"THE ORANGE TAXI,”

Wairarapa Daily Times, 26 January 1932, Page 7

"THE ORANGE TAXI,”

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT,

COPYRIGHT.

CHAPTER I—Continued.— “Is that all you are going to tell me?” ‘•Why should the confidences be ail on one side? Why are you sick of: life?” “I don’t know. I suppose the discovery of the trite copybook maxim that money doesn’t bring Happiness. Have’nt you heard of me? The newspapers were all printing’ alleged photographs of me nine months ago:” *■ Yes,” he said, “1 believe I remember it. Tou came into money. An Australian sheep king —you were his

niece. “My uncle Peter. It dropped out of the clouds. 1 was living, vegetating, in the country, poor as a rat, a paying guest in a dreary yicarage in Buckinghamshire. I thought the gates of paradise were opening to me when I heard the news and came to live in london, ” “Still, I don’t understand. What's wrong with London when you’re young and have unrestricted opportunities to enjoy yourself, and unlimited funds to buy frocks and anything you wailt?” “Oh, I enjoyed myself at first, but disillusionment came soon. I lound I’d no real friends; only people who liked me for what they could get out of me.”

VDisinterested friendship is very rare,” tie pointed out. ‘’Don't tell me you've become sick of life because most of the people you know like you for what they can •jet out of you.” .‘‘lt’s a mood,” she confessed. “I suppose I’ve grown morbid. I'm specially disgusted with men,” she added. , He smiled engagingly. ‘‘How we’re coming to it. You find men disillusioning. Tlie i’rince of Die fairy talc doesn’t come to life.” ‘‘l find there are two classes of men; those who avoid me because I’m an

heiress, and they don’t want to be accused of fortune-hunting, and that class seems to include all the nice men; aim those who don’t in the least mind being called fortune hunters. They’re .frankly out for a wife with money. And such men! Why, I’d as soon marry a sweep as some of the specimens who have had the nerve to propose to me this year—without the smallest encouragement, too!” Smith smiled. ‘‘You’ve go among the wrong set, and you’re run down, l prescribe a change of air. Go to the seaside. Play tennis, bathe, motor, take eight hours sleep every night. Above all, drop cigarettes. You’ll feel better almost immediately and not so critical of poor humanity. Believe me, life, when you’ve youth, health and money, can be, should be, frightfully jolly.” ‘‘Oh, wise Dutch uncle. I believe I shall take your advice. I’ve planned, a.AVorld tour for the autumn with a girl

friend; she’s not free earlier and she declines.to give up her work —she’s a house decorator —the only friend I have who refuses my money. The summer has to be filled up, and I think I shall go to Penrode. I know some people who’ll be there.” “Where’s Penrode ” “In Cornwall. No, don’t go,” for Smith had risen. ‘ ‘ How much do you make driving a taxi?” “Three to four pounds a week; enough to live on as a taximan. I’ve no one but myself to keep.” “But do you intend to remain a taximan?” j “Oh, no, I’ve a married sister now]

abroad with her husband. When they return this autumn I am hopeful my brother-in-law will find me a job with greater possibilities than this one.” “If you intend to be a taximan all the summer I-think I can offer you a better job than your present one.” S' 1 As your chauffeur down at this place where you 're going to? Thank you, l Miss Sark. I'm sure you mean it kindly, but 1 don ’t want a job of that kind. As a London taxi-driver I preserve my independence.' I can garage my cab when the mood takes me; as# private chauffeur, however well treated, 1 am a servant.” “I didn’t mean as chauffeur.” “As what, then?’ ’ “Give me a cigarette,” she begged. “No,” he told her, “you must learn to do without them.” The girl sighed, emptied the dregs of the tea-pot into her cup and drank them. “I want a protector,” she said, ‘‘ or rather a guardian, a relative, a sort of brother to look after me.” “Is that the job you’re offering me?” he asked. > She nodded, watching his face rather apprehensively. “Why, this is very flattering,” he answered slowly, “but even rich young women cannot do these things; a guardian holds his authority from a third party, he cannot be the employee of his ward. Besides, we’re too much of an age.”

“Toil could be my cousin, and you would 2>roteet me from Mr. Lucas.” “You don’t by any chance mean Constantine Lucas?” “I do. You know him?” “I’ve heard of him. He's a rotter. Does he want to marry you?” “Y’es. I know lie’s only after my money. But he has a certain power ol: fascination. Hypnotic powers, I believe and sometimes I’m afraid he’ll hypnotize me into marrying him.”

“And you want me to stand by as a watch dog. Is that the idea? It’s full of snags. I make no promise, but let’s discuss it. You suggest I shall be a cousin, but what name ? I suppose Smith is too plebian?” * * Oh, yes—much. My cousin must have a title. Oh, a foreign one will do. An Austrian count. I met one at Mrs. Oldham’s recently. Mr. Oldham is my man of business; they live at Eltham. This count looked like an Englishman and spoke like one. I could easily have an Austrian cousin.” Smith shook his head positively.

BY CHARLES D. LESLIE. (Author of “The Mallard Mystery, ” “A Plunge into the Unknown,” “A Wild Wager,” etc).

| “1 know neither Austrian nor Ger

man,” he pointed out. I couldn’t sustain the. role.” “I have it—you shall lie a baronet. You can sustain that role.” lie laughed outright. “No doubt I could. But all baronets are recorded in Burke, and other works of reference, including ‘Who’s Who,’ which impales us on the horns of dilemma, if 1 take a fictitious title I shouldn't be in ■ Who's Who’; if I take a real one there is the danger of being exposed as an impostor. ’ ’

“But I know of a baronet, a young man about your age, who has dropped his title and gone abroad under another name. You can impersonate him —it would never be found out.” ’ “Who is this man?”

Miss Sark rose, moved to an escritoire, sought and found a letter. •‘ J 1 is name,’’ she said, “is Sir Arthur Barrington Da we Sef ton. ’ ’ Sho swung round and continued: 1 ‘ Tiiis letter is from my friend, Betty Wade, .the girl I told you of; she’s ■working at Sef ton Hall, in Norfolk, not far from Yarmouth, decorating the sit-ting-rooms. It’s been taken for a long term by some Americans. The real owner, Sir Arthur Barrington Dawe Sefton, is an absolute pauper, so much' so that he’s disappeared, gone to India according to popular report. But the real truth (Betty got it from an old servant in the Ilallj, is that he’s gone to America —to Hollywood, hoping to get work on the films, and lie won’t use his own name in America; he’s too proud. So it will be perfectly safe for you to use it.” Smith again broke silence with a short harsh laugh. “What a crazy girl you are! On the strength of my making you a cup of tea, and not making off with your note case, you’re putting yourself in my hands —banking on my being a gentleman and always behaving as siicJi. But you know nothing of me, except what I’ve told you.” * “I found Smith a perfect gentleman, so I don’t think Sir Arthur Sefton will turn out a cad. But don’t decide now. Let’s talk it over to-morrow. Call for mo at the Minerva, and we’U go out to lunch.” She stood up and Smith understood

lie was to go. He suddenly realised a sex duel, to , use a much over-worked and looselyworded phrase, had been taking place, and that lie had been thoroughly worsted, He had entered the room a sulky taximan after his fare, he had stayed, prompted by pure humanity—or was it feminine attraction? —to cure a sick woman. In that he had succeeded. Twice he’s tried to leave, twice she.’d stayed him. And now he tvas reluctant to go. Ho was. not in love with her — far from it—but lie found her attractive; his first impulse when she stepped out of the cab had been right; there was an appealing personality under her

make-up. That reminded him. More to assert himself than for any other reason he said “There’s just one thing. You must drop that awful make-up. It isn’t done now, and, anyhow, I’ve always barred going about with girls who do it.” She smiled in the friendliest way. “I only do it sometimes to annoy the old cats at the Minerva.” •They shook hands with formal politeness, and he left. The lobby was empty. Smith, pausing, glanced at his wrist watch. A quarter to twelve; he’d been threequarters of an hour in the flat. Just as well the porter wasn’t there. He strode to the open doorway, and lighting one of Miss Sark’s cigarettes, gratefully exhaled the smoke. Better than gaspers, these!” His eyes wandered to his cab drawn up not exactly opposite, but a little to the left. The temperature had risen. At any rate the night appeared more oppressive, thunder in the air, he surmised, a storm brewing, not a twinkle of light pierced the black canopy overhead. The road was empty, London asleep. No, he was wrong. He heard approaching footstejie, slow, stolid, confident; no one but a policeman would walk thus; next moment ho . discerned the man passing the cab. Simultaneously another policeman appeared in view from the other direction; they met in front of.the Mansions.

“Evening, Inspector,” said the first man, halting and saluting. The other returned the salute, and

they- stood conversing. Smith descended. “Evening Inspector,” he said. The Inspector stared at him. “That your cab?” ‘ ‘ Sure. ’ ’ ‘ ‘ You shouldn’t leave it unattended. ’ ’ Before Smith could reply the other policeman intervened. “He hasn’t, Inspector, there’s a man in it.” “What are you telling me?” asked Smith. “I left it empty. I’ve been collecting a fare.” “How long have you left it?” asked the Inspector, as the three men moved towards the cab. Smith did not answer. He flung open the door and peered at the figure reclining in the corner where Miss Sark had sat. But this was a man, and asleep seemingly. “Here, wake up,” he said, and his touch and voice proviking no response, entered the call. In a changed voice next moment he called “Inspector.” “What d’you make of it?” he asked, as the Inspector bent over the motionless figure, that of a well-dressed elderly gentleman. “Dead,” decided the Inspector tersely, “strangled, I guess, and it strikes me, young man, you know more about this than you pretend!” (To be Continu;d).