"ADMIT ONE"

Star (Christchurch), Volume XLIV, Issue 193, 15 August 1931, Page 26

"ADMIT ONE"

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Sydney Horler

(CHAPTER XlV.—Continued.) She got up and gently pressed the Sister down in her chair. “I’m going to wait on you to-day,” she said. It was the least she could do; she had protested many times during her short stay against being allowed the luxury of a private room, but the nuns had argued in turn that she wante l quiet and rest. So this delicious solitude was afforded her—and how HeavenBent 6he deemed it. Agitated as she had been, storm-tossed and almost distraught, she had not felt she could have faced even the gentle stares of the nuns. These women might be out of the world, but a good many of them, she fancied, still maintained an acute interest in what was going on outside the four walls of the Convent. They were not all like Sister Faith. The latter now asked a question. “I expect you’re finding it very dull here, my dear,” she said. “No.” Margery shook her head. “It’s Heaven —perfect. I don’t think I have ever known what real happiness meant before.” “That’s a very sad thing to hear a girl of your age say, Margery.” “I know; but it’s true, nevertheless.” An overwhelming desire to confide in her companion came and before she could put up any fight it had conquered. She found herself telling the story of her life, right back from the day her mother had died, leaving her to face existence with a father who, although occasionally kind, was thoroughly unsatisfactory in almost every other way. Continuing, she brought her narrative up to the point where George Ferguson one day had mysteriously disappeared. Sister Faith opened her blue eyes wider. “Disappeared?” she repeated. “Yes. We were living in a dreadfui street at Harlesden then —oh,” covering her eyes with her hands, “I can see that awfui house now. It was just a slum—but, a« father said he couldn’t afford anything better, I had to put up with it. I should have gone to work myself if he had not been so angry every tiiue I mentioned it. Of course,” with a pitiable little smile, “I don’t quite know what I could have done. You see, Sister, I was never brought up to do anything—except look after the house.” “That’s the best work a woman can do, my dear.” “I didn’t think so,” tossing her hair back from her forehead; “I hated it. We were 60 poor—so frightfully poor.” “What did your father do,” “I never knew. He was always eo secretive about his work —always hinting that he was going to make a fortune. On those days lie would be ridiculously excited; but that mood soon passed, because, in the ordinary way, he was terribly depressed. In both cases, he was very difficult to live with.” “I can quite believe it. But you were telling mo that he ‘disappeared.’ ” “Yes—there’s no other word for it. One ' day a car drew up outside the house. A man who looked like a clergyman’’in mufti—l mean, he had a clergyman’s type of face; thin, refined. And yet—” she shuddered, “there was something awful about him, something sinister that made me feel afraid. His eyes were icy; they seemed absolutely cold, no warmth in them. . . .” “If this distresses you, Margery, don’t tell me any more.” “Oh, I feel I want to. I must. I haven’t had a chance to talk to anyone since—only—and I couldn’t tell him "all.” She struggled with herself for a few moments, and then, choking back a sob, resumed. “That man who called—he wouldn’t give any name, although I asked him —wanted to know if father was at home. Ht? was—but he was drunk.” f “Oh, my dear!” • “Yes, he was lying on the sofa in the little sitting room. The man with the cold eyes came in after me with his companion, and told me to leave the room. At first, I didn’t want to, because I didn't know who these two strangers were, but then I thought I’d better obey, or father would be angry when he became sober. I was only away ten minutes, but when I got back father was gone.” “What had happened?” “I don’t know and I’ve never heard. But that’s only part of the mystery. I’m sure that father is in the hands of criminals. I suspected the man with the cold eyes from the beginning.” >3 “Haven’t you heard anything?” *“Only a few words on a scrap of paper. It .was headed ‘Mandlin,* which I looked up and found to be a village in Kent. The handwriting was my father’s—there was no doubt about that —but there were only four other words.” . “What were they, my dear?” “ Come and help me,’ ” was the reply. *T daresay it seems silly to you, sister, for a grown man to send an appeal like that to his daughter, but father was never quite like a normal person.” “Have you done nothing? I mean, haven’t you been to the police?” v “No; I was afraid to do that.” I “But it was your duty.” “I know, sister; but I was frightened that my father might be implicated in something criminal. He is so weak.” “But, all the same, if you think he’s in danger—and you evidently do—you should go to the police.” “But I’ve told you why I didn’t. And now, perhaps it’s too late.” A violent fit of sobbing shook the girl so that she could not say any more. The nun, taking up the tea-tray, looked down at her with infinite compassion. Then, feeling that this was a situation with which she could not hope to deal, she quietly left the room. Margery’s distress did not last very long. The sight of the empty chair opposite her made her feel foolish. To cause sadness to that sweet Sister Faith—how ungrateful. Now that she was calmer her mind became concentrated in a different direction. Curiously enough, it was not of the nun, who had been such a friend to her, she was thinking. No, it was a man who occupied her thoughts now—and, even more strange, that man was not her father. This other was young—not many years older than herself—and, for a few moments on a never-to-be-forgotten day, she had rested in his arms. And she had unthinkingly sent him into danger. He had pledged her his help, and he must have gone straight to Mandfing after leaving her at this harbourage. What had become of him there? She scarcely dared to think. At this moment, in a nupstairs room, the Mother Superior of the convent gave her decision. —o must help the poor child, sister,”

CHAPTER XV. Birchall is Blatant. Philip opened his eyes slowly. This was not tlxe inn. For where was the bed ? . . . the wardrobe ? . . . the washhand stand? . . Then, with a groan, he remembered; he had been attacked that night—was it still night?—had put up a fight, but had been knocked out. After that, there was a blank. Although ho knew he was now conscious, he remained still for a few more moments. He wanted to get his strength back. And moving, as he had already found, was an infinitely painful process. His body was racked with pain; it was as though he had been bruised from head to foot. A particularly violent throb in his right temple made him attempt to raise a hand. Confusion became further confounded with that; there was a jingling of metal, and, to his amazement, he found that one hand could not be lifted without the other. He stared stupidly, before realising that both his wrists were encircled by a pair of handcuffs. He was a prisoner. As the truth flooded through him, lie heard a laugh—a laugh that a mocking devil might have made. “Pretty, aren’t they ?” inquired a He had to half-turn, and, into his orbit of gaze showed a man; a man who, although jnobably ten years older, might quite easily have been mistaken for himself. Though feeling almost beyond surprise, he bit his lip in astonishment. This was the fellow Whittle had mentioned — Birchall, the crook, for whom he had been mistaken at the Mid-Western Hotel. The sight gave him a certain stimulus; at least, he was getting nearer the heart of * the mystery. Birchall, negligently balancing a revolver on the palm of his right hand, came closer, standing over him. “You ought to have kept out of this, young fella,” he said; “but, gee I don’t wonder Judith made the mistake; you’re the dead ringer of me—at least you would be if you were ten years older. But, as I say, you were a poor sap to get into this mess. What made you, anyway ?” The strange thing was that Crane felt himself almost liking the man. The other’s insouciant manner, darkened though it was by a leer, was appealing in a bizarre sort of way.** It occurred to him quickly that the best policy for him to adopt would be to affect simplicity. “It wasn’t my fault that I got into it,” ho said; “I Avas mistaken for someone else —”—he paused—“and, by jingo, I understand now—that someone else must haA'e been you!” “Without a doubt, kid,” drawled the other; “if this Avas put in a book, they, wouldn’t believe it, eh? But you’re in the soup all right; and there’ll be - no getting out.” i “I don’t knoAV Avhat you mean. You' can’t do this sort of thing in England.” Ho held up his handcuffed wrist 3 in illustration. “Oh— h?” softly commented the other; “is that so? Well, it seems to have happened all the same. And Avhat are you going to do about it, eh?” “What can I do? Tavo men broke into my bedroom at the local inn last night, and although I put one of them out, the other got behind me . . . Book here, you seem a decent sort; what docs all this mean ?” The only reply he got Avas a further chuckle. “Trying to do the sob stuff, eb? Well, kid, that Avon’t work with me. You ought to have thought of what would happen before you stuck your nose in.” He bent a little lower. “Do you really want to know Avhat is going to happen?” he went on, with sadistic maliciousness. “Well, I’ll tell you: they keep a pet torturer doAvn at this joint for guys like you. Badoglio his name is. He’s an Italian, and about three times as big as they make ’em noAvadays. He’s got a few special ideas of his own.” The speaker broke off to grin in a manner that made Crane afraid he would be sick.

“Still, that can wait—the later you see friend Badoglio, the better; take that from me. In the meantime, you’d better come clean with an explanation of hoAv you got mixed up Avith our busi-

“I’ve already told you. I was mistaken for you by a red-headed woman.” ‘‘Yes. But you kneAv damned well that she was making a mistake.” The speaker, after shifting his revolver into the other hand, pulled out a pocketflask and unscrewed the top. “No funny tricks, now,” he warned. “I can sheet just as well Avitli my left hand as with my right.” He lifted the flask to his lips and took a deep drink. “That’s better,” he gloated, smacking his lips. A drop of that would do you good,” he Avent on; but replaced the flask in his pocket. Philip felt a faint resurgence of hope. The man had evidently been drinking before, and if ho kept on, he might become senseless. That circumstance might not improve, by the slightest degree, the helplessness of his own position, hut he was in the mood to snatch at any straw. Birchall’s last potation made him sway unsteadily. He became surprisingly loquacious. “It’s all a mystery, you say ?” he Avent on, his speech now somewhat slurred; “well, I don’t mind puttin’ you wise. There’s somethin’ big goin’ on here. That’s why”—with a drunken hiccough —“there Avon’t bo any chance of you gettin’ out Avith your life, young fella! Somethin’ big. . . . Here,” he continued, lurching forward, bending down, and catching hold of the prisoner’s right arm; “up you get; I’ll show you somethin’ . . For one breathless moment, Philip considered bringing his handcuffed wrists down upon the other’s head. But, sodden though he might be, Birchall proved quick enough to read his thoughts. “I’ll plug you, mind;- don’t think you’ve got the slightest chance, kid. Another look like that, and —” He patted the handle of his revoh r er significantly. Because any reply in the circumstances would have sounded suspicious, Crain kept silent. The crook repeated his former words. “Yes, I’ll slioav you something.” His hand still on the prisoner’s cm. lie guided Crane across the bare floor.

“In there,” he said. Prompted by an irresistible curiosity, Philip looked through the secret panel. This aperture was only about six inches square, but he was able to get a clear view of the room on the other side. Staring fascinatedly, he saw an elderly man leaning oA’er a desk. He was unshaven, and looked generally unkempt. The next thing Philip noticed Avas the weakness of his chin, and, instantly, the words of the girl returned to him. “He is not a criminal, but weak—weak.” Crane’s heart gave a bound. Helpless as he Avas, he had solved the mystery. For this man, working so industriously, could be none other than the girl’s father —the very person he had promised to save. A stealthy whisper sounded in his ear. “You see what lie’s doing?” Crane made no reply. His intuition told him the answer. This man, wearing a green shade to protect his eyes from the glare of the brilliant electric desklamp, Avas doing something illicit. “He is the cleverest engraver in the world,” he heard Birchall say. With the words came the whole of the secret. Full knowledge was given to him; this man was a forger. (To Be Continued Daily.)