"WINGS OF ROMANCE,”

Wairarapa Daily Times, 20 March 1936, Page 7

"WINGS OF ROMANCE,”

COPYRIGHT. PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.

CHAPTER I (Continued). “All clear. He’s gone.” “ Guessed nothing, eli?” For a few minutes he remained just inside the door, watching through the letterslit till the young airman, walking none too steadily, had disappeared down the drive. Then he ran upstairs. He found the red-headed man awaiting him, seated upon a makeshift bed which had been placed, somewhat incongruously, on the landing outside the girl’s door. “All clear. He’s gone.” “Guessed nothing, eh?” “Not if lie’s telling the truth. And 1 he’s too groggy to lie.” The speaker jerked his head towards the bolted door. “You’ve talked to her?” “Heart-to-heart —like hell!” There was a cold ferocity in the curt words, that spoke volumes. “But she sticks to it—swears she never spoke to him.” The big man nodded. “H’m! I guess we arrived in time—with just nothing to spare.” “Boss—” The other rose suddenly, with a look of fear in his eyes. “.That plane, up there. . . . He’ll likely come back for it?” The man he addressed as “boss” laughed harshly. “I’ve pitched him a tale,” he said, and in terse, rapid sentences he repeated the explanation with which he hrffl got rid of their visitor. “The only trouble is, when he gets back his wits ho may start using them. We’ll have to beat it, Lou!” ' ‘ But —where ? ” “That’s what we’ve got to figure out between now and then,” the big man replied and shrugged his shoulders. * * * * ' Jerry Winthrop turned out of the long shady avenue into a deserted road. Either the brandy which his. host had given him, or the effects of the crash, had left him drowsily averse from any coherent thought. He was 0.K., he hah l had amazing, luck, he was going . . . yes, of course, lie was on his way to a station. “Turn left, and you’ll come to the station,” his host had said. And at the station they’d have trains in stock . . . For the time being that was good enough. He trudged doggedly on. As to whereabouts, Jerry was none too clear. He had been looking round for landmarks when the engine trouble began. He knew only that he was 40 miles or so to the west of his home. Guildford way. Farther north, though? Bagshot or Fqrnborough.,. . . The road led towards more open country, though there were still plenty of trees —a lot too many trees, he reflected* ruefully. Unfenced land; not a house in sight. It might be Pirbright Common, or Bagshot Heath. But still no station appeared. It was astonishingly lonely for Surrey, he .thought. A board nailed to a tree at a lane-end directed him “To Hooper’s Farm”—the first sign of habitation he had encountered: but the farm buildings were not visible, and he kept on his way. No traffic about. But- lie remembered it was early yet; 7.30 or thereabouts.

It was from this point, that his mind first started to function coherently. For he recalled that the young girl, whom he had roused apparently from her Tied, had been fully dressed. Odd, that! Then further details began to adjust tli cm selves.

Odd sort of bedroom-altogether, Jerry mused. Bare: nothing in it but the camp-bed; no windows except the skylight. Comfortless kind of hole, even for a servant’s room. And she was not a servant, he was quite sure about that. ... But. of course, the big fellow with the jaw had said who she was; she was his daughter, and was mad; or was about to go mad; Jerry was not quite clear which. That would account for something else that had puzzled him—the fact that her door had been bolted from outside. Mad as a hatter. ...

The thought of hatters reminded him that he was- still wearing his leather. helmet and overalls, and was uncomfortably hot. He sat down by the roadside, pulled off the helmet, am} beean unbuttoning the double-breast of his flving kit. As he did so, a slip of pasteboard fell out on his knees. He •nicked it- up and l examined it curiouslv. It was an ordinary visiting-card, with a man’s name and address: "Professor Mvcroft. 224, Wood-stock Avenue. Oxford.” he read. Nothing else, back or front: and it most certainly had: not been there when he set out.

As lie sat there, resting and cooling himself, Jerry’s thoughts took clearer shane. Piece bv piece, nainfully remembering them, he fitted in some further puzzling details of his adventure. The girl’s-room, he now recalled, was not unique in its bareness; the passage, stairs and hall were alike nncarpeted: and when his host had left him to fetch the brandy, his steps had echoed in the downstairs room as though it were empty too. The madness, of the girl might account for her attic; but not' for a whole bare house, nor the big hall whose sole furniture was a battered suit-case; nor, above all, for the eccentric behaviour of his host. Who was he. anyhow? Jerry felt a vague conviction that he had seen him before —but cas-uallv: in a train —at the club. . . . Why had the fellow been so keen to know if they had spoken together? Why shouldn’t the girl speak to him? Why, when Ire came out of his faint, had she. been standing n,t the far end of the room, the servant gripping her so firmly with one hand; while his other hand was held behind her, almost as though—as though—

Ho would take the hint which the girl had presumably given him, and get in touch with this Professor Myeroft—whoever he might be. He staggered on. down the interminable road. The station, when at last he made it. cropped up almost unexpectedly beyond the crest ofl a rise. A porter revealed that the down train was overdue. There was a call-box in the waiting-room with the local directory; but.the professor’s card bore no: .phone number, and Jerry knew he had not time enough for trunk '•alls and inquiries. He left his overalls in the porter’s care, pud in duo course embarked for Oxford. * * * * "Oh, God help me, what am I to do?” The speaker paused in his walk up and down the long low room., to appeal deseairinely to the beautiful girl who sat watching him. Ho was a man just massing middle age; tall, bearded, with a. finely-modelled head and sensitive features: a thinker’s brow, knit now in an anguish of perplexity. He stared down at his companion, a newly-opened

BY ANTONY MAESDEN. (Author of “The Six-Hour Mystery,” “Thieves’ Justice,” “Man in the Sandhills,” etc.)

letter tightly clenched in his hand. From below came the homely sound of someone hosing a car; and the postman’s retreating steps as he made his way back along the cobbled mews towards the Bayswater Road. The speaker was trembling visibly. “Oh, God! Wliat am I to do?”

But the woman dropped her eyes, and seemed wholly preoccupied with fitting a cigarette to its holder of green jade. She was curled up among the cushions of a divan, in a silk breakfast wrap that revealed the curve of her exquisito shoulders. At last she spoke. “Till 1.30, you say? That gives you three hours, anyway, to make up your mind.” Her calmness maddened him. “This is your fault!” he cried in a voice harsh with anger; but there were tears in his eyes. “You put this fellow Larsen on to me, in the first place—” “I, Philip?” She did not raise her eyes.

“ Why did he ’phone me here? Why send this here, to-day?” He shook the letter at her. “Why not to Oxford?” How did ho know wliat work I was engaged upon, if not through you?” “Well, what if I did?” She lit her cigarette, and looked up at him steadily. “You had a certain article, that you wished to dispose of—” “I was disposing of it already—”

“Nonsense, Phil. You had offered your invention to Sir Joshua—whatever your oil king’s name is. And his reply was to go off on a holiday, and expect you to wait. I dare say that’s big business; but it’s no good to you. I found you a second market —”

“You found me a crook! ” The bearded man’s voice rose, quivering with rage. Before, his distress had dominated him; nojv he seemed to have forgotten even that, in his fury against his companion:/ “A damned crook, a blackmailer, aft abductor, by God!” He brandished the letter at her, almost beside himself. “And what’s more, it’s my belief that you ’re hand-in-glove with him!”

The words were,barely uttered before she was on her feet, pale and trembling. True or false, this new charge had clearly stung her to the quick. Her lips parted, but no sound came from them. He went on tempestuously: “Don’t think I’m too far gone to see through the game you’ve played. And don’t answer me!” he stormed. “I let you know what a prize I was out to win —confiding dolt that I was! And you passed on the news—how else could it have leaked out? Not even my daughter knew. Next you made terms behind my back—how else; could this damned* blackmailing friend of yours have known about us? You get no more out of me! God!—to think that I trusted you! ” She spoke at last. ' “So that’s your opinion of me, Philip? You’re all wrong, you know. I’ve told you already.' This man Larsen called here one day when I was alone, I’d never seen him before. He seemed to know that we were friends, and asked me when he 'could find you here—a matter of business, he said.” “Business! By heavens! —I believe you there! And. you discussed the business in advance, I’ll be bound!”

"We discussed nothing.” And then, with startling suddenness, the woman lost her temper 'as completely as he. "But d’vou suppose I care if you are done with me? You who were never worth a cent beyond your university •salary—nor ever likely to be,, till you stumbled on tjiis precious invention. If I were double-crossing you—if it was money I was after—-d ’you think I couldn’t, have made terms with Larsen myself ? ’ ’ "How do I know what terms you-’ve made with him?” he broke in; but he recoiled before her wrath, as she went on venomouslv:

"Just now -you asked my advice. I’ll give it, free and honest, Phil, before we say good-bye; then you can settle for yourself if I’m double-crossing you. It’s this—tell Larsen to go to the devil”

"But he says—” He thrust the letter at her, almost imploringly; his rage had died: it was an though her bitter scorn had all the wind from his sails.

"You’ve told me what he says. He reminds you he offered you five thousand down for.yeur formula; and that offer still holds good if you decide to meet his representative by 1.30 to-day. If not, he threatens to inform the university about—us. Also lie gives you to understand that he has kidnapped your daughter. No, Phil; you ask for my advice. You’re going to hear it to the end. 1 First, the threat of blackmail; it hasn’t struck you, I suppose, that if the’ formula ’s worth half what von say it is. you can afford- to snap your fingers at the university from now on?” "But the child!” he burst out. "Child, Phil?” ’ She looked at him: and for an instant, a gleam of pity shone in her eyes, so palpable was the man’s distress. "You talk as if your daughter were a babv in arms—”

"She’s bnrelv seventeen,” lie groaned. "You don’t seem to realise—or to care! She’s in his power; and he—hehints at South America —at horrible things’ Ah, Brenda, for pity’s sake in his helplessness. "You’ve more experience in such things than I —” "Thank you!” she answered ly"Do you think —is it possible? Or is this scoundrel just, bluffing me?” She chose to taunt him still. "If Mr Larsen is the, accomplished crook that you seem to think him, T should say it’s quite possible.” And then once more the woman seemed to relent, at the despair and horror in her eyes. "But I dare say he’s bluffing, all the same,” she went on quietly. " It’s not so easy to 'smuggle people abroad; that’s just story-book stuff. And it has not yet struck von. lias it, Phil? that you have only Mr Larsen’s word for it that your daughter isn’t safe at home.” (To be Continued).