Flotsam

Sun (Auckland), Volume 1, Issue 110, 30 July 1927, Page 16

Flotsam

*'•»«*•*

Coralie Stanton and Heath Hosken

Aathora of “ The Real Mr». Dare/' “ The Man She Never Married," " Sword and Plough/' &c. t £rc.

To have Flotsam, i.e., goods floating on the water; Jetsam, 1.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, Lady Maud Genge, tells the whole story of 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 quietly. 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 morning hires a car and motors to Saye Castle. John Bolton is n/ 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 XIII. Obviously, therefore, the place to find Jacqueline was with her father. Or, it she were not with him, he of all persons on earth would have heard of her. And Mr. Percival Grail was in New Turk and R.M.S. Mastadon was doing

her best to put as many leagues behind her from that delectable metropolis as her oil-driven turbines would permit. Bolton alighted from the train at Paddington at three o’clock on a sunny January afternoon. He left his man to look after his luggage and went straight to his club, Faggs in St. James’s Street, and at once telephoned Vortex. Vortex was out, but he had left a message. Would Mr. Bolton do nothing until he had seen Mr. Vortex, who would be in at six o’clock sharp. But Bolton was in no mood to remain inactive for the best part of three hours awaiting the convenience of Mr. Vortex. He had had quite enough of marking time in New York, and on the trip across the Herring Pond. He took a taxi-cab to Martin Stone’s flat in the Temple. It took a lot of finding and when Bolton mounted three flights of stairs and hammered on a Queen Anne knocker attached to a formidable door on which in faded white was painted "Mr. Martin Stone,” he felt in his bones that he was engaged on a wild goose chase. There was no answer to his rather peremptory summons. He knocked again, and discovered a reticent electric bell push, which he duly pressed, and waited. At long last there were sounds within, and the door opened. There stood Martin Stone in full evening dress, and smoking an enormous pipe. “By Jove, Bolton!” he axclaimed. "Where on earth do you come from?” “New York,” said Bolton. “Arrived an hour ago.” "This is a surprise,” said Stone, “and if I may say so, a very welcome surprise. Come in, my dear Bolton. Let me offer you some liquid refreshment. Pray forgive my appearing in this gala costume, but, as a matter of fact, I was dressing myself up to go to my lodge, where they are going to put me into the chair. Ridiculous hours we Masons keep. Are you a Mason?” “Yes,” Bolton admitted, “though a very bad one, I’m afraid. I have never done anything. I was initiated when I was at Cambridge.” Then ensued cctain cryptic remarks

which do not concern us, and Bolton entered Martin Stone’s rooms. A small and pokey hall, panelled in oak which had been painted in sea green, which was almost obliterated with rows of mezzo-tint portraits of Georgian bucks, gave into a really pleasant room, two walls of which were lined from floor to ceiling ’Vvith books. Over a delightful Adam fireplace in which logs were cheerily glowing and scenting the room and reminding one of the country, was a fine Raeburn in an elaborate frame. The place was uncommonly comfortable with old-fashioned furniture, good Persian rugs on his oaken floor, and some striking pictures. A pleasant smell of log fire and warm mahogany and leather, combined with the faint aroma of good cigars, made it pecularly attractive to Bolton. “Sit ye down,” said Stone, indicating a huge and enticing arm-chair by the fire. “It’s awfully good of you to look me ip. I feel most frightfully flattered, you know. I had no idea that you were in England. 1 thought you were in New York or Chicago, or somewhere like that, and were going to California or Palm Beach for the winter. I always get mixed up about these American resorts. I’m hanged if I know whether Palm Beach is in New Jersey or in Atlantic City, though I think Atlantic City is somewhere near Wisconsin. Have a drink.” “No thanks.” “Smoke?” “No, I’m not going to keep you long.” “The Lodge doesn’t open for another half an hour. So don’t you worry about that. As I’m the most important and the absolutely indispensable person in the performance to-night, they’ll have to wait for me if it comes to that.” It was obvious that Mr. Martin Stone desired to be hospitable, as palpable as he appeared to be pleased with the appearance of his visitor. He produced cigars and cigarettes of many kinds. He said he would make Bolton tea, did he desire it, and toast him toast into the bargain. He brought out his whisky decanter, and his little bottles of mineral waters. But Bolton would have nothing to do with any of it. He listened to Stone’s affabilities and replied to them in kind. Stone spoke of Maud’s illness, of which he had heard. They mutually sympathised with Maud. Then they spoke of the extraordinary disappearance of Miss Jacqueline Croft. “Most amazing!” said Stone. “The most extraordinary thing I have ever encountered.” It was then that Bolton got his chance. “I suppose,” he said, “that you don’t know anything about that particular matter?” He said it in such a way that there could not possibly be any mistaking his meaning. Certainly Martin Stone understood. He took up the challenge before Bolton had realised that he had flung down the glove. “Look here, Bolton,” said Stone. “Irr. about fed up with this business. I should lie to you if I didn’t associate you with it when you turned up just

now. I’ve had detectives following me, I’ve been subjected to the most monstrous annoyance about Miss Croft.” “Well,” said Bolton. “You haven’t answered my question. Do you know anything about Miss Croft?” “I —why should I?” “I’m sure I don’t know why you should. But I ask you a simple question.” “Is that why you came here?” “It is.” “I might have known it.” “I certainly gave you credit for doing so. Forgive me for saying so, I cannot possibly imagine why you should think that I called upon you for any other purpose.” “My dear Bolton,” said Stone, “will you take my word that I know nothing about Miss Croft —absolutely nothing. My only interest in her is as you know. I was deeply impressed by her. 1 was anxious to ask her to marry me. 1 don’t see why I should not let you know that she unequivocally declined to entertain my proposition. Beyond that I fear I can tell you nothing. And, if you are responsible for the annoyance from which I have suffered lately from these detective fellows, I’d be obliged if you’d cease it. If you don’t, I shall, in self-defence, have to take some fetaliative measures. Hang it all, it is nothing short of criminal persecution.” “Then you know nothing of Miss Croft?” “Nothing.” “You don’t know whether she is dead or alive?” “No.” “Y"ou swear it?” “Of course, I swear it. But what difference does that make? I tell you I have not the remotest idea of where the poor girl it, or whether she is alive or dead. I hope to heaven she may be alive.” In his excitement Mr. Stone mopped his forehead. He had worked himself into a positive frenzy of defence. “And yet,” said Bolton, unmoved, “I have it on good authority that you were seen in Paris a few days ago in the company of Miss Croft.” “Who told you that infernal lie?” “Never mind who t&ld me, or what other sources of information are available to me,” retorted Bolton imperturbably. “I want to have this out with you here and now. And you’ll find it a job beyond your capacity to bluff me.” “I have no desire to bluff you or to deceive you in any way. I tell you I was not in Paris or anywhere else a few days ago, with Miss Croft.” On the face of it, it would really appear that Stone was telling the truth; Bolton weakened. After all, what proof had he? What reasonable assumption? On the contrary, his whole feeling was that it was most highly improbable and extremely repugnant to him. He felt, almost, that he would rather his little Miss Jack were dead than that this story should be true. He felt that his visit to Stone was premature, that it would have been wiser to have seen the detectives first of all. But, having come, lie determined to go through with it. here, Stone, I’m going to be

quite frank with you. There’s no hole-and-corner mystery about my suspicions, and, if I may say so, knowledge. I suppose you will not deny meeting Mrs. Elstree in Paris?” Stone hesitated a moment. It seemed to Bolton that the man went a little pale. “No,” he answered, “why should I? But I was not aware that you knew Norah Elstree.” “You went on to Mentone, I suppose ?” “Mentone? Why Mentone? What the dickens has Mentone got to do with it?” “I had an idea that you were escorting a niece of yours down there—a Miss Benham, if I am not mistaken.” Then a most unmistakable and somewhat startling change took place in Mr. Martin Stone’s appearance and demeanour. “So that’s your mysterious source of information, is it?” he exclaimed, with a display of contemptuous laughter that did not deceive Bolton. “That accounts for many things. Now 1 begin to see light. How in the name of all that’s inscrutable has Norah Elstree got mixed up in this business? And what in thunder has Miss Bentham got to do with Miss Jacqueline Croft?” “I understood your niece’s name was Benham?” Bolton remarked quietly. “Benham or Bentham, what does it matter?” “I suppose it doesn’t; but I have reason to suppose that that young lady was Jacqueline Croft.” There was no question about it. Mr. Martin Stone looked very ill at ease, if not actually frightened. “Look here, Bolton, what are you driving at?” “I should think that would be obvious to the lowest intelligence, and, although I shouldn’t class your intellect very high, I certainly give you credit for not being an utter fool. Now, my friend, I’m going to have a straight answer to a straight question. That lady in whose company you were seen in Paris was recognised as Miss Jacqueline Croft ” “But Mrs. Elstree has never seen the girl or heard of her,” interrupted Stone. “I shouldn’t be so sure about that if I were you. I take it you will agree that Lady Maud Genge knows Miss Croft?” “What has Lady Maud to do with it?” “She and Mrs. Elstree are acquainted with each other.” “First I’ve heard of it. They certainly never knew each other the last time I had the pleasure of meeting both ladies.” “You can take it from me that it is so, nevertheless,” said Bolton, “and you can also take it from me that you’ll find yourself in a pretty mess if you don’t behave frankly and honestly with me about this business. Where is Jacqueline Croft?” “I tell you I don’t know. How often do you want me to repeat myself?” Stone was sullenly stubborn. Bolton saw that he meant to say nothing; but he knew that it was no good bluffing. “Very well,” said Boltoxv/;‘Tve given

you every chance of explaining yourself. You see fit to adopt your present attitude. So be it. I must leave the police to deal with you.” “Don’t you threaten me,” Stone burst out. “I’m not going to stand that sort of thing. What the devil has the girl got to do with you, anyhow—the daughter of a criminal who, but for the wreck of the Queen of Peru, would be serving a term of penal servitude at the present time. A nice fuss to make over the daughter of Michael Croft.!” Bolton kept himself well in hand, though he saw blood. “So you know that much, do you? You cur!” “Yes, and a lot more, too. And you’ll oblige me by leaving my premises now—now this instant. And never darken my door again. Go—clear out! Do you hear me?” “I should hear you if I were stone deaf,” calmly retorted Bolton. “And I’m going to take my own time in leaving your hospitable house. Incidentally, if you don’t moderate your tone and keep a civil tongue in your head, I’ll give myself the pleasure of administering a good thrashing to you before I leave.” “Try it on. Bah! all this fuss over the daughter of a dead crook ” “That’ll be just enough from you,” said Bolton with deadly emphasis. “It may interest you to know that Jacqueline Croft is not the daughter of a crook, and that her father is not dead. I should be not a little entertained to witness a meeting between you and Mr. Michael Croft. I rather fancy that you would take many steps to prevent that contingency.” Bolton turned on his heel and strode from the room to the little hall, opened the door and went out on to the staircase and slammed the door behind him. On the whole it had been an eminently unsatisfactory interview; and he had the feeling that he had not come out of it as well as he deserved. But one thing was certain: Martin Stone had seen Jacqueline since her disappearance, even though he might have told the truth when he said he did not know where she was now. The realisation of that gave John Bolton no pleasure, despite the knowledge that Jacqueline was alive. But then he had never wavered from that belief. CHAPTER XIV. Bolton went straight from the Temple to Scotland Yard where he saw the great Paravane with most unsatisfactory results. Paravane had received no communication from Lady Maud Genge concerning Mrs. Elstree’s encounter with Stone and the alleged Jacqueline in Paris, and was Surprised and sympathetic to hear that her ladyship was seriously ill in Madrid. He had, however, acted promptly on the information recently received from Mr. Bolton. The result, however, up to date, had been as he tersely put it “a lemon.” There was not a shred of evidence to prove: that Mr. Stone, who was well-known and respectable with no previous convictions and no record in the mysterious archieves of the Criminal Investigation Department, had

abducted Miss Jacqueline Croft or was in any way restraining her liberty. Indeed there was no atom of proof of the existence of Miss Croft. Theories were all very well; but facts were facts. Mrs. Elstree’s statement had been thoroughly investigated with the result that it was established beyond doubt that Mr. Stone had been in Paris at the time stated, but he had certainly not gone to Mentone, and the only evidence that he had been in the company of a Miss Benham, said to be his niece, and who was stated to exactly resemble Miss Jacqueline Croft, depended on Mrs. Elstree’s statement. “There is really nothing to go on,” Paravane summed up. “It all sounds to me highly improbable, and it is quite incapable of proof or otherwise. You can’t do anything to a man who refuses to say anything about a lady friend with whom he was seen in a Paris restaurant. The whole idea is preposterous. Then again, Mrs. Elstree did not know Miss Croft. It was only her description of the unknown girl to Lady Maud some time afterwards that gave rise to the rumour.” And that was all John Bolton could get out of Scotland Yard. At six he saw Vortex, and the result was practically the same, though it is true that Vortex regarded Martin

Stone’s beha viour as distinctly open to suspicion. He was evasive in hia answers and obviously embarrassed. But as the worldly-wise Vortex admitted, all that might arise from a variety of causes quite unconnected with the missing Miss Croft. Mr. Stone conceivably might be purposely shielding some other woman. There was nothing criminal in that; on the contrary it might turn out that he was entirely unblameworthy. His chambers had been dos*Jy watched and his movements skilfully shadowed. Certainly since his return to London he had had no communication with anybody w-ho could po«u»} be taken for Miss Jacqueline. True, his chambers had not been because there was no legal justification for taking such a course. It be taxing the credulity of anybody w ask him to believe that he was keeping Miss Croft a prisoner in his rooms in the Temple. “No, sir,” said Mr. Vortex, me, it is all a wild scare, arising 0 of the gossip of two ladies, and you • and Lady Maud Genge’s, most natura* anxiety to leave no stone unturnea find this poor young woman.” (To be continued.)