Flotsam

Sun (Auckland), Volume 1, Issue 108, 28 July 1927, Page 16

Flotsam

By

Coralie Stanton and Heath Hosken.

To have Flotsam, t.e., goods floating on the water; Jetsam, i.e., goods cast out of a ship during a storm, and Wilsam. i.e., goods driven ashore when ships are wrecked. These wrecks were called by the vulgar. Goods of God’s mercy. (Ancient Charter of Dover.) SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS CHAPTERS I (Continued) and 11.— John Bolton writes to his fiancee, LadyMaud Genge, telis the whole story ot Jacqueline, and asks her to help him. He has his first interview with Jacqueline She reveals herself as a striking-looking girl, full of character. She has taken the news of her father's death quie'.ly. Lady Maud Genge, in the Swiss mountains, reads In the paper of the death of Dennis Croft. She talks it over with her maid. Clarice. Later she muses over her past life, her runaway marriage, her divorce, her father's accession to the peerage. A letter comes to her from John Bolton, giving her the history of the arrival of Jacqueline, and expressing a wish for her presence and advice. Lady Maud gives her maid orders to pack. She is returning to England. She spends the night at Folkestone after crossing the Channel, and in the merning hires a car and motors to Saye Castle. John Bolton is not there to meet her, but Parker, the butler, and Mrs. Manton, welcome her The housekeeper gives her the latest news of the new protegee, and says how fond the master is of her. CHAPTERS 111 and IV.—Lady Maud wanders round the gardens and comes upon Jacqueline. She gets into conversation and tries to win the girl, apparently succeeding. Maud discovers that Jacqueline is well educated. John Bolton arrives about five o’clock. He Is pleased that the two women are friends Lady Maud goes back to her hotel, where John dines with her that evening. When they are taking coffee the subject of Jacqueline is introduced. His fiancee refuses to be dragged into mothering her. When John asks her to do this she says, “Not on your life!” She leaves the ultimatum with him that he loses her if he keeps Jacqueline. CHAPTER XII. (Continued). But these plans were interrupted. Amongst the several telegrams and letters awaiting him at the Plaza Hotel at New York was one which read as follows: ‘‘Hear on good authority Stone knows whereabouts of Jacqueline; thank God she is alive.—Maud.” The cablegram from Maud had been l-c . ired from Saye and its origin was arid nearly a week ago. Bolton knew Maud’s address which was to be hers until Easter. He lost no time in despatching a lengthy telegram to “Lady Maud Genge, Hotel Ritz, Madrid. Cable full details, will return earliest available boat, can complete business here in two days. EoKon, Plaza, New York.”

The next day he received a cable that must have cost a small fortune. But it was worth it because it was so lucid. ‘‘Met woman here, Mrs. Elstree, friend of Stone, who saw him few days ago in Paris dining girl exact description Jacqueline. Met Stone later his manner most mysterious when questioned about girl said she was niece named Benham whom he was escorting to her people at Mentone. Believe this to be untrue, and that Stone now in London. No possible doubt Miss Benham is Jacqueline. Am returning myself to London to-night Sud express, address Hotel Valois, London. Will see detectives and do all possible, most anxious but hopeful. Had no idea you were in America. You should have let me know. Maud.” As a matter of fact this lengthy cablegram was a disappointment to John Bolton. The first short cable rewired from Saye had raised his hopes sky high, but this fuller message let those soaring hopes down again. It was also so vague. Who was this Mrs. Elstree? And how could Maud be sure that this Miss Benham was Jacqueline? On the face of it, it was improbable if not impossible to believe. As if little Miss Jack would be with Stone, dining publicly in Paris! The idea was preposterous. Then, what was this about Stone’s mysterious manner when questioned about the girl and this story about a niece? Bolton dismissed that part of the story as too silly to worry about. It would not be the first time that a man’s manner might be mysterious concerning the identity of a lady with whom he was dining in a Paris restaurant, especially when he was cross-examined by another lady friend. Still, for all this, the fact remained that Maud believed there was something in it, that Jacqueline was alive. Maud was not mad. She was a woman of the world, and not given to losing her head. He tried hard to be optimistic; but his reason would not allow him to believe that little Miss Jack could possibly be found in the company of Martin Stone. By heaven, though, if it should prove to have been so! So much the worse for Stone. Bolton’s fists clenched at the very thought, and something very primal shone from his eyes. He made arrangements to sail for England five days later, and booked his accommodation. It was the first available fast boat. He transacted his business with a celerity that astonished the energetic American. He cancelled all his arrangements for California, and had several days in which to kick his heels and kill time before going aboard the Mastadon. He heard nothing further from Maud, though every day and every Jiour he hoped to receive word that would allav his anxiety. Anything would be better than this state of uncertainty. John Bolton had never believed that Jacqueline had committed suicide, or. indeed that she were dead. There was something within him that made it impossible for him to believe that she was not somewhere in the land of the living. He had all sorts of theories, all sorts of fears, and sometimes his imagination conjured up fears that made him almost wish that she were dead. Why did not Maud sable? He worked out her movements. According to her last message, if she had done as she said and left Madrid for London on that night, she must have been in London for three days. And she had not sent him a word. He grew tired of waiting and inaction. He was like a hound straining at the leash. At last he could stand it no longer. He cabled her briefly to the Hotel Valois in London. “Cannot understand silence, please cable developments, sailing in Mastadon Friday.” He impatiently awaited an answer. None came. He waited twenty-four hours before he sent another cable. That was to the manager, Hotel Valois. He prepaid a reply. “Is Lady Maud Genge staying at your hotel —Bolton, Hotel Plaza, New York.” Within three hours came the curt reply: “No, believe lady abroad. Schnitzler, Manager, Hotel Valois, London.” Bolton metaphorically shook his fist at the Atlantic. Here he was cut off from everything. No power in heaven or earth could put him in London for another week. Should he communicate with VorHhk tex • H should take a lot of explanaan<t might confuse everybody and, if he dare allow himself to admit the • ,« Lt , one knevv anything about Jacqueline, it might possibly spring an

Authors of “ The Real Mrs. Dare, “ The Mem She Never Married, “ Sword and Plough,” &c., £rc.

alarm. The same consideration applied to Scptland Yard. Paravane would not understand. Suppose he cabled, “Believe Martin Stone, 99a, Temple Gardens, knows whereabouts Jacqueline Croft?” Why not? He did so. This maddening isolation drove him to do things that in his saner moments he would never have dreamed of doing. But what on earth had happened to Maud? Another twentv-four hours passed and still no word. He thought of railway accidents and searched the papers and made exhaustive inquiries. No, the Madrid-Paris express had met with no mishap. No railway smashes at all in Europe. In desperation he sent a cable to the Madrid Hotel pre-paying a reply. “When did Lady Maud Genge leave Madrid?” Twelve hours later he received a cablegram with the startling news: “Lady Maud Genge in private hospital typhoid, no cause for more than normal anxiety.” The cablegram was signed “Doctor Pedro Placer, 28 Calle San Juan, Bautista, Madrid.”

Uncommonly good of the doctor, whoever he was. A true example of Spanish courtesy. Bolton was prompt to cable his gratitude, and to send kind messages to the invalid and inform her of his plans for sailing eastward. He had few personal friends in New York and most of them were away at the time. One man, however, Elmer Smeed, whom he had known for many years, proffered a constant hospitality. Elmer Smeed was a man of considerable wealth in a land of superlatively rich men. He was the head of the Elmer Smeed Banking Corporation which, with hundreds of other business concerns, was seated in the great Elmer Smeed Building, one of New York’s dominant skyscrapers that reared its pseudo-gothic spire above the forest of architectural giants down town. That night Bolton dined with Elmer Smeed at the Plutonic Club a few steps away from his hotel, overlooking Central Park. Smeed was a notoriously good host, and he laid himself out on the occasion to show his English friend just what an honest-to-God-American-citi-zen could do in the way of open-handed hospitality. It was a Lucullian repast, and, despite the Prohibition Laws, rare wines and age-old Cognac, from the private cellars of Elmer, added greatly to the feast. It was a dinner of four. The other two men were strangers—a certain Cyrus P. Cannon, also a New York banker, and Mr. Hiram Smedley Schmitt, a Chicago magnate who incidentally had a palace in Venice and a big London house in St. James’s Square, once the residence of the Duke of Brecknock. Conversation was almost exclusively confined to business and money. Just then there were some spectacular dealings on the New York Stock Exchange. Fortunes were being won and lost in a day. Bolton, if the truth be known, was very bored. His thoughts were far away from the titanic tactics and sensational manoeuvres of the money - makers. But a sudden remark of Elmer Smeed, apropos the dramatic turn of the wheel of fortune, made him forget everything and sit up and take notice. “Take, for instance, the case of Michael Dennis Croft. Can you imagine a thing like that happening to a man of his type?” exclaimed Elmer Smeed. The other men agreed, and drew deeply at their Corona Coronas Immensas. “You knew him?” “Sure,” said Schmitt. “Sure,” said Cannon, “one of the whitest men I’ve ever come in contact with.” “Ever meet him, Bolton?” asked Elmer Smeed. “Never,” said Bolton grimly. “And what a death! What a tragic end!” exclaimed Cannon. “I’m not at all sure,” said Smeed deliberately, rolling his cigar around on his full, fat, well-fed lips. “I'm not at all sure that friend Croft is dead. On the contrary, I’ve got a sort of inkling—it’s more than that if it comes to the point—that friend Croft will surprise you all and turn up smiling.” “But surely,” said Bolton, taking a hand in the conversation, “there is no doubt that he was drowned in the wreck of the Queen of Peru.” “It’s gone as that, I admit. Nevertheless, I have my doubts. They never found his body, did they?” “No,” Bolton admitted. “But they found portions of his clothing and his pocket-book containing fraudulent passports. The theory of the police is that he went back to his cabin and was trapped there.” “1 daresay,” said Elmer Smeed. “But who gives a hoot to police theories? His daughter got off safely, anyhow.” “Yes,” said Bolton, considering whether he should vouchsafe further details. He decided on the instant to remain reticent. “You see, Bolton,” Smeed went on, “Croft was an excitable sort of man. He got the wind up and did the most foolish thing he could possibly do. Imagine any intelligent man bolting as he did.” “I don’t see that he had much choice between that and gaol.” (To be continued.)