"The Lucky Speculator,”

Wairarapa Daily Times, 15 December 1927, Page 7

"The Lucky Speculator,”

A POAVERFUL LOYE STORY OF A MODERN 1 GIRL.

BY MARY D REAVE TEMPEST, Author of: “His Lust Shot,” “The Second Mrs Fairfax,” etc., etc.

CHAPTER A'lll. —Continued. Gyp lowered her lashes to keep relief from shining through. “So wo don’t meet again till 1 return from that dinner,” she commented, rising and moving to the door. “Doesn’t- look like it,” Brent said, lounging across, pipe in hand, to open it for her. ‘ ‘ Then, so long! ’ ’ “So long! ” If this was a genuine marriage do eonvenance, both acted well up to its traditions, for no word nor glance of affection passed between them. In spite of her gnawing anxieties, the young wife looked very seductive as she presently stood ) lightly poised in the ancient doorway, waiting to see her husband off. Brent, glancing back to ask if she wanted her car, thought she looked a man’s ideal of all that was pure and inspiring as she waved a hand to him, her slender, young body lilting upward in the pretty gesture. Gyp’s go-as-you-please morning proved to be quite a hectic one after all. First Tony came and meandered round, gossiping, and smoking one cigarette after another, dead to the fact that she gave his chat scant attention —for all the time she was “willing” him to clear out. Then other inopportune callers arrived —but Gyp made short work of them. It was two o ’clock before she could begin those carefully planned preparations. To begin with, she did an unusual thing: she went to her room, and slipping off her frock, got into bed, and firmly closed her eyes. Sleep, long sought, c-amc at last, and the girl did not wake till close on five, when she rang for a strong cup of tea; very bracing for nervy work, a strong cup of tea! Xow she got really busy; flew here and there for this and that; then went to her husband’s private study and ransacked his tool chest, helping herself to a chisel and a small steel hammer. That done, she opened a secret drawer where she knew he kept a revolver. Jt lay there glittering before her eyes; a wicked-looking weapon that whispered “murder” to her. Suddenly her face flamed, then blanched to the lividness of fear. But it wasn’t Brent’s revolver that sent every drop of blood racing to her heart to steady it, but a crumpled letter, lying, as if carelessly flung there, beside the revolver. Gyp had last seen that hand-writing attached to a small bunch of lilies. Pride and honour went by the board as she spread it open and devoured the few lines it contained: Dear Air Brent, —It was my bad luck to have missed you when you called at my club to-day. Your card suggests a meeting on . Friday, but again my streak of: ill-luck holds, for I’ve another “affair” for that day. AVcro that engagement with a man, I would have tried to postpone it in your favour, but —in case you do not —already know this —in civilised countries one doesn’t break a rendezvous with a “belle ainie.” And “Place aux dames” has always been my motto. I shall be happy to wait upon you on Saturday. Say when and where? —Yours, faithfully, Frederic Prestwick. As the challenged, the choice of weapons rests with me. I choose a Colt’s automatic. As she began to read, the girl’s heart thrilled with savage joy, but when she reached the postcript, its triumphant thudding slowed down to the muffled beating of a drum —“marching to the grave.” For Gyp’s brain was chattering an awesome fact: the name of Frederic Prestwick was synonymous with that of the deadliest shot, in the county. People had gone so far as to sav he never missed the vital spot in his objective. Did Stephen know this? The slow trickle down her spine told her “Yes.” She remembered that two days ago he went to see his lawyer. For a long minute the young wife stood fingering that revolver, her temples wet with agony, her eyes hard and bright; then she reluctantly put it back and closed the drawer. “My own plan is the surest,” she whispered. “A woman must fight with such weapons as she can. She went to her room again and made a careful toilette—not for effect this time, but for disguise. Just as the garage-clock pinged o A~> she got out her car. As it slid through the gates, she glanced back. Thank goodness, there were no servants about j to watch her departure. Racing through the leafy lanes, her spirits rose and she ventured to put up her smothering veil and inhale the pure, keen air. Once she let herself visualise a triumphant return, and in her exultation almost ran into a ditch. Gyp sobered down then, for she realised that she must “keep to the middle of the road” in more senses than one if she was to come back at all! >Shc passed through a couple of villages, crossed a bridge, then a desolate common, then climbed a long, steepish hill. Rushing down the other side, she realised with a flurry of nerves that she was entering Lord Prestwick’s property. On either side of the low hedges -shre noticed game, strolling about in the glades between the coverts. Once she glimpsed a group of hutches with colonies of half-grown partridges wandering round them. Sounding her horn in negotiating a sharp turn, she startled a magnificent cock-pheasant, and he rose, rocketing over her head, for the nearest coppice. Then Gyp took the wide-flung gates and raced up the drive. As she came

within view of the shooting-box, hiding modestly in a clearing, she set her teeth with a brave: “No turning back now!” and taxied to a lichen-covcrecl porch. The echoing clang of her peal had’ scarcely died away before the door opened and an elderly man-servant stood deferentially bowing before her. “Lord Prestwick expects me to dinner,” she said steadily. “I came along pretty fast, so fear I’m early.” “Not at all, madam. AVill you wait there,” indicating a room on his right, “or —there’s a fire in his lordship’s den, madam?” Her heart bounded. How easy he was making things for. her! “Oh, the fire, please,” she said. She followed the man up a shallow oak stair to a charming bachelor room, all c-osy comfort. Over all floated the vague scent of tobacco. Gyp moved nonchalantly forward and held out her hands to the blaze. “Lord Prestwick likely to be back before seven?” she asked carelessly. She found it difficult to keep excitement out of her tone, for her questioning eyes had found what they sought: an exquisite Pompadour-period bureau. “He said seven to me, madam. I've no doubt,” the man coughed, “I've no doubt —since lie’s expecting you, lie’ll be here a few minutes before the hour.” Gyp yawned, and sinking negligently into a chair, took up a periodical. Still the servant lingered. She looked up inquiringly. He cleared his voice behind a deprecating hand. “ ’ls lordship said when I’d seen as the lady had hiverything she required, 1 was to bicycle to the village for some ice, madam.” “Then you’re here alone?” ‘ • Yes, madam. ’ ’ Gyp’s heart leapt with joy. This was indeed conquering a bull by staring at it between the eyes! “I want nothing further,” she said graciously, “so you can go with an easy conscience.” The man bowed again, and bowing, backed out. As the door closed upon him a wild exhilaration rippled through Gyp’s slight frame. She remained for one tense minute listening till his footsteps died away down those stairs, then she cw to the door, locked and bolted it. A glance at her watch told her it was G. 22. That left her a clear twenty minutes. Stealthily she opened her hand-bag and drew out her gleaming tools. Then she stood listening, so intenly that she might have heard a fly’s footsteps crossing the ceiling. The footsteps she did hear were those of the man-servant outside on the gravel. She tore to the window just in time to see him bicycle off in the direction of the village. (To be Continued).