"The Lucky Speculator,”

Wairarapa Daily Times, 14 December 1927, Page 7

"The Lucky Speculator,”

A POWERFUL LOVE STORY OF A MODERN GIRL.

BY MARY DEEWE TEMPEST, Author of: f - His Last Shot,” “The Second Mrs Fairfax,” etc., etc.

CHAPTER VIII— Continued

As she brushed her hair, she mechanically counted the days of his grace: To-day, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday; about one hundred hours to live till her husband got a copy of that letter and —despised her. One. hundred little hours left of all her life—■ At the prospect she sat down trembling, for despair had seized her again. A thought scared her brain. Why not take Stephen’s revolver, keep the rendezvous, kill that fiend, destroy her letter, then kill herself.’ It would at least end everything —for herself, yes! but not for Stephen —. Came a gleam of hope; could she get Tressler to do i t —i n expiation? But Gyp found she couldn’t visualise • ‘ Force ’ ’ doing anything violent, his speciality being cowardice. She got up to finish her toilette. What a fright she looked with those owlish eyes and pallid cheeks! That would never do. A few discreet applications of beauty-restorers, and she felt more equal to the inevitable interview witli her husband. Brent must have been listening for her footsteps, for he met her where they had parted the night before, at the bottom of the stairs. “I won’t keep you two minutes,” he said, opening the library door. As she passed inside, Gyp remembered with a pang at the heart that it was here lie made that prosaic bid for her hand in marriage. That memory, in touching her pride, steadied her nerve for whatever was coming, “Slept well?”

She said: “I dunno,” smiled and added, “that proves that 1 must have done!” She stumbled on, guiltily conscious of those steadfast eyes upon her Hushing face. “I know I went all to pieces last night —” “Why?” “Oh,” she twisted her fingers this way and that, -vainly seeking for inspiration. then took refuge in truth. “It was seeing him again after —after running away from his house like J. did —” she stopped. Brent’s hand had fallen on her shoulder, startling her out of her wits. “Look up,” he said sternly, “straight into my eyes, and hear my order: I forbid you ever to speak with Frederic Prestwick again—in any circumstances, nor hold any communication with him whatever. Got that.’” “.Now,” he said, releasing her, “let us speak of something more wholesome. ’ ’ A short while ago, Gyp would have met this command with a cataract ot passion. To-day, white-checked and heavy-eyed, she heard him out in silence. uShe had no power of anger, no tears even to draw upon; all was nothingness in Gyp's bruised mind. She went about the house on her usual avocations in a curious stillness; wandered into the garden; drifted about the lawns like a leaf blown tiefore the winds, not earing where she went, nor what became of her. Then, ' conscious of bodily weariness, she sat down on a garden-seat to rest and try to think again. It was there that it occurred to her to run away. For a long time she debated it, turning it round and round in her mind. “If the worst comes,” she finally decided; and so that idea was shelved.

The hours crawled on to evening—with its sickening round of amusements; again morning, midday, nighton the same old tread-mill. Then Thursday dawned and died—in a passionate sunset, foretelling a stormy to-morrow. To-morrow . . . how would it end? As she watched the sun flame and sink behind the hills in a welter of gorgeous colours, a maid came tripping across the lawn to her with a salver in her hand. Gyp took from it two letters and a small, scaled packet. “Invitations those; what could this be?” She turned it idly about, examining the post-mark, in the way women do the wide world over —prolonging the pleasant suspense. .But there was nothing on the wrapping to indicate the sender. Necessary, therefore, to look inside! Suddenly she gave a cry of purest ecstasy, for as the cotton-wool fell apart, an exquisitely-emeralded watchwristlet came into view. “ What can it mean? ... It isn’t my birthday, nor Christmas, nor anything,” wondered Gyp, turning the beautiful toy this way and that to see the green fires run round the tiny dial. Very carefully she examined the wrappings for some scrap of writiiig, but found nothing to help her solve the mystery.

iSo there was nothing for it hut to come to a regretful conclusion that it must have been addressed to her in error . . . she must ask Stephen to try to find out to whom it belonged. That name brought a scintillating hope: could he have sent it to her because he was sorry lie had been harsh with her ? But, try as she would. Gyp could not see Stephen sending a present anonymously. A sudden gloom, like a pall, fell over the garden, and all the birds hushed their evening hymns of praise. Gyp looked up, to see that the sun had gone, trailing his glorious garments after him. A cold wind blew across her face, making her shiver. ‘•I must ask Stephen to find out,I'’ 1 '’ she thought regretfully, taking a last lingering look at the mysterious gift. Then, in a blinding flash of knowledge, she realised that he was the last person she could ask . . . even if the need remained. For Gyp now knew who had sent it, and why. The hands of that jewelled dial stood at seven o’clock. It was a reminder of that assignation!

Instead of returning to the house, she stole furtively down a weedy path to a secluded arbour, to spend there the worst half hour she had yet known; for terror, shame, despair, assailed her, threatening her reason. “lie ought, to be tortured, killed by ihehes,” she moaned, staring stonily before her. Presently a thought that had been whirling about in her mind through those three abominable days, now over, took shape, and a great resolution evolved. For a long time she sat, chin cupped in cold hands, thinking out the details, while her ingenuous face took on its new expression of cunning. Her brain cleared, sharpened, and grew clear enough to retain a mental map of her plans. •She sat so still that a robin, hopping about outside in expectation of crumbs, grew bold enough to venture close to her feet, and looked up to her with his bright, inquisitive eyes. “It’s worth all the risk,” she said aloud, with a sigh of infinite lassitude. “I’ve got to put up a light for it: a fight—alone!” There’s nothing like desperation to make one brave. She hid that sinister gift in her bag, and getting up stiffly, went indoors. Brent met her in the porch. “My dear, Gyp!” he said. She began to stammer excuses. “I know it’s late, but there was such a wonderful sunset. I —l got thinking. ’ ’ “Well, now you are here, suppose we dine? The gong sounded ten minutes ago, and you haven’t changed your frock! Aren’t you going to a reception or something?” | “I was, ’’ she said negligently, seating herself at table, “but I had such a rotten head that I ’phoned.” “ ‘An ill wind —’ ” quoted Brent, with a gallant attempt at matter-of-fact ness, “so we’re in for a Darby and Joan evening for a change?” “Not to-night. I'll go straight to bed, if you don’t mind.

She looked so wan and fragile that her husband gave her a keener attention. “Think I'd better call up Dr. Wilson—•” “Please don’t,” she interrupted fretfully, “it’s nothing. I just want to be forgotten for a bit.” She rose as she spoke. “I’ll go now.” “’Straight to bed?” From under her dragging eye-lids she looked at this level-headed husband of hers, with his suggestion of latent strength, his steadfast eyes, full of a live resourcefulness. He looked a man —who could light a battle of brains or muscle, turning it into victory. Oh., if only she might ask him to light her battle for her! “Yes,” she said bleakly, “straight to bed. ’ ’ Gyp kept her word for she had urgent need to conserve her powers, and in her anxiety to quieten ail excited brain, she took a strong sedative. It was broad daylight before she awoke from her unnatural sleep, to lie, with dreams still misting her mind, trying to evolve yesterday ’s facts. That watch-bracelet incident frankly bothered her. Of course, she had only dreamt that . . . but had she? She slipped out of bed and tiptoed to the place where she “dreamt” she had hidden it. Her hand drew out the jewelled toy: it still stood at seven o’clock: that evening! The shock of finding that nightmare true acted like a douche of cold water; her brain cooled to crystal-clearness — with all its powers of lightning calculation restored. Putting that sinister reminder back she began to dress. Gyp knew that it wasn’t beauty that could now serve her need, but action; swift, unerring action, and with sharp mother-wit to steer her through the rapids. At breakfast she casually mentioned that she was putting in a go-as-you-please day for a change, and intimated that she might go to a “hen” teaparty, stopping for dinner. “So you needn’t bother about fetching me from anywhere to-night,” she told her husband. “A golden chance for you to have a full day’s golf.” Then added, as an after-thought, “Will you be back to tea?” Brent missed the urgency behind the question, and answered equably: “To drink it alone? Not likely!’’ (To be Continued).