SERIAL STORY “The Devouring Fire”

Wanganui Chronicle, Volume 74, Issue 191, 14 August 1931, Page 10

SERIAL STORY “The Devouring Fire”

BY

LORD GORELL

CHAPTER XXXVII Ths Night-Watch.

It was with undisguised relief that Latham greeted Farrant on his arrival punctually at ten o’clock on the evening of Juns 16th, and Farrant himself laboured under a similar emotion. ‘"The last night,’’ said Latham heavily. They went to their respective corners and, with muscles pressing their bodies back against the wall, tried vainly to subdue the sense of horror that was near to causing both to rush from the creepy room. Latham, rigid, felt as though the thumping of his heart must be sounding as loudly through the room as the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece; and the imperturbable sound of that became fiendish. He wanted to dart out and silence it. An unaccountable dread, more intense even than all his fears up to that moment oegan to invade his being. Then he heard a sigh, very slight, the sigh of an overstrained man wrestling desperately with his fear: tnat was Farrant, he knew it not merely by the direction but by intuitive sympathy. So Farrant was undergoing it. too: that gave him back a momentary tremor of courage. Shifting position very slightly, Latham grasped the edge of the curtain, drew it an inch away from the wall, and peered out behind it through the open window into the garden. For the first second his eyes, ac - customed to the light within the room, saw nothing: then the moon trailed Its feebie curiosity through a rift m the moving clouds. Latham, rooted to his corner by dread, saw a shape in vague outline close to the wall by the window, the shape of a woman. The face was deep in shadow, but the figure was large and incredibly menacing, and. as he gaxed with eyeballs distended, out of it ?ame, stealthily, evilly, a hand, desio•ated, talony, terrible, and was stretched out towards him. Latham 2 own hand relaxed, a deadly sickness availed him; he let go of the edge of the curtain and, without hia be hig conscious of it, his breath went out of him in a iong, overwrought, hissing sound. The curtain fell back igimst the wall. the grisly hand and ■ e shape from which It emanated w*re biotted from his vision; there was a faint rustle as of woman’s garments, and then silence save fo.» the sobbing of the leaves. Latham, struggling desperately not to lose self-control and scream aloud, vx reached at the curtain. Farrant came instantly out of hia corner, saying in a ense whisper, “Did you see anything'*’’ Latham, unable io articulate, pointed wildly out across the lawn, Ou the. further aide, passing delicately across the bed towards the palisade, the figure of a woman showed wanly in the faint light. After it!” shouted Farrant ha dashed out, Latham foilowing. Farrant. having seen nothing close range and being therefore the disabled by panic, gained ground or. Latham. in a dozen strides he was naif way across the lawn: the apparition vanished. Farrant raced on, reached the bed, bounded across it. avoiding by professional instinct the exact line taken .by whatever It was :hat he was pursuing, and grasped ■he palisade, now mended, to swing himself over It seemed to him—but in the noise of his and Latham’s steps and the tumult of excitement • he could not feel certain—that a little wav down the lane he could hear retreating footsteps; he had no doubt that. If that were so, he could overtake the marauder before she could •onceal herself. He had one foot up on the palisade and was in the act of drawing up the other when :.e. stopped dead. He hung for one -econd absolutely stricken into stone; then, as Latham came up to him, he fell back and pounced with a enarl j -carcely human upon an object lying at the foot of the fence to which his eyes had been drawn by the light of a fleeting moonbeam “What’s taken you, Farrant?’* enquired Latham. This;’ groaned Farrant. “Oh t i d rather have been blind!” He groped again in the devastated bed and held up a woman’s hat 1 It’s Mary’s,” i? said, with a bitterness of agony he could not conceal. “Mary s’’ repeated Latham, daxed. “Yes. wife's I was out with it too often last year to be mistaken. Why. why, why, in God’s name did i ever touch this damned business?” He covered his face with his hand, while Latham stared blankly at the tragedy. * light tread a swish of garment?., and Frances white as any ghost, was beside them. What’s happened? I heard you run out Did—it—come ? ’ Neither answered her Tell me. she pleaded. "Anyh.ng s better than not knowing.’ Me saw something, said Farant firmly, “a woman’s shape disapearing. We burst out and I—l ound this It’s Mary s.” Marys! Frances was struct «Mary Fitchett, your wife?” Yes I know this little feather md this bow.” But—but she’s got nothing to do She can’t have; I’ll never jelieve it;’ "God bless you answered Forant. "for those words. You’re right, know, I know you are.” "But how the blazes did this get Farrant stared down at the hat between his hands: the pain waj fading out of his brow, but a vast bewilderment remained. It wasn t her. It wasn’t- a young •rirl at all I saw her hand,” stam-.. uered Latham. “Oh. a beastly thing. .ke a claw—it wa« vile. Farrant !" ’Where? When?” "Just before I snatched at the curtain. ' suppose I made a noise and frightened it ’ “Yes. I heard you gasp, but I couldn’t see what at.” Farrant turned his eJeotric torch on to the bed; the traces of the figure they had pursued were vaguely distinguishable beside the deeper marks of the two pursuers. "Well, it’s gone,” he said. “We can’t do anything more here to-night, we want daylight. I’ll get back to Mary and tell her the whole thing and ask her is she oan throw any light 00 this bat-bnj»inesB May I, sir?* "vf rourss rejoin sci Farrant

heartily. "Were not, suspecting • her, are we, Fran." 1 "Most certainly not." | J The words were balm io Farrant; j he flushed and stammered out his i appreciation. “I’ll be round," he a went on, “first thing In the morn- ■ ing and we’ll go Into It thoroughly. J It’s no ghost; that I’ll swear with i these marks." J "Let’s have a look at the window, I though.” said Latham, "before we | lock.-up." t "Yes, I was going to suggest that." 1 In silence they went back across 1 the lawn. Farrant re-entered the | library first: once again he stiffened j into stone. a "My God!" he muttered, blanch- 1 ed and overcome. “Look at that I" ; On the white paint of the window j frame, about four feet from the c floor level, in exactly the same posi- ' tlon as before, for the third time in the history of the Grange was revealed, dirty, smudgy, yet distinct, the Impression of Ella Tressway’s right thumb. , I On reaching home Farrant Im- J mediately made full confession of the / task which had been occupying him < each evening for the past month; he 1 ended by recounting the grim adven- « ture of the past hour. j "You found my hat?" exclaimed J Mary, astounded. "The old green one ' with the jay’s feather? How in the , world did that get there ?■■ ; “Can't you help at all?” exclaim- ( ed Farrant with eagerness.. "When 2 did you have it last? What became J of It? Think! It’s vital to trace it.” Mary searched her memory obediently, but without avail. "I don’t know," she said at length disappoint- i edly, he had made certain that he r would get some light from Mary’s r€ _ 4 collection. “Did you think it was me sky- s larking?” asked Mary demurely. 2 "I’m ashamed to say for one mo- J ment I was simply knocked endwise,’ t he confessed, “and didn’t know what ‘ to think.” J “That's the worst of police train.- < ing.” sue sighed; “ it makes people J so suspicious.” ) “It didn’t last.,’ be eaid contritely; * ’and Mr and Mrs Latham pooh-poohed j the idea.” Farrant was on foot betimee the 1 next morning and, after ringing up T his office to say where he could be 1 found, if wanted,, bicycled off io the Grange. He found Latham and Frances already down and making a pretence at breakfast. ! Latham rose with cordial relief as I Farrant came in; Frances greeted him ] with friendliness. Briefly he told 1 them that Mary was unable to con- ! tribute anything that helped at all. < At that moment Richards entered. } “If you please, mum, you’re wanted 1 on Uie telephone; Mrs Fitchett would ’ like to speak, to you Immediately.” i “Mrs Fitchett.” said Farrant ’ musingly, as Frances left the room; ; “that’s an idea. She may remember; ; i’ll go and see her after I’ve done j -ere.” ( He took up nig station accordingly : in the library with Latham that ] night. Ten o’clock found both men facing one another with their nerves acutely on edge, but their resolution maintained. A pallid Frances had retired to bed, though not to sleep, and ' they were alone with their ordeal.. 1 The windows were set wide, the cur- J tains left loosely hanging a little ajar, J the lights on Farrant took his stand , in the corner of the room on one side j of the windows, Latham in the cor- 1 ner of the other; from the lawn they j were quite invisible. They ®tood ; tensely, senses strained. heart? j thumping, almost without stirring, as the half-hour tinkled from the clock z on the mantelpiece; in a few mo- 3 ments they would know —what? '

From his corner Latham could just distinguish the bands of the clock; he tried to control his rising fear by concentrating his attention on them. With what seemed to him an infinite slowness the minute hand crept up the left side of the clock face ae he gazed. At the three-quarters he started convulsively,, as though roused from a trance. At eleven fear gave way gradually to impatience, and then to disappointment. At last he sent a low whisper across to his statue-like companion, “No ®h 5 Farrant?”’ “ Not to-night, sir, I think,” said Farrant, coming out from his corner, and relaxing his stiffened muscles. “ It will be between 10.30 and 11, if at all. I feel positive of that.”

They made sure of Win finger mark, which had been carefuny washed off, had not been renewed in eerie silence behind the curtain by an unearthly re visitant; then, yawning and feeling intensely fiat and not a little ridiculous, they fastened up, had a stiff drink together, and separated. Night after night they repeated their harrowing half-hour without the least enlightenment. Farrant was anxious to give up. but Latham was ■obdurate “It hasn't been every night, as far as we know, but only at intervals,” he said. " 1 am going io stick it out. if I have to spend the rest of the year •over it, till something happens. After ail, Farrant, it’s only half an hour; it’s not as if we kept it up all night.” “1 know, sir, but you've only to slip up to bed; I’ve got to get home.

“Don’t leave me In the lurch,” pleaded Latham. “I don't mind telling you I funk it alone.” “Well, sir. I’m not going on with it indefinitely; you can't expect me to. But I’ll keep it up till June in. If nothing happens then, why, I’l believe we’ve laid tue beastly thing; ana I hope never to let myself in for such a job again. It gets worse, not better, each time.” “I’m getting to dread it like poison myself,” admitted Latham. The nerves of all three participants were in fact becoming strained almost te breaking point. Frances would have found relief in the charitable occupation of visiting Mr Birch, but the old man was worse. “I can’t (!«•> irothing with him,” complained Mrs Fitchett tearfully. “He’s that stubborn he can’t abei? being taken care bf. He gets himself up and he won’t let anyone help him to bed; he makes us go on, just as if hs were still himself.” XTo be eeaUnueCl