PURSUIT

Star (Christchurch), Issue 19197, 10 October 1930, Page 14

PURSUIT

[Copyright 'Reserved.]

A NOVEL BY

ROLAND PERTWEE

“ Hold that fast which thou hast That no man take thy crown.”

CHAPTER XXVl.—(Continued). In doing so he collided violently with a tall man carrying a suit case, who "was raking down the street in a hurry. The tall man swore and strode on. “Fegga pardon, but you wanta guide.” “No,” said the tall man without turning, then stopped suddenly and said, “Yes. Where can I hire a car —a fast car?” “You wanta to see Vesuvius—you goa Pompeii?” “I want a car to take me to Taranto.” “Taranto very long way. Naval base, nothing to see Taranto. Now I a show a to you somping very a nice.” But the tall man did not wait. He started off down the street again with long, devouring strides. Evan FawTk lowered the roses and breath escaped with a hiss. “Trevelyan, and he wants a car to take him to Taranto. That could only mean ” —One thing. Paula Drayton had told the truth. This was pursuit. A fool he had been, a fool to work with a woman. How much had she told? To whom had she spoken? Harley Trevelyan had lost no time. Something in his face showed that he meant business. For one moment Evan Fawlk was afraid. The next he broke into a fit of uncontrolled laughter. For wasn’t Fate clearly at work on his side. Trevelyan didn’t know—couldn’t know that the steamer’s port of call had been changed. To-morrow he would be waiting at Taranto for a ship that would not come. The chase would collapse at the first fence. Not much danger of their meeting after that. The part of Africa to which his business took him "was hardly likely to be penetrated by a rpan who didn’t know the ropes. And if it were a situation wotfld arise that he could trust himself to handle. Funny! It was hugely funny! A desire to see the joke through took possession of him. Crossing the road he addressed himself to a policeman. Could the officer be so kind as to direct him to the road an automobile would take that was bound for Taranto? The officer would, could and did. Evan Fawlk hired a fiacre and drove to the outskirts of the town. Here he instructed the driver to wait, seated himself at a cafe table on the pavement and called for a bottle of Chianti. He had not long to wait before a grey, scarred, old soldier of a car came whirling along in a cloud of du-st. Harley Trevelyan was beside the driver, his eyes on the road ahead, his mouth set grimly. Evan Fawlk waved his roses at the vanishing dust cloud. CHAPTER XXVII. At a village under the broad shoulders of Vesuvius, the driver of the hired car ventured a question. “ Does the Sigrior visit Taranto on business connected with the fleet?” Harley shook his head and muttered something about a liner—La Pierrette. “But, Signori La Pierrette put into Naples this morning.” Harley did not appear to be listening. The words had failed to penetrate the isolation in which he had lost himself. “ A cousin of mine, Antonio, is cook on La Pierrette and rang me on the telephone from the docks.” “ What’s that?” The driver repeated what he had said and added, “ Some little difficulty with the naval authorities—wherefore they berthed at Napoli, in place of Taranto.” “ Turn round—go back,” said Harley. “ And drive.” With a smashed back spring cobbled up with lashings of iron wire and a wooden block, the grey car lurched through the dock gates as the La Pierrette cast her moorings and thrashed out into the bay. Evan Fawlk had won the second heat. END OF BOOK 11. BOOK 111. SETTLEMENT. CHAPTER I. “ Hamdu Lillah! (Thanks be to God). We shall have xfater to-night.” Thus spoke Ashram, the hare-lip, holding up his yellow palms in a gesture of praise. *1 IS 13 S SI IS HI HI !H® ill HI Eg {3 M SI HI @3 IS ® i

[ ISIS EE in SI ®ISEEIS SI ® ® ®®in E 9 ®iHSI I* He was not a pretty sight, Ashrem, his cauliflower head dyed red with quick lime, and rendered lustrous with the rancid fat of sheep’s tails. His cotton robe was also red, stained by the impalpable red dust of the Jehama. About his throat was a necklace made from the entrails of an antelope to which was attached a copy of the Koran. Ashrem carried in one hand a rifle and in the other a fifteen foot leather , thonged whip—the terror, although he had never been known to use it, of the native bearers. ■ It was reputed that so great was the power of Ashrem’s arm that he could, with a single cut of the whip, sever a man's head from his shoulders. There is no doubt that with it he produced terrifying sounds. Swish—crack! “ On, get on ! " Alan and beast alike feared it and none could say to what extent it had proved responsible for goading that wretched company over deserts of loose sand, punctured by the myriad holes of hermit crabs, across ironbound volcanic wastes and through the mephitic stenches of marsh and lake that had made the journey from the coast an unrelieved torture. Save for Ashrem the journey had been impossible, but Ashrem’s life had gone to prove the possibility of much that was impossible. Born in a Gothic roofed hut of mud and reeds somewhere in the Danakil country he had drifted to the sea board and thence by many ports to Montagu Square, Bloomsbury, and a law degree at the London University. But the call of the wild had whispered to him in crowded Cheapside and by various stages of travel and forgetfulness he returned to his own people. In an African port full of liars, cheats and boasters he had encountered Harley—a tall spare man who travelled light, with not much more than a single purpose to support his needs. “ If the English lord wishes to shoot a lion, I, Ashrem, will lead him to where the finest may be found.” Harley shook his head. “ It is a man I seek,” he said shortly. Ashrem remembered very well the man. From childhood he remembered that man, and hunched up his shoulders and stressed a word here and there to prove that he did not speak in vain. This same man was known and feared over many thousands of miles of the African continent. “ Sometimes it is gold or gum or ivory he seeks to buy—sometimes he has slaves and women to sell.” “ I want that man,” Harley repeated. - Ashrem read something in Harley’s eyes—something primitive. “ For a vengeance.” Harley nodded. “To kill?” And Ashrem stabbed the air downward-—turned his wrist and wrenched the empty hand upward. “ Awey birooah ! I have slain my foe.” White teeth flashed in the sunlight. Harley shook his head. “ Alive?” That was more difficult —less attractive. “It might be done,” he said, “ but the man is cunning—wise. Also he travels with many bearers and many rifles.” “It must be done,” said Harley. “It shall' be. I, Ashrem, who have stolen a young wild ass from its mother say that it shall be done.” And then began the endless haggling for camels and mules, threats and promises to native bearers and the getting together of stores. When, _ at last, they moved from the steaming coastal town, Evan Fawlk had had five weeks’ start of them. Ashrem was not discouraged. “ Vengeance travels swifter than trade,” said he, “ and the man we seek will march to the greediness of his own purse.” Swish, crack. “ On, get on 1” Harley’s thoughts, concentrated on the future, took no heed of the hardships and miseries of that journey. The war had inured him to discomfort and danger. ‘He was uncomplaining lof the heat, sometimes one hundred and twenty-six degrees—of the flies—of thirst—of the stifling exudations from the mouths of rubbish fed camels which by night formed a bubbling, grumbling, roaring circle round the camp. (To be Continued.)