Sir Dagabond

Star (Christchurch), Volume XLIV, Issue 281, 26 November 1931, Page 16

Sir Dagabond

— By

DOUGLAS BUCHANAN.

CHAPTEK XVIII. M A Message from Eileen Storey.” Yorkie Dale returned to Windrush the next morning after spending a very troubled night. The actual physical encounter with the two crooks he thought nothing more about, but the horrible possibilities did not escape his notice. Mallam had not imparted the information he had received from Widdicombe that Concertina Jock was allied to the others. That was a matter which could best be kept from his employer, who had quite enough to worry him, without additions. The young secretary was determined to squash the concertina menace off his own bat, and make a good job of it, too. Nevertheless, Dale sensed some connection between the crooks and the man who had once been a fellow tramp. Why had they singled him out as a likely, bird? He certainly did not look “easy meat,” fair game to such scoundrels. Might it not be more probable that Concertina Jock, if he had not given away the whole game, had at least told them part of it, sufficient to let them know that the man who passed as Albion Storey was not likely to call in the police if he could possibly avoid it. Left to himself, Dale would have thanked his lucky stars for his escape and kept quiet, •but Mallam had forced the pace and brought in the police. Now the millionaire’s mind was sorely agitated to learn just how much that precious rogue Miles Lydgate Peachum would say when he was charged before the magistrate. Reason argued that he would keep his mouth very, very shut and reserve whatever knowledge he may have possessed for some profitable occasion in the future when he had shaken the dust of H.M. prison from off his neatly-shod feet. But conscience, that never-sleeping demon, always at his elbow, stirred Yorkie Dale’s overworked brain with the icy wind of fear. He would never be safe while Concertina Jock was alive. Impossible ever to buy off the determined blackmailer; death was too good for such carrion. Yet he wished with all his heart and soul that the wretch was buried deep beneath the earth. The black mood passed, and once more the old dogged spirit o 5 the gay adventurer shone out; he smiled, a little grimly, perhaps: "I’ll show yer, Jock, m’lad,” he muttered. “You’re just a dirty skunk who wants to be taught a mighty fine lesson. It won’t be th© likes of you who’ll rob my little girl of what her father’s fought hard to get. It ain’t my money, you say. Well, perhaps it ain’t, but I’m the best one to handle it, and what’s more, m’lad, I’m going td.” Yorkie Dale glanced up as he heard his daughter’s light silver laugh from somewhere down by the lake. She was playing with Billy, the little fox terrier which wag her constant companion. The rich man could not see her, but he smiled fondly to himself as he pictured her romping with the dog down by the water, where the carp swam and where thp dazzling blue and green of the kingfisher flashed across the still waters of the lake, where the hanging trees of white and purple blossoms were mirrored In quiet places, half hiding the marble bank.

Yes, a thousand times, yes, she should not lose it all. She would marry, of course, somebody. Who? Paul Mallam? H—m, probably. Well, she might do a lot worse. Dale liked the young man despite the circumstances under which he had first met him, and he wasn’t so blind that he could not see how the land lay between those two. All he asked was that Mallam would make her happy, give her the love which he himself had missed in his married life. Thank God, she was more like him than her mother!

Musing thus, Yorkie Dale was almost startled when he suddenly found Paul Mallam at his side.

“Er—hullo,” he stammered. “What do you want?” The young secretary held out an envelope. “Cablegram for you, sir,” he replied. “I was coming along to see you about the evidence you will give at the court when that Peachum bird is charged, so I brought it with me.” Yorkie Dale glanced at the envelope, and without opening it thrust it into his pocket. One of the many cablegrams which came for him he did not bother about at the moment; he was more concerned about the infernal court proceedings. “I suppose I shall have to go there?” he asked. Mallam nodded.

“Afraid you will, sir,” he said. “I had a talk on the phone with Inspector Grimes at Scotland Yard, and it seems that your evidence will be required.”

“Oh, well if I must, I must, but it’s a most infernal nuisance, all the same. Just as well to have let ’em clear off, Mallam, than to have had all this bother. I ain’t blaming you,” he added, at sight of the youngster’s crestfallen face, ‘‘you did what you thought was right, and mighty slick it was, too. This afternoon ain’t it?”

“Yes, sir, the case will come on about two-thirty, so Grimes said. If we leave here by one o’clock Widdicombe will get us up easily by then.”

But the ordeal which Yorkie Dale so greatly feared proved to be a very tame affair. Mr. Peachum, better known to the police of two continents as Flash Phil, had very little to say for himself. He pleaded that it was all a joke on his old friend, Mr. Albion Storey, and no harm intended, but, Mr. Storey having denied the friendship in no uncertain tones, and the weight of evidence being so overwhelming, the magistrate had no hesitation in removing Flash Phil from London society for twelve months. The next case came on, and Storey left the Court, profoundly thankful that matters had turned out so well.

The two taximen having received payment for services rendered, voted Mr. Albion Storey “a real toff,” and went on their way rejoicing, while Yorkie Dale, with Mallam and Widdicombe, returned to Windrush without delay. It was not until he was back at Windrush that he thought of the cablegram which Paul Mallam had handed to him that morning. Seated on the terrace overlooking the Italian garden, and smiling at the proud air of proprietorship displayed by a couple of peacocks strutting on the lawn, he remembered the message. Mechanically he took it from his pocket, and, still watching the birds, opened the envelope. It was some minutes before he glanced down at the B, ip of paper held in his hand. A moment later he was reading it as though his

very life depended upon instant mastery of the contents. His ordeal of the afternoon paled into insignificance before this greater menace, the greatest menace he would ever have to face—Eileen Storey was in England! Yorkie Dale, his heart hammering against his ribs, read and re-read the brief message—“Docking at Liverpool this morning. Coming straight on to Windrush.—BiosBlossom! Yes, that was the name her father called her. The message had been sent by wireless from the ship the previous night. Eileen Storey had already landed—was, in fact, on her Avay this very moment. The man who had stolen her father’s millions lay back against the seat thinking desperately. All his old fears returned to torture him anew, the snarling voice of conscience whispered in his ear that now had come the end. Impossible for Yorkie Dale to deceive this clever girl straight from an American university, this girl with the bright, alert eyes and determined air. This daughter of the dead man, whose face mocked and frightened him every time he looked at the miniature. “By God, I. will,” shouted the imposter, leaping to his feet and stamping the cigar he had been smoking under heel. “I’ll beat you yet.” Paul Mallam, coming across the lawn, saw the wild gesture and the drawn, white face: “Something wrong with the guv’nor,” he murmured, quickening his pace until he was almost running. Yorkie Dale looked up and saw him. “Hey, Mallam,” he called, “come here.” Leaping the low hedge, the young secretary ran up the steps:

“Nothing wrong, I hope, sir,” he said, anxiously.

His employer scowled at him savagely. Wrong? What the blazes do you mean?” he demanded aggressivelv. “Nothing wrong, only that" Eileen Storey has returned to England. Find out what tinie the Atlantic Star docked at Liverpool and the first train she could catch to get her here.”

Paul Mallam hastened, away to do as he was instructed. So that was it. Eileen Storey was coming. No wonder that the gov’nor had a very complete breeze up. Paul, with the secret knowledge of the true state of affairs he had gleaned when his employer was taken ill in London realised the desperate position, His own fortunes were intimately bound up with those of his employer, whoever or whatever he might be. ‘ But, to do the young man justice, it was of Violet Dale that he thought first. Like Yorkie Dale, he was filled with a savage determination to protect her at all costs. The newcomer should not rob her of one penny if he could prevent it, yea, even if it meant his life to accomplish it. But, unlike Yorkie Dale, this young man had an extremely clever brain and a fertile imagination, which was already at work devising ways and means.

The greatest barrier which Eileen Storey would have to surmount at Windrush or elsewhere was Paul Mallam. Left alone, Yorkie Dale went slowlv to the library. As he paced up and down the spacious room he took out the attached to his watch and chain. With scowling eyes he glared down at it. That was what she was like, eh? A pretty tough proposition, as he had always thought. Now she was coming here to smash his castles and bring him to ruin. Something would have to be done about it. Where the devil was Mallam? Ought not to take long looking up a couple of small points like that. Dale walked to the window and stared out. Someone was coming in by the main gates, a tall, slim girl, with dark hair and features, dressed in a tightfitting little hat and a grey travelling cloak of plaid cloth, the high collar of which made a charming background for her throat and features.

Two cloth straps crossed the 'round bosom of her white silk Blouse open at the neck, where reposed a rope of pearls. The cloth ekirt was short, business like and well tailored, and matched her cloak. In her hand she carried a handbag of alligator skin and a gold and ebony walking stick. She swung along with a purposeful stride, rapidly approaching the house. No need for Yorkie Dale to be told who she was. He knew. No need for Mailam to find out what time she was likelv to arrive—she was here. Eileen, Albion Storeys only daughter, and heiress to all his millions; millions which he was trying to keep for himself. Yorkie Dale put his hands before his eyes as if he would blot out the picture of that girl striding across the lawn like some dreadful nightmare come to wreck the peace of the tramp impostor’s hanpmess. 1 Something seemed to snap inside his head. A spasm of pain distorted his face as, with a half-strangled cry, he lurched forward. J Paffi Mallam, entering the room at that moment, caught him as he collapsed a gibbering, moaning creature whose brain had failed under the strain

(To be continued.)