Heart of Gold.

Auckland Star, Volume LIX, Issue 230, 28 September 1928, Page 16

Heart of Gold.

By C. M. MATHESON Author of "NUT IN THE HUSK," etc. etc.

CHAPTER XX. There was a curious silence. Then the young man sank back on the seat. "Sit down," he "said. '"We've made enough vow.to draw al] the bobbies on the Embankment." '"You killed this man." repeated Jim Lacv. "All right. I suppose this is the mills of God once more. No good trying to escape from them." '"I'm not going to give you awav," said Jim. "Why should I? There's been enough said and done as it is. Too much, in fact. But I was charged with that murder and I got off " "You wouldn't have got off so easily but for that girl." Jim was silent. t '"She lied " "I believed she did it*" said Jim. '"Good Lord! How could vou believe that?" "'From what they all said it was plain to roe she did it." 'T say, I don't want to interfere between you and the lady, but weren't you engaged to be married to her?" 'T was." hy not now ? What are you doing here? This is the haunt of the lost tribes. You ought to be all right. There's nothing against you." "Lost my job over that murder," said •Jim. "Lost the gill, too?" "Yes." ' How "could you lose her? If -ver a girl loved a man in chis world that g?rl. Doieett Mai lory. loved you."' Jim was silent. "She never chucked yon. You can't expect me to believe that. After what she did you can't expect me to believe you chucked her." "I warned her against 20.ng with Murray." Jim murmured. "1 believed I »he. did kill him." | "You must bi.- mad." | Jim sat silent under the thrust. ! "Mad," said the other again. "Stark, ; staring mad. I know this kind of life make it exactly easy to keep I one's balanc. 1 . But I don't see why i you're here at all. You ought to be making it up day and night to that t young girl." | Stul Jim said nothing. I The other got up. "I'd almost sooner associate with a thief like Murray-than with a chap of your kidney," he said, as he moved off. Jim hardly noticed that the other had left him. His heart arraigned him even more bitterly and more sternly than this man had done. But, after the first moment's condemnation and bitter selfloathing, his thoughts were of Doreen. Doreen, the girl who had gone through hell for him, the girl who had appealed to him agxin and again, who had forgiven him, claimed him, despite his neglect. The girl whom, now, he had lost. That night's agony ended as the day dawned, bringing with it, as it ever diii, renewed hope, renewed belief. Jim, rising from til'j bench on which he had east himself, drew himself up with a shiver. The air was keen, but the light was coming back, shiuiug into the dark places, into the secret places. "I've got to go to her," Jim said. "Whatever comes of it, I've got to go to her." All thoug'it of his careful plans and resolutions for self-advancement were forgotten. He had but this one desire— to find Doreen. Jim Lacy had been a proud man. But for his narrow pride, his puritanical convictions, he would not have had his sorry history. He had been humiliated again and again these past months; of all his humiliation the secret fret that he could not set Doreen out of his heart bad galled him most. But uow he saw before him a humiliation deeper than any that had gone before, and his haste was to meet it, taste it. For to j humble himself to Doreen, plead for her forgiveness, show her that his love for her had never died, was sweet to him. He would be glad beyond telling to set himself at her feet. He had in his pocket the few shillings that he had intended to spend on his preparations for finding a job. He carried out his intention with regard to a toilet and a meal. He turned his steps towards Cadogan Square and entered the familiar garage yard. Eager and yet abashed he knocked at the doorMrs. Mallory opened it, starting backin astonishment. "What, Jim Lacy!" she cried aloud. "Jim Lacy!" "Yes," said Jim. "Where's Doreen?" t She stood there, holding the door, staring at him as if he were a wraith. "Where's Doreen?" he repeated. She said: "Where've you been all this long while? What brings you here now?" "Never mind about me," he answered. "I've got to tell her the story." "So there's a story, is there?" she said slowly. "Well, whatever it is you've got to say for yourself you're too late." "Too late?" he echoed. She broke into a very passion of tears, sobbing into her hands before him. "You're too late, Jim, too late. Doreen's gone. We don't know where." "Gone?" Jim repeated. "How can she be gone?" "She was down at Scotley Park with her ladyship. Her father's been down there this past week or two. He drove up here this morning to say that since yesterday they can't find Doreen anywhere. She's "gone. They thought perhaps she'd come here, but she's never been near the place. I've not seen her since she went to Scotley." Jim was silent. Mrs. Mallory continued: "If you've got anything to say you'd better come and say it. If anything's happened to Doreen it's your fault —your fault." "My fault?" he repeated. "How can that "be?" "You come in and hear what I've got to say. Why haven't you been to see my girl all this while? Where've you been since you walked out of court z free man because of her? You never came near the poor child from that day to this. I can't tell you what you can mean by it. I'd never have believed you could bo so cruel—" Jim stood, downcast, in the kitchen. Mrs. Mallory rated him and wept furiously. He had no excuse to offer, nothing to say. As her tongue ran on he saw the enormity of his behaviour. At last he said: "Everything you say is true. I am all you've railed me and worse than that. I believed Doreen had killed that man. 1 believed she—oh, God, I don't know what I believed. I've thought badly of her all • I've been half mad. IVe had nothing to do but dwell on it—l

here to-dav to tell her how I felt, to ask her to forgive me. And you say she's gone."

"Yes, gone. •We don't know where. Down, at Scotlev they're searching for her in the Park. Tom said all the gentlemen and the beaters and evervontT down there set out yesterday and again this morning to find her. He said her ladyship would telephone as soon as. ever there was any news. Oh, he's in a fine way about this. She was the apple of his eye. She's all we've got. Oh, Doreen! My little baby! Doreen!" Mrs. Maliory threw herself into a chair and wept without restraint. Jim said: "She may come here yet, you know." But his remark called forth no answer from the mother. He waited spiritlessly. What could he say? What could he do? She blamed him; he blamed himself. "I'd better go," hi said presently. Still she wept. "I'll go down to Scot ley," he said. "I'll do that. Look here, Mrs. Mallorv, I'm going down to Scotley and I'll see* what news they ve got. And I'll search for her. I'll find Doreen if I have to search the world. If 1 ca,n get her back to you, if I can see her happy, that's all I want. Mrs. Mallorv, don't you fret. I'll find Doreen."

She sobbed on. Jim left the house and went out into the street. He did not know what he could do next. He had almost no money. Scotley Park was in Hampshire. If he walked there (and he saw no otliei means of reaching his goal) it would take him so long that she might be found and lost again in the time. And yet, he could not say here in London; somehow or other he must reach Doreen, some irresistible impulse compelled him towards Scotley. Xoc>n found him walking out of London—mile after mile of streets—with a definite purpose, definite aim at last. (To be continued daily.)