OUR NEW SERIAL. THE GREEN SHADE

Waimate Daily Advertiser, Volume XXIII, 5 February 1923, Page 3

OUR NEW SERIAL. THE GREEN SHADE

By

HEADON HIL.

Author of ‘Millions of Mischief.” “Guile,” etc., etc. .. CHAPTER Xlll.—Continued. .. “You would have to be more than civil to rouse him. but he has the reputation of being very fierce,” Miss Clayton admitted. “ A nice enough gentleman, though, ”, hen he comes in here. He will be a great improvement on the present baronet when his turn comes. “ Then for every reason I must be rareful not to tread on his corns.” Knyvett rejoined cheerily. He win ’timing fiway with' a nod when Alias Claytort called him back. Leaning fiom her cage, she spoke in an undertone. “ Inquiries were made about you while you were at breakfast,” she said. “ Inspector Marske came down from the Hall, asked if we had any strangers staying at the inn, and put me through it properly. He wanted to know if I had ever seen you before, and he paid particular attention to your signature in the register.” Knyvett rather prided himself on the nonchalance he showed under this disconcerting news. “ What crime am I supposed to have committed?” He struck a theatrical attitude. “ Drinking in the barparlour after closing time? If so I pleat Not Guilty and shall prove au alibi, Miss Clayton. Yoit know that when I returned from my stroll with Grimsdale I went straight up to bed. This zealous officer is the local inspector, I suppose?” Miss Clayton ■was in no mood for levity. She corrected that obviously affected supposition with all the impressiveness of which she was capable. And she would not have been the reliable lady she was if she had not had vast stores of impressiveness at com mand. She reminded the frivolous young man facing her that Inspector Marske was no local fumbler, but the Scotland Yard detective engaged on the murder of Hugh Fancourt. Knyvett laughed heartily. “ Deuce take the chap I Pray don’t look so alarmed. Miss Clayton. I assure yoa that I wasn’t born to be hanged. Mr Marske is up against it if he wants to run me in for the Fancourt murder. I have an even better alibi for that than for drinking after hours. You told him that I didn’t arrive till yesterday? Good! Then don’t you worry.”

But half an hour later, as he passed down the village street, Knyvett’s puckered brows betokened none of tha complacency he had advised. How came it that Marske was on the -warpath already, scenting him as an adversary? The inspector’s inquiries at the inn must have been due to that, for the man could never have been such a fool as to believe that Hugh Fancourt’s murderer, if he was a stranger, would have remained on the scene for a week after the crime. The only other conclusion was that Marske was bound by red-tape officialism to investigate any strangers sojourning within the radius of his mission.

Well, he would pit his brains against the official detective, and remembering Mr Challenger’s description of him as tricky and cunning but not clever '.e need not despair. It was almost too good to be true that Marske should see in him a possible mui*derer, for ne could conceive of no better means of concealing the fact that he was a rival. As an object of suspicion himself he would lead the inspector a pretty dance while weaving his own webs for the real culprit. That brought him up with a jolt,. Who was the real culprit? While keeping an open mind he had practieally ticked off the young chauffeur as off the board, except perhaps as a witness who knew more than he would tell. If so, whom was Grimsdale shielding? Not Maud Bates assuredly, for Knyvett would regard his own prospects of success as hopeless if he had not correctly diagnosed the disgust and contempt cherished by Grimsdale for that ambitious young woman. _ The handicap against him would be reduced, Knyvett went on to reflect, if he could discover on w r hat line and to what end Marske was working. Grimsdale. when questioned on that point, had shut up like an oyster, professing ignorance so flatly that he laid his denial open to doubt. The natural deduction was that Marske had no well-defined theory but had marked down as his prey the individual whom Grimsdale was shielding.

From this, by an easy sequence of ideas, Knyvett reverted to a speculation that had never been long absent from his mind. Who was the unknown client who had launched him on this ocean of mystery? The introduction of the name of Miss Beryl Fancourt as the forbidden sweetheart of her truculent cousin, the tenant of Ivy Cottage. }iad opened up a new field of conjecture. Was Miss Fancourt; the unknown client who through the melancholy intermediary had secretly employed him. compelled thereto by anxiety for the lover whom a terribly adequate motive had placed under such reasonable suspicion? These things would stand out in clearer light, Knyvett was assured, when he had met Miss Fancourt anl Mr Adam and had applied to them the tests which his academic study of crime suggested. For the present his objective was the Rectory for the purpose of establishing his assumed character as a student of architecture.

He turned into the modest carriage drive and encountered Solomon BurUidge leisurely dislodging weeds from the gravel. The sour man-of-all-wors eyed him as if he merited a large share of the loathing in which he held ail mankind.

“Mr Snype at home?” queried Knyvett as he swung past. Burbidge straightened his back and spat viciously. ' “Maybe, unless he’s slipped out the back way to The BJu? Boar,” was the amazing reply.

Knyvett passed on. This churl was clearly impracticable. Luckily he wanted nothing of the fellow and had only accosted him out of civility. Bit he put him away in a mental niche for possible refeernce in the future. The spiteful scorn with which he had spoken of his master, attributing io him habits so at variance with Miss Clayton’s description of the Rector, betokened something abnormal. And when one is investigating a murder mystery anything out of the normal, however apparently remote from th? central problem, may hold the key to many a hidden door. His ring at the front door was answered by Fanny Green, the shyly in telligent parlourmaid.

“Can I see the Rector?” he said

1 I won’t detain him a minute. I only want the keys of the church and permission to make a few drawings of the fine old edifice. A church is an edifice, eh —what?” The touch of facetious familiarity, due perhaps to reaction after the aloof, ness of Solomon Burbridge, evidentlyfound no favour with Miss Green. She eyed the visitor severely.

“Mr Snype is not well enough to see anyone, sir,” she replied. “He has been confined to the house for some days.”

Was this another case for storage of the abnormal in a mental niche? Knyvett wondered as he thought of the figure in the flopping cape that had given Grimsdale and himself the cold shoulder outside Ivy Cottage last night. It was on the tip of his tongue to retort that if Mr Snype had been confined to the house for some days he had not been in that predicament every night to date. But he checked the impulse. “What am I to do, then?” he said ruefully. We may have forgotten to mention the fact that the Honourable Vincent was quite a nice-looking young man. The appealing glance with which h? accompanied his plaint softened the obdurate bosom of the observant parlourmaid. She permitted herself ■■ frosty smile. “You might arrange the matter with Mrs Synpe, sir,” she replied. “Tlie mistress is in the church now, practising on the organ. I will show you a short way through the garden.” Which she did, under a fire of gratitude from the double faced gentleman who followed the lead of her trim ankles to a gate giving access to the churchyard. Here his conductress left him and he walked up to the church porch to run plump into a lady coming out with a roll of music under her arm. Off came Knyvett’s cap. “So sorry,” -he murmured “Mrs Snype, I presume?” Continued in To-mdrrow’s issue.