A Coil of Rope,

Waikato Times, Volume 110, Issue 18433, 14 September 1931, Page 4

A Coil of Rope,

CHAPTER XVIII. (Continued.) She broke the silence and asked a question again. “Are you wise in coming here?” ‘‘Don’t you think so?” “Well—you see—” she stammered. “ I’m supposed to be dead. I suppose that’s why?" he asked. Then, as silence fell again between them, his voice grow tender, caution was thrown aside, and he spoke from his heart. " Pauline, my dear—have you forgotten that I love you ’’ She still kept silence, and he went on. “It hurt me—no one but God knows how much—to see Webb kiss you Just now. Tell me, dear, It can’t be that you love him—that your love for me Is dead?” Her voice was bard as she answered him. “ Could I love the man who killed my father?” “Good heavens 1" ho groaned, “You can’t believe that.” “ The police do.” she retorted ooldly. “ Bu t you Pauline—surely to goodness you don’t.” “ And Leslie does," she said. "Leslie? You call him that. Tell me—does he mean anything to you?” "Yes—we are engaged 1” she replied quitely. “ Then you have forgotten me " ho said with a catch in his throat. “ The same as you forgot me—you fled and sent no word!” “ But I wrote to you," he urged. She shook her head. “ It’s no use, and I think I ought to warn you that if you value your life you had better get clean away without delay. I know I ought not to warn you. My real duty Is to call a policeman and have you arrested. You see I recognised you through your disguise—rather clever of me, wasn’t It?” " I'm. afraid It's not much good my saying anything more," he said quitely. “ Goodbye 1 Some day you will learn the real truth, and, If I were you, I would go easy until then. Goodbye, Pauline.” He bowed, and a minute later he left the restaurant and was making his way back to Button’s office. His duties there occupied him fully for the next few days. He had fount Button involved in various enterprises which quite opened his eyes. In some cases the magnitude'of the undertakings was surprising, and he was concerned in quite minor affairs. He found Button was a man, who, despite his ostensible fondness for the Chapel of which he was a deacon, was nevertheless engaged in much business of a nefarious nature, and Eric marvelled that the man could reconcile his Sunday conscience to certain acts committed on week-days. Obedient and painstaking, Eric was nevertheless working with his eyes skinned, keen to pick up even the slightest scrap of information likely to assist the case he was trying to build up against his employer. Button even told him one day that he w r as giving satisfaction. “ You seem to possess an unusually good knack of getting to grips with a knotty problem, and absorbing all its different points, Cottel,” he sail, adding "You must have been well trained." Eric forbore giving a reply. He was content to be gradually allowed into the other’s confidence. It required' all his skill and presenoe of mind to carry out his role successfully, but he was spared only the knowledge that he was working for a definite object. After office hours he spent a quiet leisure. His pleasures were few and his mode of living simple. He dared not go to the places he would have liked. For Instance, he badly wanted to revisit his old flat in Bayswater, to call on the friends at Thornton Heath who had aided his escape, and also to pay another call to Gradcross Street.

Quite unknowm to him, his goings and comings were observed, and on one ocasion after he had visited The Times office and had inspected and read carefully the reports of the Inquest on John Hampden, he had gone away unconscious that a Scotland Yard man had watched him. From the libarian the detective had learned the subject of EHc’s reading, and a report had been made 'that same night to Inspector Harker. This piece of news was Important to Harker, and yet it puzzled him. Webb had called in only that day to ,say he had visited the Morgue in Paris, only to find that the body of the man supposed to be Eric Coates was actually that of another man. “You see, Harker, I did not go to your great Dodat first. I made my way as a private individual to view the body, and there could bo no doubt that the body I was shown was not Crofts at all. I knew Crofts well, and I presently visited .Dodat and told him so. He was furious, and asked me if I doubted the word of the “Surete."’ I said I did, and we hRd a first-class row. However, whatever may be Crofts’ fate, the body I was shown was certainly not his. I don’t suggest that Dodat was trying to hoodwink me, but it may be that he was trying to cover up the failure of his department to find Crofts. It seems strango, doesn’t it?" Harked nodded. He did not convey his suspicions to Webb, but when later ho received the report that the young Frenchman, Emile Cottel, was Interested in the Gradcross Street murder he raised his eyebrow’s and sank Into profound thought. Erlo, for his part, was deeply moved by tho detailed account lie had read of the Inquest, and a great longing to go onco again to Gradcross Street began to grow on him. Thero were many points he wanted to clear up, and he felt that a sight of the houso where the crime was committed might help him. So one night, after ho had followed Button to his home in Acton, he could not resist tho temptation to follow’ again tho trail that ho had followed that fata! Saurday night. He stood outside No. 247, and thrilled as he remembered all the events which had transpired since. He passed on his way again and back to the boarding-house where lie had taken a room, but behind him there followed, silent and unseen, a man from Scotland Yard. Things had moved slowly for a while. In his quiet, unassuming way Eric had impressed Button sufficiently to enable the magnate to admit the young Frenchman Into his confidence and Eric had amassed a large “dossier" filled with details of Butlon’s enterprises. Ho had made reports to Dodat, and tho great Alphonse had replied to him as though he wore his fnthe>. This was in enso the letter was likely lo be intercepted, and it was evident from tho tone of Dodat’s letter that ho was pleased with tho progress Eric was makimr in the investigations.

(By FRANK GILBERT.) (Author of “The Phantom Years,” “The Notcher,” Eto.

Then one day Fate, thinking possibly that things were moving rather too slowly, took a hand, shuffled the cards of the principals in this drama, and another phase in the grim game was begun.

It chanced that Button had gone aw’ay that morning on a secret visit, and, try as he might, Erlo could not learn his destination, but he was entrusted with one or two tasks which demonstrated Button’s trust in him. That Button was a sanctimonious hypocrite had long been an established idea In Erio's mind, but the confidential mission Erlo w’as now entrusted to oarry through provided additional proof. Yet, carefully as he had sought, Erlo had obtained no single clue as to Button’s association with Hampden, though to obtain that Eric would have given his all. Now, although Erlo had not any evidence that Button’s etnerprlses were oft-times illegal, and Indeed highly Immoral, yet the real, vital link in the ohain was still missing. That evening it came to light.

Eric had spent the afternoon at work, when he decided he would pack up early. He felt tired and depressed, so longed for a breath of air. He got on a bus, heedless of'where it went. It stopped at the Marble Arch, and he got off and walked into the park. He paused for a few minutes at tho groups of speakers, but they bored him, and lie passed on, and presently took a seat under the trees.

Then he lit a cigarette and lay ba>k puffing the smoke into little rings. He reviewed in detail the progress he had made, and at the end of it he felt utterly dejected and dispirited. Suddenly he was aware of a girl sitting in a chair a few yards away. She was attractively dressed, and smiled at him. Not in the mood to talk, he continued to look about him, but the girl smiled every time he looked her way, and all of a sudden he recognised her. At that moment she came towards him, and he arose. Forgetful for an Instant of the role ho was supposed to be playing, he said brightly: “My old secretary, Miss Waters, isn’t it?" “Right first time I" said the girl gaily. “Whatever are you doing here?" he asked. “Can’t you guess?" she asked. "No,” he replied frankly. “Then I’m not going to tell you,” she declared. Intrigued, in spite of himself, he gazed at her wonderingly. Then understanding came to him. “Surely not?” he said, with unnecessary emphasis. "Why not?” she countered. “But ” he stammered. It seemed too amazing that this girl—with all her gifts and industry—should now She interrupted his musings. “Oh, yes, I recognised you, although I must say it’s a mighty fine disguise. Gee whizi but you led the police a pretty fine dance, didn’t you? .How I laughed as I read in the papers of your escape." “Hush !” he commanded.-.,,"N0t r .so: loudly, please. Even-the' trees rri'ayj have ears." > She laughed—this time a wild, bit-, .ter kind of laugh, which in some strange way jangled his nerves. It hurt him to see. her here, and he looked at her pityingly. “Poor girl!" he murmured. "Yes—and a fat lot you care—or any other man,” she sneered. “But, really, Miss Waters," he began. “Tell me—er—how " He found the choice of words harder than he could have imagined. It was very difficult to question her. and yet he badly wanted to know. She grew sullen under his halting questions. It was obvious that she hated it as much as he did. A strained silence fell between them. The hoot of a passing taxi sounded. Then silence again. She was looking at him queerly now, as if weighing the words she was about to speak—as if sho were sizing him up and trying lo decide whether she could tell him. Then as he spoke again very gently she suddenly burst into tears and sobbed as if her heart would break. “You, above all, ought to know who ruined me. Mr God, I could kill himl” she cried vehemently. "Kill whom?” ho asked quietly. CHAPTER XIX. “Yes,” she said again. "I could kill him; and if only I could summon up my courage I would do so to-day.” Eric, listening to Mary Waters speaking so bitterly and angrily, was puzzled. “But tell me," he urged again gently, "who is it that you want to kill?" “That devil Button!" she replied vehemently. “You hate him?" he asked. “He ruined me,” she said simply, and in those three words Eric caught a glimpse of the agony which her soul endured. Silence fell again in that quiet garden where these two sat—the man who was sought by the police for murder, and the woman whose soul had been defiled. About them the birds chirped 'their evensong, amid an atmosphere of peace, while not far away the busy tide of London’s traffic ebbed and flowed. She wiped her eyes with a tiny handkerchief, and his heart was touched to see her suffering so —in such striking contrast to her brazen gaiety of five minutes ago. He put an arm around her shoulders, a great wavo of sympathy for her sweeping over him. “Tell me about it all,” invited he. Ills words moved her. “I have never told anyone before." she said softly. “My heart has ached lo do so, but—l have never known anyone I could tell." Then in quick, halting phrases she began. “It’s a long story," she said, “and you must be patient with me.” “Why, of course," ho murmured. “I first, met Button at a Chapel, not far from Gradcross Street. I had been attending there for a long time, and really enjoyed the meetings. You see, 1 had no parents—both had died when I was very young—and I had kept myself of late years. It was not easy, for my wages wero not large; but I did manage, all the same, for my amusements were few. In fact, I got them all at the Chapel. 1 don’t mean 1 never wanted to go anywhere else, i did. 1 often craved to hear music, to see crowds of well-dressed people, and In cat luxurious food. But t knew l could not afford it. "Then one day Button came to the Chapel: whero from no one seemed lo know. But he had money and was enthusiastic—full of new ideas, and when he spoke or prayed aloud ne seemed in throw a spell over the congregation."

Eric nodded. He recalled hearing him that fatal Sunday. “I can see now that I was a little fool, but, do you know, that man fascinated me till I would have gone through hell for him. I would have done any mortal thing for him if I thought it would have pleased him. It may seem silly to you, as a man, but it’s true. Whenever he looked at me my blood turned to water, and onoo or twice, when I first began to know him, lie looked full into my face with those deep, curious eyes of his, whioh I felt then were glorious, but which I learned to .loathe, and if I could I would have fainted with sheer delight. It seemed wonderful that he should notice me I I was not especially beautiful. I had my limitations, and knew them; but I suppose I was better looking than some of the other girls at the Chapel, and somehow or other it happened that I came to be I thrown a good dear into his company. He seemed to like me, used to pay me compliments—not clumsy ones, as most of the young-men at the Chapel did—but subtle, clever ones, which used to thrill me through and through. Many and many a night I lay awake till dawn, Just thinking of him. It seems absurd to talk like this now, but it's true—every word of it. He . was clever, there can be no doubt of that, and gradually he wormed his way into the minds of the people there, the older ones, too, until ODe day, when an old gentleman had died, they asked him if he would consent to be a deacon in the vacancy. “Of oourse he agreed. It was what he had been aiming for, and waiting. There was rather a big debt on the building, and he kept giving large sums on condition that they got equal I amounts by collections and bazaars. ' He kept spurring them on, and they all seemed willing to be led by him. No one knew exactly what his business was, but he was believed to be some kind of director or manager in a large city firm. I think I was the first to flind out the real truth about him. “You see, he used to take a girls’ meeting every Friday evening, in tho Chapel schoolroom, and one night I was the only girl who turned up." I