"The Ghost Counts Ten"

Wanganui Chronicle, Volume 83, Issue 258, 1 November 1939, Page 11

"The Ghost Counts Ten"

Serial Story

(By

RALPH TREVOR)

More than that, there had been occasions innumerable when cellar stocks at the Manor had grown dangerously low, and Mr Border had received plaintive calls for additional supplies from his own stocks, all of which helped his turnover considerably.

On this evening Mr Border was seated on one side of the glowing fire in his snug little parlour at the rear of the bar, discussing the international situation with an unexpected visitor. The young man had arrived only an hour ago from London, and mentioned that he would like a comfortable room for a day or so. The young man, it appeared, was on holiday, and though Mr Border commented that February was an unpleasant month for holidaymaking, he gathered that the young man had recently returned from abroad, and that even February in England was better than February anywhere else. “I don’t like it,” Mr Border was fond of repeating, witdi a shake of his grey head as Dick Ferring concluded a short resume of the international situation in central Europe as he saw it. '‘What with Bolsheviks and Nazis,” he mused, "I don’t know what the world’s coming to. Why can’t people be content with what they've got? Why must they be for ever dressing themselves up and giving funny salutes to one another? It don't make sense to me.” Dick Ferring drained his tankard and set it down on a lodge beside the old oak fireplace. Be was smiling. “’Well, Mr Border. I suppose the world would be a dull place if we all thought the same. After al], people are entitled to their opinions—The Russians. tlic Germans, the Italians, and all the rest of them. Besides, most continental peoples like dressing up. It gives them a kick to wear a uniform. And another thing: they haven’t our very, very stolid temperament. They’re excitable; strongly emotional. The peasant populations of most of the European countries live drab, humdrum lives. That’s why they always wear their picturesque costumes on public holidays and fair days. It makes them forget the monotony of their workaday lives, and I don't think it does them any harm. It’s when they think so much of a uniform that it becomes a religion that you get danger, and that’s what’s the matter /with Europe. It’s lost its sense of poise anti reality. Its been carried away by slogans and shirts.” Mr Border listened intently. ‘‘lt must be mighty fine to travel abroad and see things for yourself. Mr Ferring.” he remarked, appreciatively. ‘‘l’ve never been further than London in sixty years.” ‘‘Yet you’re happier down here like this than you would be if you had your life ordered around for }ou by someone wearing a coloured shir!. You’ve got freedom, Mr Border, even if you must close your doors to customers promptly at ten o’clock every night.” Mr Border winked an eye and reached for his tankard. ‘‘l wouldn’t say it was always prompt at ten, Mr Ferring. AU depends on what humour Joe Traviss the constable’s in. Be has his fits of efficiency if you understand. Bit’ there's one thing about Joe: he always give's me warning when to expect ’em." Both men laughed, and Dick Ferring ordered the replenishment of the wnen me rilUHi lIUU uecn avvumplished at the hands of Polly Bennion the pert and pretty little barmaid. Ferring turned the conversation around to Breardon Manor. '•l’ve heard they’re doing quite wcl' up there.” he remarked, casually. ‘‘lt's like as not they are." answered Border, guarderly. ‘‘They’ve done me no harm." ho added. ‘‘That's grand,” commented Ferring. ‘•hut I’ll het there was some opposition to the venture when it was first mooted." Border nodded a. knowing head. “\yo, there was a hit: The old people. Mr Ferring. but don't include me in that category; an inkeeper never grows old. As I was saying, the old people thought it a shame, but. the young 'uns thought it fine, so there you are; there’s no pleasing all of ’em.” ‘T suppose ihe old people, didn't, like the idea, of the Manor being used for such an ultra-modern purpose?” "That’s it. sir. Old Ben Perkin from the farm at the foot, of the hili said in this very room that it was enough to make the ghost of old Sir Boger refuse to walk again. ’ Dick Ferring looked keenly into his host’s face. "So the Manor has a ghost?” he smiled. "Aye. sir. she. has. Old Sir Roger ho was the Kynass who built the M anor —couldn't be persuaded even in death Io leave the. old place. I’ve hoard manv stories in the bar from folks who "say they’ve seen the old -ontleman. but for myself I tries to keep an open mind.” "And has the old gentleman been seen lately?” "That I can’t say, sir. It be. about three years since last I ’card mention of him. You don’t believe in such things, do you. sir?” Ferring laughed. "Like you. Mr Border, I try to keep an open mind. Ml the same'. I’m interested, and perhaps to-morrow we’ll have another little chat about it. You’re a sensible fellow. Border, and I know you wouldn’t, be pulling my leg.” "God bless my soul, sir! It’s the truth I’m speaking, when I tell ye that the old gentleman has been seen. If you don’t believe mo. I’ll get old ’’bonezer Entwistle around to-morrow, lie claims to have been Sir Roger six limos.” "Thanks,” murmured Ferring. ‘‘And since it’s no night for a stroll with this wind roaring around, I’ll bop off to my room.” A plan had entered the young man’s mind —a plan that might suit his purpose wonderfully well, but he decided he’d belter see old Ebenozer first. Accuracy was one of the first essentials of'his job. It was also one of the attributes that had made Ferdinand Bolz’s reputation as Europe’s master spy.

CHAPTER I-V. ~ 7 ‘ The girl was seated, in a low comfortable basket-chair piled with soft, yielding cushions. In her lap a novel was open, but she was making little pretence about reading It. Her eyes wondered from the printed page to the electric tiro in the grate in front of her, and for a moment or two she appeared fascinated by the flickering of the artificial flame. The Honourable Louise. Trelare was a handsome girl of twenty-four. lie) rich auburn hair smouldered rather than flamed, and accented her clear buttermilk complexion. The eyes were blue-grey, frank and honest: the lips were pleasantly moulded, and her lipstick had been used deftly upon their •contours; the chin was firm, witli :■ suggestion of stubbornness. She had been slaying down al Breardon Manor for a month on I’m Invitation of her brother, the. lion. Michael Trelare, who had surprise his family and. his friends by finding . job. It is true it was perhaps an unusual job for the younger son of Baron, but then it these days ever, younger sons of Barons arc frequently under the necessity of earning a living, and when Trelare had been approached by a syndicate, in the city to become residential host at Breardon Manor the idea had appealed. Io him. Nevertheless, his sister was obviously worried about him to-night as she sat before the fire in their private lounge. She had noticed of late that Michael was not exactly his usual self. Ho seemed to have grown considerably older than his thirty years, and Louise^had never been one for remaining long in ignorance of what was happening to members of the family. She had never quite liked the idea of her brother taking this position at the Breardon Country Club. Not that Louise was a snob! No one could ever have accused her of being that. It had rather been one or two of the people Michael had introduced her to one night at a little dinner party at the Savoy. One of them had been a pertinent little fellow with an olive complexion and black shifty eyes. It was ho, apparently, who had been all In favour of Michael getting the job as resident host at the Club. His name, Louise recalled, had been Torestes, and he appeared to be of Albanian extraction. He had been charmingly polite, but there had been many things about him that Louise had not liked. One of them had been his ingratiating manner; another of them the way he had of looking at her under heavy eyelids. Torestes, Michael had later told her in the strictest of confidence, was an influential fellow and “simply rolling in wealth.” And Michael had appeared certain that via Torestes the Trelare family was going to get quite definitely a. financial leg up in this depressing world. Of course Torestes had been down at Breardon Manor. More than that, he had brought with him a number of—to the girl's way of thinking—equally undesirable friends who had immediately been elected to membership. What it was that Louise did not. like, she could not quite be sure, but so long as ever she could remember she had relied on instinct, and so far instinct had been invariably right. At. first she had been convinced that her brother was taking enthusiastically to his new job. He had always made an ideal host, and no one could complain about the way he conducted the Breardon Country Club. His tact and his courtesy were equally unfailing. He was quite obviously the riglii man in the right setting. All the same, Louise had not. likec Michael’s looks these, past few days He was a man struggling under a load of worry, and Louise, being a good sister, was determined to find ou‘ what the trouble was. For a few uncertain moment: the girl’s eyes travelled back once more fromt he flickering fire Io th* book on her lap. Then she heard the door open behind her. The Honourable Michael Trelare younger son of Lord Garvin Trelare. Baron, of Dagonet Gardens. Chelsea, glanced at the occupant of the fireside chair and turned abruptly Io a cabinet placed directly to the right side of the door. Like his sister, Michael Trelare was good-looking. The good looks in the family had come from a remote Irish ancestor on the maternal side He. was tall— nearly six feet In heigh I —with fair curly hair and eyes that seemed to hold a perpetual laugh in their sea-blue depths. Unlike his sister there was not quite the, same firmness about the chin. Louise, hearing the clink of a glass against the neck of a bottle, looked around. “Don't you think, Michael, my dear,” she protested, quietly and without. obvious trace of admonition, “that you’re bending the elbow just a little too often.” Michael Trelare did not speak before he had mixed himself a stiff whiskey and swallowed it at a gulp. “I’ve not noticed it myself,” he replied, “and I think if what you say is correct I should have done. Like a Bronx ?” “No thanks! I’ll have a wee drop of sherry, if you don't, mind.” “No trouble in the least,” he smiled with a touch of irony. “You don't like (t too dry, do you?” Ho carried across a tiny glass and handed it to her. and Louise noted that, his hand was none too steady. “I wish you’d toll me what's hiling you.” she remarked as she sipped the deep amber liquid. Michael Trelare dropped into an adjacent chair facing his sister, but not before he had poured himself another whiskey. “Why should you suppose there’s anything biting mo, as you call it,” he laughed, but the laugh was oddly unconvincing. “I don't. Not really! Id's just the way you've boon looking these past few days. After all, Michael. I'm your sister, and I suppose, I have some right, to be concerned about your health. You can't be working too hard.” He laughed at that. “Good lord, no! The. job down here's a cinch. I’ve just got to make myself pleasant : display a modicum of the renowned Trelare tact, and draw my salarv nt, tiie month-end. You wouldn’t ' call that hard work, would you?”’ (To be continued.)