The Awakening of Theodore Wrenn,

Wairarapa Daily Times, 18 February 1935, Page 7

The Awakening of Theodore Wrenn,

(COPYRIGHT.) PUBLfSHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.

BY JAMES RONALD, (Author of “The Secret of Hunte r ’ s Keep,” “The White Card ” “The Monoeled Man/’ etc.) ‘ ’

CHAPTER I. John Dodson, valet to Sir Anthony Ravcnal, regarded his master’s recumbent figure with disfavour. The hour was half-past ten in tho morning, and Sir Anthony was still sleeping soundly. More, lie was snoring. His features in sleep looked heavy and bloated, and his complexion was a repulsive, unhealthy red. The loose mouth, the thick, sensual lips and the weak chin, were at their worst. The collar of his pyjamas was open, and displayed his fat, lobster-red neck. The morning sun shining on his head provoked no responsive glint from his canary-coloured hair, which was lustreless, seemingly lifeless. There was a little sneer upon the

valet’s lips as he bent over to shake his master’s shoulder. There were few things about Sir Anthony Ravcnal’s life and deeds which John Dodson did not know —and. he knew little to his master’s credit. He had a wealth of contempt for the man he served. lie shook, his master roughly. There was little danger that Ravcnal would waken up quickly and resent this treatment, for he was a sound sleeper, and his valet had put him to bed at three o’clock that morning, with more strong drink within him than any man should have been foolish enough to attempt to carry.

Dodson shook Ravcnal’s shoulder again and again, with increasing violence. Ravcnal grunted, and turned over. As ho did so, a spasm of pain twitched his forehead. He opened his bloodshot, blue eyes, closing them again immediately, as the morning sun scared them like a red-hot poker. He passed . a shaking hand over his forehead, with

a groan of pain. 11 Go away, ’ ’ he growled, and buried his face in the pillows. “Miss Dean is telephoning,” said the valet respectfully. Ravcnal sat up shakily, shielding his eyes from the sun with one hand, and rubbing his forehead with the other. “Tell her I’m out.” He groaned, as a spasm of pain like a thousand red hot needles pierced his brain. “I informed Miss Dean that you were out,” replied the valet suavely, “but she refused to believe me.” “Tell her I’m ill, then. Confound

it, I am ill!” Dodson left the room noiselessly. Still shielding his eyes with one hand, Sir Anthony scrambled out of bed and pulled the blinds down as far as would go. As ho walked shakily back to bed, he cursed the valet who had called in the sun to help in weakening his master. After a short absence, the valet came into tho bedroom again. He carried a glass in which was a concoction consisting of the two raw eggs, a tablespoonful of Worcestershire sauce, and a liberal sprinkling of red pepper. He handed the glass to his master.

“Ugh!” Sir Anthony Ravenal tilted his head and swallowed the mess. His eyes watered, and he coughed several times. Dodson was just in time to catch the glass as it dropped from his master’s fingers. “Miss Dean wishes you to call on

her this afternoon at four o ’clock, ’ ’ he remarked, when Sir Anthony had concluded a series of horrible grimaces. Sir Anthony glared. “You should have told her that it was impossible!” Dodson’s face was expressionless. “I did, but she replied that in that case she would come’ here immediately.” ■ His master made no reply. He climbed wearily out of bed, and put on tho dressing-gown which tho valet held for him, then wobbled to the mirror to look at his reflection, which, judging from his disgusted expression, completely failed to please him. “Bring me a brandy-and-soda! ” In an incredibly short space of time tho drink was presented on a tray at his elbow. He gulped it down, and began to feel better. Breakfast he could not face, but when

Dodson brought a slice of dry toast and a cup of coffee, he consumed them grumblingly. He began to feel well enough to face the rigours of bathing, being shaved, and dressing. Ho lay for a long time soaking in his bath, which was wanner than usual, and scented agreeably Avitli fragrant bath salts. Then Dodson shaved him smoothly and expertly. Sir Anthony scarcely felt the action of the razor,

but, as his nature dictated, he grumbled that it had an edge like a saw. Above the level of his master’s eyes, Dodson permitted himself a slow cynical smile. Dressed in a grey tweed lounge suit, with a regimental tie, and shoes polished to mirror-like brightness, Sir Anthony Ravenal was revealed as “a fine figure of a man.” Six feet tall, he had massive shoulders, and a straight, broad back. He owed his handsome

wrong. The letter was from Miss Anne Wilding, a lady of quality. Sir Anthony read it through twice, then laid it aside with a sigh of contentment. Dodson came in and handed his master a copy of a morning paper. Sir Anthony took it, turning first to the announcement that a marriage had been arranged between Miss Anne Wilding, of Clievile Walk, Chelsea, and Sir Anthony Ravenal, Bt., of Gay Ladies, Dorcombe, Hampshire. This paragraph he read not once but several times. It would create a considerable amount of talk, he reflected. Mayfair knew little about Miss Anne Wilding, but

much about Sir Anthony Ravenal. Season after season, with unfailing regularity, Sir Anthony had provided society with scandalous tit-bits to gossip about and dissect. His reputation would have been sufficient to bar him from the homes of Mayfair, but for the fact that he was ; -the head of one of the oldest families in England, and so had a standing that even the worst scandal connected with his name had failed to shake. Society would talk about this Avedding of his, he knew. It would become a nine days’ wonder. The fact of his fiancee’s spotless reputation would add fuel to the flames of gossip. The worst of men, the gossips would say, invariably contrive to marry the best of

women. “The best of women” —the phrase admirably described Anno Wilding. She was fine in mind and body. Since meeting her, no other woman had any attraction for him. There would bo many who would wonder why Anne was marrying him. Lot them wonder. Probably they would

1 think that she was marrying him to reform him. He laughed dryly. No one knew better than he the impossibility of changing his nature. lie could never be divorced from the delights of the flesh to which he had been wedded so long. Until after the wedding, however, he intended to make an appearance of having changed. Afterwards —well, let afterwards take care of itself. He stood up and rang the bell for Dodson. "My hat. and stick,” he said, when

use this flat again for a year at least.’ The valet’s expression Avas inscrutable. “Shall I prepare to accompany you, sir?” he asked. Sir Anthony shook his head.

the valet appeared. Dodson was at his elbow with hat, stick and gloves, in a few moments. Sir Anthony took them slowly. He was silent for so long that Dodson ventured to prompt him. “For a few days, sir, or longer?” “Pack everything.” “Everything, sir?” Sir Anthony nodded. “Yes, all of my personal effects, clothes and photographs, and so on,” he replied. “I’ll attend to my desk when I return to-night. Tell Brown’s to send up some men to put dust covers on the furniture. I’m going down to Gay Ladies to-morrow, and I shan’t

“No,” he said. “I shall have to dispense Avith your services, Dodson.” “I see,” said Dodson quietly. His master looked intently into middle distance. “I think you do,” he remarked. “You are an excellent Valet, Dodson; quite the best I have OA'cr employed, .but I have permitted you to know a great deal too much about my personal affairs. That is not good. My next A*alet’s knoAA'ledge Avill be confined to his OAvn province, I hope.” He glanced at Dodson. “It is not. that I have doubts of your loyalty ” 1-Ie Avaited for the valet to say something, but Dodson Avas silent. “ but it is not Avell to rely too implicitly upon the discretion of others. ’ ’ There was a little silence. “Perhaps not,” said Dodson quietly.

Sir Anthony looked at his servant and the man returned the look squarely. “In a moment of confidence,” said Sir Anthony, “you once told me that it rvas your ambition to own a small hotel. You were saving a considerable part of your salary to that end, I understand.” The valet nodded. “It is kind of you to remember my poor ambition,” he replied. Sir Anthony looked into middle dis-

tanee again. "You must have saved quite a sum by now.” "Quite a sum,” agreed Dodson. "I wonder whether two hundred pounds would help you to realise your ambition?” Dodson bowed slightly. "Thank you, sir. lou are very good. ’ ’ He held the door for his master to pass through.

carriage to his eight years in the army. The lines and the sagging of his facial muscles which had betrayed him in s’ocp were now eradicated, and his complexion had assumed a more healthy colour. Only the slackness of his mouth, partially concealed by a crisp, military moustache, and his bloodshot eves, hinted at the life which he had led for about fifteen years. He was thirty-nine years old, and if he looked no younger than his age, at least he looked no older. His physical resources were remarkable. He was almost unrecognisable now ns the man who had lain bloated and flabby, on the bed, while his valet looked down at him with scorn and contempt. His waistline, which had melted years ago into a frank "corporation” was corseted, and laced so tightly that it was almost painful for him to

CHAPTER 11. Sir Anthony dismissed his taxi at the Fleet Street end of Chancery Lane, and walked up the narrow thoroughfare, swinging his walking stick vigorously. Outside a dingy two-storey building which was sandwiched between two taller and more imposing edifices, he halted and surveyed a worn brass plate with mingled pity and amusement. The brass, from constant polishing, was worn very thin, and the lettering was almost indecipherable. He knew the inscription by heart, however: "Messrs Gentry, Green and Gentry, Solicitors-at-law and Commissioners for Oaths.’’ He turned in at the narrow doorway, and made his way up a flight of creaking wooden stairs, which wore uncarpeted, but scrubbed clean enough

to eat a meal on, and worn by the passage of many feet. At the head of the stairs was a stone landing covered with a threadbare red carpet, from which led three doors, labelled "Private,” and one labelled "Enquiries.” He knocked on one of the doors which bore the legend "Private,” turned the handle, and walked in. A thin, pale-faced man was seated at a desk littered with papers in the centre of the room. He looked up at Sir Anthony’s entrance, removed a pair of tortoiseshell rimmed spectacles, rose to his feet with a slow, shy smile, and said: "Hello!”

breathe. There was a neat pile of letters, jmrlin.ns a dozen in all. awaiting him in his comfortable sitting-room. Seven ■ T ’erc bills, and he nut them aside unopened for future attention. Five were in an interesting variety of feminine handwritings. After a casual glance at the envelopes he threw four of them in the fire with a bored air, and opened the fifth, which he read with eager attention. This letter was written in a frank, flowing hand-writing, in green ink on a snowy and expensive paper. From the hand-writing, one might have judged the writer to be candid and straightforward, and one would not have been

(To be Continued).