arlington house, mounted the stoop and rung the bell, that he even glanced back. In the distance, a block away, he noticed two figures approaching- a short, stout figure; the other, tall and dressed in blue. The door was opened by none other than Dorothy. She stood framed in the shadow of the hall-way- a white statue of a woman, with dark, troubled eyes. “ I saw you coming, so T answered the door myself,” she said in a hoarse, unnatural voice. “ Something told me that you were coming. Follow me into the library. There’s nobedv there." As she spoke, she held the door open till the young man entered ; and then, closing it behind him with a quick I nervous motion of her fingers, she slipped the bolt in place. M’Donald, I following her into the library, felt the cobwebs once more gathering in his I brains. His nerves commenced to | jangle all out of tune. What had | happened to the world? he wondered \ wearily. Everything seemed unnatural to-day. Even Dorothy had changed. | Why was her fare as white as chalk? 1 Why did she look at him so? Surely i there was terror and repulsion in her j eyes! And why was her voice so strange and low, as though she were ! afraid of waking somebodv who slept? 1 Had everybody gone mad. or was he , mad? Perhaps he was only sick. Yet why had she bolted the door? He had seen her do it with his own eyes; and it was never bolted til! night. Puzzled, and conscious of a growing fanciful fear. M'Donald found himself in the library. The room was in semidarkness, but the windows were brightened up as though the city were on lire. For a way, over the ragged rooftops. the sky was a fading crimson set with inky clouds. The girl’s head and shoulders were outlined against it for a moment; and then—like the curtain at the theatre—the shade descended, shutting out the scene. Now the room was bathed in brightness. She had touched the electric button on the Avail. The young man took a hasty step towards her. “ Dorothy.” be cried, “are you sick? What has happened to you?” He tried to taka her hand. But, as he stepped forward, she shrank back against the Avail. "Don’t touch me." she cried, “don’t touch me! There’s blood on your hand ! ” Involuntarily M'Donald I -oked at his outstretched hand, and then into the girl's troubled eves. “ There's nothing there.” he said dully? ” What's the matter, Dorothy?” " What’s the matter!” she repeated. remember what you told me months ago! I thought you were joking then. What a fool I was! But how dare you come here? Aren't you afraid of anything in the world? Last night come' to° me. mUr ßut C Dm "not 'a fraid" °o( you! I should open the window and cry for help! I should not shield you! Did you think of that? Then why do you come to me?” The young man put both hands to his head. The room seemed to be revolving slowly. “ I don’t understand,” he muttered. ” Vou see Tin not very well to-day, Dorothy.” “You don't understand I ” said the girl. “ Surely there's nothing so diffi--1 cult to understand in what I say. I I repeat, why should you come to me? | Because you confided in me that time, • did you think I took you literally? When you said that you must become a murderer to be famous, did you think that I believed you would become a murderer? When you spoke of strangling little Tommy and knocking your uncle's brains out, did you imagine that 1 thought you Avo’uld. actually do these things? You may be mad. but you cannot be as mad as that! Why, even when I found Tommy nearly dead. I didn’t think for an instant that 3’ou had done it. It was too horrible to believe! But noAv, when 3-oui uncle lies murdered in his house, when the whole world knows that it was vour hand that struck him down, I car 'no longer blind myself to the aruth." “ What I” cried Hector in astonish

merit “ Is Uncle Tobias dead? •' You should know that,” said Dorothy coldly. “ You murdered him last night.” (To be continued.)