The Nemesis a of Crime

Waikato Times, Volume 124, Issue 20831, 15 June 1939, Page 12

The Nemesis a of Crime

By AGEITUNA THURLOW

A story of Thrilling Romance and Exciting Adventure

CHAPTER XXll—(Continued) “I don’t quite like the idea,” began Maurice. “Of course, if Miss Cathcart is really frightened—” she smiled scornfully. “I am not in the least alarmed,” I said quickly, nettled by the challenge in her glance. “Then shall we come?” We left the room, I feeling considerably embarrassed at the prospect of a tete-a-tete with our prisoner. Mrs Lemaire called pleasantly to Maurice and Mr Gellender that they would find the newest books and magazines on the table. The bedroom was, as she said, on the next floor, but as I followed her down several passages into another wing of the 'hotel, I very much doubted whether my lungs would ever be sufficiently powerful to make a sound which would reach the sitting-room, supposing need should arise to call for help. The room was luxurious, lavge, double-bedded, with a small dreicing-room opening out of it. Mrs i.emaire made me sit down in the only armchair, and began busying herseif about packing her boxes.

“How thankful 1 am.” she began, “to find our dear Horace so calm, so benign. Po j:* dear, ho seems to havi. been much maligned. A dreadful person called Fcveral, whom 1 met in Vienna, about a year or so after my departure with Algy, cave me quite a different impression. So did you, my dear, at Slalheim you frightened me dreadfully. in fact, if you hadn’t given me such a bloodthirsty account oX Horace’s intentions, you would have spared yourself a very great deal of inconvenience. It was the fear of wh'at would happen, supposing you discovered the portrait, that I tried to chloroform you that evening, and the same reason led me to play that rather unpleasant practical joke, and leave you ashore at Spitzbergen. I frightened you, I don't doubt, at Stalheim, but let me assure you that your fears were as nothing compared to the sick terror with which I listened to your repetition of Horace's threats. From a child I have never been able to bear the mere idea of murder. ... it is a horrible nightmare, a nightmare which does not go with the darkness. . . . which the morning sun has no power to dispel. I am in that respect a coward. Ah. 1 see you look surprised. Does it seem so very wonderful that a woman who cannot bear the thought, can yet deliberately plan Ihe destruction of another? 1 am a curious contradiction. It is a personal contact with horrors which I cannot endure. The sight of a carriage accident makes me actually sick but if I need not see it. I do not care. To my frenzied imagination it seemed to be a question of either your life or mine. . . my safety lay in your removal. . . so I left you and Maurice Hunter ashore. '

Amazement at her audacity holding me speechless, she continued, this time speaking in a glibing tone: “Don’t you think I am a very good raconteur?” she asked, pausing an instant in her work to glance- at. me. “Do you remember my pretty fabrication about my sister Bertha? I have often thought how well I did it!” Receiving no answer, she laughed gaily. Whether it was Mrs intention to irritate me beyond endurance, or not, I cannot say. If so, I will do her the credit to own that she succeeded in a degree surpassing all expectation. “I really flatter myself.” she continued, “that my little tale was successful. I suppose I can't expect you to see how funny it was, but you must allow me to feel a modest pride in my powers of invention. How green you were, my dear —how you swallowed it all. Yo'U see it was absolutely necessary to fabricate something ,and 1 couldn’t tell you the truth, because you might have repeated it to Sir .lames, which would have interfered with my plans altogether. What a lot of anxiety you have given me. Just think how tiresome you were at Slalheim. and what a long time it took to restore your confidence.” “You are a dreadfully wicked woman.” I cried furiously. “Yes, I daresay, but you see besides being frightened I was also jealous. Oh. don't open your eyes and look so awfully indignant. J was jealous, not of your dear Maurice, rgood, excellent cerature that he is. but of who do you suppose? No less a person than Horace, my husband. You sec, I had noticed very many times how a man who is disappointed in his first ideal turns as a contrast to youth and simplicity. Everything seemed to point to that being the case with Horace’s feelings towards you. Let me confess that I left my husband out of pique, to punish him for many small sins of omission and commission, to say nothing of his reasonless distrust, which had irritated me almost to madness. It was the great mistake of my life, for I have been fool enough to love him. Naturally, I have regretted it since in dust, and ashes, and the first hint of any intimacy between him and another woman raised a demon of jealousy within me. Ho. at least, is a man. not a dummy, like your respectable Mr Hunter. What a good example you will sel I lie county, you and Maurice! Well. I should never have been much use as a pattern lo my neighbours. Everything bored me. and my influence over my husband, thanks to his jealousy, was very limited, so 1 went away with Algy, who is a good soul, if nothing better. Molly 1 look with me out of revenge, and very much in the way I found her. Algy developed this absurd devotion for the child, and it interfered with all my plans. If it wasn't for the fact that

it would benefit Horace, I should be delighted to get rid of her.

“I suppose,” she went on reflectively, “that we are all guilty, from time to time, of errors in judgment. Yet I have prided myself all my life on making singularly few 7 mistakes. It is very hard that 1 should have suffered so severely for my one big oqe—running away with Algy. It wasn't only •Horace that I forfeited, but the iglories of Hadstock, of a good solid position, and an even more solid income. Since the fatal day I have had to depend mainly on my -wits to get me those luxuries, which are real necessities to a person of my sybaritic- tastes. I am beginning to loathe the life, the perpetual anxiety, the knowledge that one false move may lose the whole game, which it has taken years of patience and hard work to get to its present condition.”.

“What I shall never understand,” said I, interested in spite of myself by this strange woman's revelations, "is how you managed to escape recognition, and defy discovery for so long.” “it was easier than you think. Circumstances favoured me. As a girl I was absolutely unknown, except to tho few habitues of foreign wateringplaces. When I married, the county people bored me, and as Horace refused to receive my friends, i practically saw no one. Algy and I went abroad at once, and remained away some years. Mr Feveral’s warning made us extra cautious. When at length we came to London we were exclusive, and knew only the richest people—we were acting, you see, from purely business motives. Horace, I knew, wgfs living the iil'c of a recluse, and 1 was unlikely to meet any of liis old friends. J am accustomed lo running risks and rely oil my wits to help me out of a difficulty. In cases emergency 1 lie freely. one precaution 1 took: 1 dyed my hair, which was flaming red, a most impossible colour to dbuuise, and transformed it into this nondescript shade. My never-ending fear of meeting Horace exacted some sacrifices.” The Tables Are Turned While she talked Mrs Lemaire had divested herself of the tea gown, and had donned a walking skirt. "Would you mind fastening it?” she said plaintively. “Oh, thanks so much, and, oh, Miss Cathcart —you are taller than I—would you be so good as to reach me the bodice, on a peg in my dressing-room?" Without thinking, I complied. On the threshold a sudden suspicion made me turn —but too late. A violent push from behind sent me staggering, and the door of the dressing-room was slammed and bolted behind me. A light laugh came from I lie other side. The sound filled me with despair, as 1 realised how -Mrs Lemaire had outwitted me. Furiously 1 battered the door, screaming for assistance, though all the time I knew it was useless. I remembered Ihe deserted passages—it was Saturday, and the chambermaids were- probably taking their afternoon out. My prison did not boast of a bell, and there was no window or second door. It partook more of the nature of a large cupboard, than a small dressing-room. Mrs Lemaire was moving quickly about the bedroom. utterly impervious to my cries and objurgations. (To be continued daily.)