That Man at Claverton Mansions

Star (Christchurch), Volume XLIV, Issue 732, 8 April 1933, Page 26 (Supplement)

That Man at Claverton Mansions

by

HOLLOWAY HORN

(Author of “George,” “The Intruders ,” etc.)

CHAPTER IV (continued). Engaged. She appeared to be thinking deeply and for conscious seconds he watched her. With a sudden smile she put the key in her bag. “I think you do,” he said quietly. zAgain she shook her head. “I don’t,” she insisted. “I doubt if any woman ever.has loved you.” He laughed, but did not reply. “I know all about it,” she said. “To give the devil his due. you have never attempted to deceive me over the part women have played in your life. But in spite of it, I doubt if any one of them ever loved you. One doesn’t love a snake, but it is idle to deny its fascination.” “Aren’t your metaphors slightly mixed ?” “Horribly. But I fancy you see what I mean and know that it’s true. I just happen not to be altogether a fool.” “How is the strong, silent man, by the way ?” he as she rose to go. “Sir Basil? It was because of him that I came here to-night, as a matter of fact. I suppose that surprises you?” He was watching her closely and did not answer her question. “I rather —hope that he —that he will ask me to marry him,” she went on. “I see. And you love him?” She met his glance squarely. “Yes,” she said. “I think I do.” “He would be' mildly surprised it he knew that you were here.” “I don’t think that he would. I think he knows that, wherever I am, I should be mistress of the situation —it’s your own phrase, Lynn. He also probably knows that a woman is safe in those circumstances.” “Then he is a very exceptional man, my dear. Nineteen strong, silent men out of twenty would put an entirely wrong construction on your presence here. And, I must confess, from some little experience, that nineteen times out of twenty they would be right.” “That would be due to your reputation—not to mine,” she retorted lightly. “Touche!” he said, with a smile.

“I may even tell him of our—friendship. I don’t think I should mind doing so.” She made the remark casually, but it seemed to startle him. “I shouldn’t,” he warned her. “Many people think that friendship between a man and a woman is impossible, anyway.” ‘‘You amoner them.” she said.

"Yes” “You suggest that there is no friendship between you and me?” “None whatever. The thing you mention is stupid. I love you. I want you.” His eyes were suddenly aflame, his husky voice passionate. “No!” she said, but he took her in his arms with a strength that amazed her. “No!” she said again, and suddenly in the soft light she saw his face near to hers, so near that it seemed to shut out all the world. It was the face of a stranger, of someone quite different from the Lynn Dorell she knew. The expression she had seen there once before was there again. His eyes were narrowed and some subtle sense which inevitably comes to a woman’s aid, some age-old race instinct, must have warned her. “Let me go!” she said fiercely, and strove to raise her clenched hand. The expression passed from his face; once again it was Lynn Dorell, smiling and impudent. “You frighten me. Your face —” He stood away from her as if she had struck him. “Yes?” he asked. “You were speaking of my face?” “I don’t know. It was different. It was hateful. I’m going. I shall never come here again.” “I think you will,” he replied calmly. “Aren’t you exaggerating the whole thing? I have taken you in my arms before without raising the devil in you like this.” “I know,” she said with a shiver. “But there was a change in you. It made me shiver.” “So?” She could see the effort it was for him to appear casual. “I’ve seen it before when you were annoyed. It’s just as if the face I see now is a mask.” “You’re excited, my dear. Beside®, most people use their faces primarily as a mask, don’t you think?” “No, I don’t.” “Oh, come,” he protested. “I don’t,” she insisted. “I’m sorry I ever came here; I was a fool to come.” “But you did come. And you will again,” he said with a quiet, mocking smile. “We shall see. I shall be married soon,” she retorted. “If Rearston asks you? Strong, silent men are excessively cautious in important things like marriage. And you know the old phrase about Caesar’s wife.” “Anyway, I’m going now. Good-night.” “I have many little failings, but I never attempt to keep a woman, however charming, against her will. My difficulty has usually been, as a matter of fact, to get rid of her when I was tired. I will take you to the lift.” They stood in silence, side by side, as the lift came up to them. “Au ’voir!” he said, with another smile. “Good-bye,” said Mary, without a smile. The lift-man was watching them, and as they descended, she was conscious that he was looking at her almost as if he wished to speak to her. He was a little man, whose thin, black hair, combed over a bald forehead, created an unfortunate impression. There was something rat-like about him. Mary drew her fur coat around her and turned away fj»om him. A week later, and to a great extent as a direct result of her visit to Dorell’s flat, a brief announcement appeared in the appropriate papers to the effect that a marriage had been arranged and would shortly take place between Sir Basil Rearston, Bart., of Tringstead, in the County of Hertfordshire, and Miss Mary Luttrell, the only daughter of the late Donald Luttrell, of Ayr. It was one of several announcements, but with the important difference that it possessed that queer modern product called “news value.”

It came at a moment when the papers were singularly empty and was in tiie nature of a blessing to them. The evening papers gave it, without exception, front page head-lines, and the work, for good or ill, was carried on by the morning press. Tony Drewett, whatever he told the Press, sincerely hoped that it would not see the beginning of the end of Mary’s career. From his point of view, any marriage which did so was simply a wicked waste of the precious thing in which he dealt —publicity.

Sir Basil, on the other hand, from the first insisted that she should, on her marriage, retire from the stage; he was not prepared to discuss whether the future Lady Rearston should continue to be the leading lady in the revue at St. Hilary’s. Mary knew and appreciated his attitude. As she once had said to him an actress at the top can see clearly the two roads; the one by which she has risen and the one by which she must descend.

In all London, however,- no one read the announcement and its rather hectic aftermath with greater interest than Lynn Dorell. He was sipping his morning coffee when he noticed it. For a moment that queer, haunted look flashed into his face; it was as if for the time some other identity had taken possession of him and was looking out of his eyes. He was wearing a long, black silk dressing gown. His face, in repose, had almost an Oriental appearance. There was something about his appearance at any time that was intensely un-English, but in that unguarded moment it was far more evident. On the table in front of him was a pile of newspapers and he solemnly went through them one after another. He was more interested, curiously enough, in the rather meagre comments that were made on Sir Basil Rearston and noted with a queer little satisfied gesture that he was one of the wealthiest contemporary Englishmen. That night h© was waiting in the darkness of the little alley that led to the stage door of St. Hilary’s Theatre, but, not altogether to his disappointment, he saw that Mary Luttrell’s fiance was also waiting. He lit a cigarette and with a careless nod to the baronet sauntered back to where his car, with the immobile chauffeur at the wheel, awaited him. “To the club,” he said.

But here again he was disappointed, for there was no sign of the newlyengaged pair. Had they been there he had every intention of having at least one dance with Mary Luttrell, as he had certain personal matters to discuss with her—matters which the announcement and its attendant publicity had made urgent. Sir Basil, however, had taken his fiancee to the grill of a famous restaurant, where they attracted sufficient attention to satisfy even so exacting a man as Tony Drewett. “By the way, Mary, I noticed that fellow Dorell hanging about outside the theatre.’* “I didn’t see him.’* “No. I fancy he had cleared off before you came out. I don’t like him, my dear.” “I don’t, either,” she replied, rather to his surprise. “There’s something—l hardly know how to put it —sinister . . about him,” her fiance went on. “I know it sounds melodramatic, but there is no other word for it.” “My dear Basil, I’m perfectly willing to drop him if wish me to.” “Good! - I shouldn’t have asked you to do so. If one knew anything about the fellow it wouldn’t be so bad. Still, I’m glad we agree.” “I know practically nothing. I’ve danced with him—he dances beautifully, as you know —but beyond that he doesn’t matter. Particularly to-night.” “Good!” he said again, and went on to talk about other matters. It was an excellent evening, and Sir Basil wisely chos© the opportune moment. “What about getting married, Mary?” he asked. “Why not?” she answered, without hesitation. “The autumn? The early autumn, say?” “I’m under contract for the run of the revue, as you know.” “How long is it likely to go on?” She shrugged her shoulders. “To-night we were playing to capacity, I heard. The old show is still alive and kicking. Of course, we could be married and I could keep on at St. Hilary’s for the remainder of the revue. It’s only a matter of a month or so.” He shook his head. “It’s to be good bye to the stage, isn’t it?” “I’m willing. It might be arranged. Graydon—the man who is running the show —is very reasonable, and a new leading lady at half my salary might attract him for the last few weeks. It probably would.” “You’re very beautiful, dear,” he said irrelevantly. “Thank you,” she smiled. “Then we’ll fix it for some time in the early autumn?” He waited for her reply. She nodded her head thoughtfully. “You’ll have to come down to Tringstead. My mother and sister are anxious for you to do so,” he went on. “Rather. Whenever you like. I’m frightfully anxious to see it, of course.” “You won’t regret . . . leaving the stage ?” he asked anxiously. She shook her head. “There comes a time,” she said, “when, if one can get out of it gracefully, one always does. And what more graceful way is possible than by becoming Lady Rearston?” “Sounds strange, doesn’t it—Lady Rearston ?” “I shall give it all up cheerfully. The stage, the excitement, night clubs ... it all gets monotonous after a while.” “I’m glad you feel like that about it. You look tired to-night, Mary.” “You said I was beautiful!” she protested. “So you are,” he insisted. She smiled at him. “When a man says that a woman looks tired it usually means that she looks plain.” “Anyway, I repeat the statement. And, mo eover, you are now going home.” “I’m ready,” she replied with a smile. “Only I won’t be bullied.” The following morning at ten thirty Mary Luttrell was on the point of walking round to the garage where she kept her car, when her maid announced that Lynn Dorell had called. “Tell him I’ve gone,” she said in an irritated tone. “I’m afraid I’ve butted in,” said Dorell from the doorway. “What an awkward moment!” “You’ve no right to come in here uninvited,” she said angrily. “None whatever,” he agreed, with his impudent smile. “Yet here I am.” “You may go,” she said to the maid. As the door closed she turned and faced Dorell. He was w r atching her with a quiet and rather unpleasant ©mile. “What do you want?” she demanded. “Always . . . always mistress of the situation!” he said. “And what an actress!” (To be continued daily.)