"The Lucky Speculator,"

Wairarapa Daily Times, 17 December 1927, Page 7

"The Lucky Speculator,"

A POWERFUL LOVE STORY OF A MODERN GIRL.

BY MARY DREWE TEMPEST, Author of: “Ilis Last Shot,” “The Second Mrs Fairfax,” etc., etc.

CHAPTER IX.—Continued

Then what about that trust-money — for a public charity? Had she been criminally negligent, or worse? “Rapid Gvp” had been her nickname when he married her; had she been gambling with trnst-moey—for a hospital? At the intolerable thought, Brent breathed hard, and an ominous glare shone through his half-closed lids. Suddenly he determined on action. “Can’t pace this room like a cooped chicken till she elects to come home. I’ll go and find her. Said she was going to a ‘hen’—tea, stopping to dinner. That probably means the Andertons —and the* car. ” He went to the garage. Yes, the car was gone. It had rained in the night, and he could see distinct traces of its peculiar tyres in the mud outside. He set his teeth. “I’ll trail her,” he said aloud. It proved quite ail easy thing to do, for even when—a few miles on —he lost those marks, he soon picked them up again, heading for a stiffish hill. On the top of that hill, he stopped to take his bearings; noticed familiar contours of the land; then a covey of young partridges. “Hanged if that isn't Prestwick’s shoot,” he muttered; “what the blazes is my wife doing in that galley?” With another oath, he took the descent as if lie were competing at Brooklands. There was a red mist now before his eyes, and he had difficulty in picking up the trail . . . lost it . . . went back, and retraced it —through the entrance to Crossways Lord Prestwick 's shoot-ing-box. CAh. . . ” he said on a hissing breath, and fell to wondering if they could hang him for a double murder, committed under such provocation? There was much to' be said for the ‘ Unwritten Law! ’ Suddenly—above the soft sounds of bird and beast warily seeking their rest, rose the shrill, most awful cry of someone in deadly peril ... to stop as suddenly. That cry cooled Brent’s sizzling veins, that red mist cleared from before his eyes, and he became an alert, unerring tracker, without a moment to lose. He leapt from his car, and covering that clearing in ten seconds, made for a sido window with the lithe, noiseless step of a panther. With one blow from his gloved,'left hand, he smashed a big pane as if it were tissue-paper, leapt through the aperture, and his sense of direction guiding him, arrived without a pause at the door of the room whence came that scream.

He tried it; locked; stepped back, and using his left shoulder as a bat-tering-ram, broke a panel. It took him but another second to pull back the bolt and smash the lock. Now —within 60 seconds of heaving that cry—he was facing his enemy with nothing between them. Nothing but his wife! For at the sound of the crashing entrance, lord Prestwick faced about, taking care to hold Gyp’s limp body gripped to .bis breast til! Brent had seen it there; then he dropped it on to the nearest chair and prepared for battle. But Gyp, in her gallant defence, had flung every available missile to the other side of the room, and Brent was on him before he could clutch a weapon. With an audible curse on each man’s lips and murder in their hearts, they closed. For ten long minutes the grim fight went on, while the advantage swayed from one sido to the other.

Prestwick, though the slighter man, was a finished pugilist and a fearless one. On the other hand, Brent had superior weight, a cooler brain, an unerring eye, and a fist that missed no chances. Even in the breaking of the glass, he had exercised foresight enough to have used his left hand—keeping the right for sterner work. Add to that, Brent ’s quarrel was a just one, and one could wait the issue in confidence. Tired of the silent conflict, Brent at last changed his tactics, feinted, took the lightning chance this gave him, and with an upward blow of his right fist struck Prestwick on the point of the jaw, sending him crashing to the floor. Then ho turned to Gyp —standing white as a wraith, but now wild with joy at her “smiling devil's” defeat. lie took her by the shoulder, unconsciously gripping her so hard that for many after weeks live black fingermarks showed on her soft white skin —yet her tension was so great she si e never felt that grip. “Come out of it,” he growled, showing his teeth. But Gyp hung back, trying hard to articulate these words: “They’re in his—pocket.” “What’s that to me? I don’t want to soil my hands on his carcass again.” “Then—l must . . . that pocket,” pointing. Brent strode to his prostrate foe, put his fingers inside the pocket indicated, and drew out two packets.

“These what you want?” “Yes. They’re mine.” But Brent was having none of that. “They’re mine, by right of conquest,’’ he said grimly. “Come out.’’ She followed obediently. “ Equal to driving ” There were purple shadows under her drooping lids as she answered, like one in a dream: “Yes—anywhere away— ’’ He lifted her into her ear. “Follow mine,” he said curtly. So they returned home. Like most proud Englishmen, Stephen Brent had a fastidious regard for

(To b p Continued).

“les convenances” as far as his woman was concerned; and in spite of murderous thoughts surging through his brain, he took particular care that his wifo should reach her room without being seen. “Go to bed,” lie ordered. “Better wait till morning for food. Can’t let the servants see you in that state.” Still, though faint from hunger, she obeyed. Then Brent went into the library, to wrestle with his overwhelming tragedy. There was no funking the issue now: Gyp had come within an ace of dishonouring their name, and he had got to “cut his loss” as best he could. With a nameless forboding, he opened that packet, crumpled and stained with drops of blood. From it fell notes to the value of £1,500. Brent counted them over and over, hoping against hope that he would find them even one pound out either way, while every bone showed up in his blanching face. Then he read his wife’s pencilled letter: My own dearest, Just to say we’ve got to elope tomorrow. Its the only way out. My Speculator would whip me now —if I gave him the chance! So —if you love me—meet me outside the gates at seven. Gyppic. For over an hour the outraged husband sat without moving, his, spirit wandering through that desolate land where trust and honour are dead. Gyp found a note from him on her breakfast-tray. It had been written in the small hours of that morning: You have broken all the ties that bound us two together —all but one. I ought to divorce you; leave you to the mercy of that scoundrel; but in pity for your youth and up-bringing, also for the sake of a dear old friend who loved you, I will give you one more chance to shelter behind my name —upon conditions. That you will be ready to start at once on a yachting-trip with me, and that for its duration you will live the life I choose for you. Stcphdn Brent. Gyp put up a trembling hand to wipe away weak tears that would keep coming to blur her vision, and read that letter again. “I wish I knew —” she thought, fretfully, “if only I could be sure that Stephen killed him, I wouldn’t go. It is such a brutal letter. But I can’t risk meeting that smiling fiend again. ’ ’ She slewed round to the writingtable beside her bed and wrote: “I’ll come,” closed and addressed it, then rang the bell. “Give this to the master; and, Suzanne, hurry, for I want you to pack a trunk for me. I’m unexpectedly obliged to go abroad.* Just useful clothcs this time.” For a time she lay motionless, idly wondering how she could possibly endure that solitude-a-deux, wandering about the ocean with a husband who loathed her. Then suddenly her April mind swung up to ecstasy.

“Oh, but I loved him while he was putting up that splendid fight for me —with its glorious finish. He broke the fiend’s nose; I saw him do it, and knocked out some of his teeth . . that’ll stop his smiling- Oh, Stephie, darling, whatever you do to me, I’ll always adore you for that memory. That is . . deep down in my heart.” ■Still thrilling with exultation, she took another sheet of paper to scribble this note:—• Dearest Peggs,— This is just an au revoir. Stephen and I are going off yachting. Think of it, and envy fortunate me! Meanwhile, dear old girl, be kind to Tony, and drop that title or pile into the nearest ditch. If he’s, anything like Lord Prestwick I’d rather see you dead than his wife.—Ever and ever, Your Gypps. Then a characteristic line to Tony:— Think you may put up your banns, ® old top. What a thing it is to have a pal like — Gypp-c. Then this changeable creature cried steadily for half-an-hour. But long before it was time to start she was ready and eager to get away. By great good luck, Brent found he could charter a yacht already on the point of leaving for the West Indies, its owner having contracted ’flu at the last minute and been forbidden to travel. This vessel proved to be just what he wanted —beautiful as a bird with its white, outspread wings, when the weather was propitious; sturdy enough to a stand a fairish sea voyage under steam. His young wife came aboard at dusk and went at once to her cabin. Stephen had stipulated that she must leave her maid behind, so she was feeling at sixes and sevens with all her settling-in to do alone.