Copyright Story. The Kidnapped Author

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLIII, Issue 11, 15 September 1909, Page 55

Copyright Story. The Kidnapped Author

By

THEODORA W. WILSON,

Author of “ Bess of Hardendale," Etc.

▼ DARLEY-STREET in the blazing l/A «un seemed interminable. I I “You see!” exclaimed the J young editor of the “All Round Magazine,” with great irritation. His sister’s face was as white as his own. “It will dry straight, Edward!” she returned, cheerfully. “Six months’ complete rest! The man is a villain! It is tremendous. It is ruin, Nan!” “Tremendous if you like; but not ruin. Let us find a tea shop.” Settled in the luncheon rooms Edward began with renewed excitement. “You see the “All Round” was running the “Up-to-Date” neck and neck! And we were winning. However, it is all over now. I’ll see Graveson this afternoon, and put an end to the whole sickening business!” Nan looked at her brother thoughtfully. Yet there was a half comical, half wistful expression in her bright eyes. “You don’t think, my beloved brother, that I have been editor’s assistant incog for all these months to be set aside when the pinch comes ? It is I 'who am determined to beard the snarly old dog in his den!” “As you like!” he said, with a weary •indifference. His head felt gripped by a tight band, growing smaller every minute. A spasm of misery shot through his sister’s heart at the tone. “Buck up, Edward!” she exclaimed. “We have pulled through worse than this! ” “Have we?” She could have cried at the look in his eyes. ■ “Don’t be idiotic!” she said. “Miss Meaburn to see you, sir.” “Ah—Miss Meaburn!” said the proprietor of the “All Round,” dubiously. “What can I do for you? Oblige me by sitting down.” “Anything to oblige him!” she thought, as she sat down. “Very important business, you say?” and the proprietor turned over her card. “It is about my brother, Edward Meaburn.” “Ah—his sister! Well?” “Dr. Ray says he is on the borders of a severe brain collapse. He is to travel for six months, and I have called to ask if you will be good enough to allow me to keep his position open until his return.” “You edit the ‘All Round,’ madam?” Mr. Graveson’s face was a study in incredulity and scorn. “Only just for six months!” “Only for six months!” he repeated, in a dry, satirical voice. “Perhaps, madam, you are hardly aware of the extremely critical position of the magazine. I am stretching every point to pla.ce it above the front rank. At this precise juncture a new man ” “That is it!” Miss Meaburn broke in, eagerly. “You cannot afford a new brain with untried traditions. We have found the line that has caught on, and we must go forward!” “We?” and the proprietor knitted his brows. “I beg your pardon!” and she dropped into her easy, nonchalant manner. “Perhaps 1 ought to confess that I have worked intimately with my brother—written the editorials and ” “You have written the editorials?” “Most of them, lately, and ” “I never heard of such a thing! It is monstrous! Why, I was intending to have a long talk with your brother to-morrow. We must somehow get round some of these popular authors without paying their preposterous charges. lam setting my face against them, and ■” “Yet the ‘ Up-to-Date ’ takes them on,” ®uggested Miss Meaburn mildly. “Yes, yes!” he muttered uneasily. If the proprietor had not been so Wnsumed with himself, he might havqi Noticed a faint blush on the cheek, and

a quick flash of excitement lighten the eyes of his visitor. “Suppose I could get Mr. Anthony Boyle—the great detective writer for you?” “You are a novice, evidently, madam!” and the man laughed sarcastically. “Yet if I could get you Mr. Anthony Boyle’s exclusive work for the ‘ All Round’ for six months, would you guarantee me the editorship?” “At ordinary column rates?” snapped out the proprietor. “At ordinary column rates, of course, unless the circulation justified an additional fee later.” “It is not the usual method!” sniffed the proprietor. “No, it is not usual, but it is workable,” said Nan. Two days later Miss Meaburn took the express to her old home near Redthorpe. She only stayed a few hours at Stagholme Towers, but during that time she talked instructively to her housekeeper, Mrs. Benson. But she talked to Jonah even more. Jonah was an old army man, who took her instructions intelligently enough. “For the honour of the family, Benson. Remember that!” she said on leaving. “Mr. Edward’s good fortune depends entirely on you!” “Very good, miss,” he had returned, and there was a look of responsible anticipation on his clean-shaven countenance. Mr. Anthony Boyle was exceedingly pleased with his new quarters up the old peel turret of Stagholme Tower. As he walked up the narrow winding stair, he noticed by the light of the June evening, and the lantern, the thickness of the walls, the narrowness of the windows, and the old Norman arches. “Ideally romantic!” he thought instinctively. Then the quiet luxury of the small suite was unexpected, and then again these were her rooms evidently. Moreover, he was exceedingly pleased with himself. Worried to death by friends and relations, he had at last found a refuge where none should find him.- Peace and comfort, and infinite leisure for writing. After sleeping late next morning, he rose and descended the stair to discover if there were any sign of breakfast. “Where on earth is the handle?” he muttered impatiently, as he came upon a massive oaken door. “Step back, sir, and I will open the door,” and the key turned heavily in the lock. A tall, massive Westmorelander came through the narrow entrance, and the door closed with a snap. “Breakfast, sir!” and he saluted. “What did you lock that door for?” asked Boyle irritably. “Orders, sir.” “Whose orders?” “I’ve had my orders, sir, from Miss Meaburn that you was coming to lodge here, and that I was to keep off all intruders. ‘ Like grim death ’ —them’s her own words, sir. And Jonah Benson, late of Her—l mean Hrs—Majesty’s 18th Westmorelanders, and servant to the colonel himself—he understands orders, sir.” “You great fool!” laughed the author. “Keeping intruders off is one thing, but I don’t intend to reside in this tower for the rest of my natural life! Come, get out of the road!” “It is best to be straight, sir,” said the man, noticing that nature had not adorned the gifted author with a superabundant bodily frame. “My orders is, sir, that you make yourself comfortable here until this day six months!” And he drew a letter from out of his breast pocket. In his astonishment, Boyle reascended the stairs, and, gaining the sitting-room, read the epistle. “Dear Mr. Boyle. •With reference to our talk in the of-

fice the other day, I may say that I shall be glad to receive your copy at your earliest convenience. For this copy I am, of course, prepared to pay our ordinary column rates; but should the circulation of the ‘All Round’ justify it, I shall advance on this price. “According to your own instructions, I have given the very strictest orders to my man to guard you from intrusion, and to forward me the copy when completed. “Trusting that you will be comfortable, “Believe me, “Yours sincerely, “THE EDITOR.” The great detective novelist stared at the letter, and Benson looked at him warily. “Hurry up with that breakfast, there’s a good fellow!” was all the Author said, to the man’s infinite disappointment. The moment he had gone, Boyle examined his quarters critically. But the editor had known what she was about. The place was indeed a survival from the thirteenth century. From the narrow windows there was a wild view over the sandy stretch, scantily covered with coarse herbage, over which a few Staghohne sheep wandered. Escape was apparently out of the question, apart from a bloody conflict with Benson, and bloody conflicts off paper were not to the author’s liking. Taking out his pocket-book, he wrote a note therein: “I, Anthony Boyle, Detective Novelist, have at this date been kidnapped by Helena, otherwise Nan Meaburn.” "Extraordinary woman! Wants cheap copy, eh? What a stroke of genius!” He spoke with artistic admiration, for according to that recent conversation in the “All Round” office, one hundred and fifty thousand words was the task coolly set him by this girl, for a paltry 150

guineas, out of which he was going te pay her two guineas a week for his board! In a flash as he sat there, he recalled a certain afternoon at a tennis party, when Miss Meaburn had laughingly maintained that if he once got inside one of his own detective stories he would never get out with credit to himself. Kidnapped in 1908! He could not get over the idea at all, so taking up his pipe, he applied himself to the situation. “She will get frightened in time—women do. They can’t carry out schemes of this sort to a consummation! Meanwhile she is profoundly mistaken if she thinks she will get her copy. By-the-by, Benson,” he said, after a comfortable morning in an easy chair, lazily examining Miss Meaburn’s library; “you don’t happen to have any tobacco on the premises fit to smoke?” “Certainly, sir. ‘Brown Rover,’ sir.” The Author brightened, for “Brown Rover” was his pet of pets. “You have not done much writing, sir,” said the man meditatively. “And pray what has that got to do with you, sir?” said the Author stiffly. “My orders was that no tobacco was to be supplied unless there was writing done. Three full sheets for a pipe. Them’s my orders, sir.” The Author positively gasped. “Hang it all, then!” and he threw a sovereign down on the table. “Three sheets to a pipe, sir, and free pipes on Sunday,” said the man, ignoring the gold and quietly leaving the room. Now Anthony Boyle was not devoted to exercise, as any one might see. To do without his liberty was a trifle, until he. saw his way to the next move. To stop the swelling of his already over-swollen bank account was also comparatively unimportant—but to do without his pipe! “Miss Helena Meaburn is a genius of

the first magnitude,” so lie wrote in his diary. But there were five days till Bunday. He examined his pouch, and being essentially a man of the moment, he was for that day content. True, at night he looked critically at his very last pipe-full, wondering if he should leave it until the morning; but the moment afterwards he was scraping out his bowl and filling up luxuriantly. The next morning he sniffed at his empty briar, and placed it carelessly between his teeth, hastily withdrawing it as he heard Benson on the stairs. All that day he maintained a nonchalant attitude, and the paper lay white on the desk. For three hours that night, he could not rest for the blood-curdling denouements that were rioting through hie bra in. The next day he capitulated. He tore up the first couple of sheets, then fell to work —wrote until he forgot everything—till the ground was littered iwith the flying sheets. Benson coming in later, immediately withdrew at the sight, and returned with the tobacco allowance, which he placed within reach of the writer. The Author grumped at him absently, •nd went on with his work. Yet, as the door closed, the recovered treasure was grasped with a pathetic ecstacy, and as those irreplaceable fumes once more wavered around him, the Author unconsciously changed the threatened tragedy of his tale into buoyant comedy. ' And meanwhile the “All Round” prospered gloriously. Posters triumphantly announced the sole engagement of the great Anthony Boyle. The name of Anthony Boyle, and the •All Round” became indissolubly linked in the public mind. The Editor truly received curious Bpecimens of threatening letters, over Which she smiled as she locked them in • private drawer. On the days of their receipt she sent off to Mrs. Benson selections of the most seasonable delicacies calculated to soothe the manly palBte. But the circulation flew up bv tens of thousands, and the rival paper became hysterical. The waiter at the Author’s Club grew anxious as letters accumulated for Mr. Anthony Boyle. But his directions had been unmistakable. “Don’t you send me on any of my wretched correspondence until you hear from me.” It was not even possible to get up • scare of foul play, for his copy was coming out week by week regularly in the “All Round.” The conclusion arrived at by Boyle’s intimates was, that he “was a beastly clever dog” and had proved his word “up to the hilt” about effectively “doing a bolt.” It was the twenty-third of December, and the Author, having dispatched hie final batch of copy, suddenly realised that the six months was over, and as he Usually took his work and play in fits, as all his friends knew —a desire for a very riot of play consumed him. Presently he was conscious of a strange voice outside, and he could scarcely control his excitement as he beard someone talking to Benson on the stairs. “Mr. Edward Meaburn,” announced Henson, and a brown, weather-beaten man came in. “I beg your pardon, Boyle, for coming in at this unearthly hour—but I am just back from Australia—a boat earlier than my sister expected me by—eo I ran down for the night. Benson tells me my sister let these rooms to you.” “Is that how rhe puts it?” asked the 'Author with a half laugh. “Delighted to welcome you to my rooms] Have some breakfast?” “If you can put up with my company. I am dying to hear all the English gossip. I hope you have found plenty of good plots in this neighbourhood. Reeking with queer tales if you know how to-get at them!” “I don't doubt it! I have discovered one at any rate of quite absorbing perBonal interest!” and he smiled a little •curly, the visitor thought. “ I wired my sister that I should come tip to town today-. She has Ixcn editing the “All Round” in my alwcnce—but there—you must know all about that! There is some of your stuff in this week, I see. You may be sure I bought an "All Round” the Kioment I came off the boat- She made

me swear that I would keep my hands fff it while I was away. They must be pretty flush to afiord you! I should never have ventured within a bowshot of you!” And Edward smiled his boyish sunny smile, which his sister would have rejoiced to see. “I hope they make you comfortable down here? Benson caught a rattling good cook for his wife!” “The cooking has suited me quite excellently,” said the Author. “Got the hump about something or other,” thought Edward, so he went on cheerfully. “Staying down for Christmas?” For the life of, him Anthony Boyle could not bring his mind to explain the absurdity of his position. “I thought of going up to Town tomorrow; but if you are going earlier, perhaps you would be good enough to take your sister this last lot of copy. You might present my compliments and tell her it is my turn now.” “I don’t understand the message—but DI take it gladly. But Boyle, why can’t you come up to-day? You could cram your things together in half an hour surely?” “Five minutes, so far as that goes. Yes—l believe I will. The racket of London will be a relief after six months’ burial.” “lou look as if you had been sticking to it,” said Meaburn innocently. When Benson was called by his master to help with the packing, he did as he was told, and kept his own counsel astutely. “You are an excellent servant!” said the Author on parting, as he thrust some crisp paper into the man’s hand. “Your mistress is fortunate!” “Orders sir,” said the man, as he grinned his thanks. “Beautiful district, don’t you think?” asked Edward as they drove off“What I have seen of it—very. But it grows monotonous in time.” “Perhaps!” said Edward dubiously. On the journey, Edward found it' impossible to keep off the subject of the Magazine and his sister’s enterprise. “Now just look at this paper! Not a dull paragraph in it! Fact, is, she’s a brick of the finest clay. All the time I was going to pieces, she stuck to the office, and plodded through the detail. How on earth she persuaded the proprietor to let her take over the Editorship I can’t conceive, and as for your engagement! Well I am confounded. The risk of it!” and he laughed joyously. “Why Graveson flew at me like a tiger once, when I proposed you! I’d uncommonly like to know what we are paying you?” The Author smiled. “The terms are at present between me and the Editor—Ask her!” “I will! Do you know it is the queerest thing, but I am wild to see her, and to smell the stuffy odour of that office. It is odd that a trip to Australia should have that effect upon a man!” “And it is odd that a six months’ residence at Stagholme Tower should have precisely the same effect!” said the Author mildly-. ‘•Edward! ” exclaimed Nan delightedly. “Oh how splendid you look—you dear old boy. Wherever did you spend the night?” “At Stagholme. She started, but he was too excited to notice. “And —what a good sort that man Boyle is! He tells me he has been boarding there,” and Edward began fumbling in his breast pocket. “Oh yes —here rt is!” and he gave the message. “I persuaded him to come up with me.” “And he told you nothing more?” she asked incredulously. “Tell me anything?” he looked at Nan suspiciously. “Yes —tell you that I—Edward it is fearful! It never struck me as so fearful until I see you safe and sound! But I did it deliberately. I meant to do it, and I will stand to it whatever happens!” “What do you mean?” “You see I kidnapped him.” “You what?” “I kidnapped him. He has been locked into Stagholme Tower ever since the 23rd June. I bound myself to Mr. Graveson to get the copy out of him, somehow, as a bribe to get the editorship, and it was the only way I could get the copy- at Graveson’s price.” “You mean you have imprisoned • man for six months?” “Yes—and now I suppose I shall have to go to gaol myself! But nothing matters any more. You are well again. The

“All Round’ is a secured success, and I ” “Mr. Anthony Boyle. Will you see him?” asked the office boy, in some excitement, knowing that his world had been searching for this man. “Certainly,” said Edward, resolutely, though he had turned quite grey. “How do you do, Miss Meaburn, after all this time?” said the author. He was hopelessly at his ease. She put out her hand mechanically. “Did your brother give you my message ?” “Yes!” and she raised her eyes. The fright had already fled from her face. “I carried it through, you see, Mr. Boyle.” “The first part,” he said. “It is now my turn to ” “To put me in gaol?” she interrupted. “You are at liberty to do your worst now. I shall not shirk! You can’t get damages out of me, for I have no assets. I am tired of editing—very tired —and gaol will come as a welcome relief. As for the advertisement of the trial for you, Mr. Boyle—it will be tremendous, and the ‘All Round’ will share in the triumph. You see I have thought it all out.” “Yet the fare in gaol will hardly be the fare of Stagholme,” suggested the author. But Edward interfered. “Boyle, I am absolutely dumbfounded at what my sister has only this instant told me! That you should have suffered in this outrageous way, and that my sister should be ” “Such a consummate genius,” suggested the author. “My dear sir, to tell you the truth, when this little plot dawned upon me in all its superb completeness, I was amazed with the keen relish of amazement. But I now admit to you,

Miss Meaburn, that I never thought you would carry it out to a consummation. I was patient, because I expected day by day that you would come down and beg my pardon!” But Edward was not to be put off. “Sit down, Boyle!? he cried, impatiently. “Let us talk this thing over! I would not have had ” “Let Mr. Boyle go, Edward!” exclaimed Nan, impatiently. “Let him bring his warrant. It is not fair to delay him!” But Edward went on, ignoring his sister. “As to compensation, Boyle—hang it! Why, I have only the Tower to offer you. If you will accept that ” “Thanks! My soul no longer lusts after .Stagholme Tower!” “Then, how can we square you?” asked the returned editor. “Anything which either I or my sister can compass— —-” “Suppose you invite me for Christmas!” said the author, drily. Nan’s cheeks were suddenly dyed scarlet. “How dare you compound felony like that!” she said, with a dying effort after raillery. But the author had risen. “Then you will come?” said Edward. “I will certainly come,” said the author, and he regarded the glowing cheeks of the editress with merciless coolness. She was stooping over a drawer. Suddenly she raised her head. “See! This is yours, Mr. Boyle—the balance owing you from the ‘All Round." Payment at as high a rate as you ever mentioned to me. I wrung it from Mr. Graveson this afternoon.” He put out his hand—took the cheque and looked at it thoughtfully. “That was very good of you,” he said, with an odd lift of his brows. “To-night we will consider the personal debt, shall we?”