The Nets of Fate

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 328, 13 April 1928, Page 5

The Nets of Fate

====►♦"<=== SERIAL STORY

By

OTTWELL BINNS

CHAPTER 11. On her brother’s entrance the girl started from her seat in pleased surprise. “Why, Pat ” she began, but the young man interrupted her . with the brusqueness characteristic of brothers “How do you do, Jocelyn? Glad to see you looking so fit after your ad ventures!” “How did you hear? When did you return?” the girl asked quickly. “I returned this afternoon,” he answered, seating himself at the table, “and I heard about the accident the day but one after it happened. You forget the resources of modern liners The Tugela runs a daily paper, and three days ago we had the news by tireless, though, of course, I didn’t know how near a squeak you and Aunt had until Dory Paxton told me au hour ago. I expected to find you w ith hair turned grey with fright.” . At the mention of the name of his informant a slight blush appeared in the girl’s delicate face, and a closer observer than her brother might have noticed a certain confusion of demeanour. She carried both off, however, with a light laugh. “Oh, I assure you, Pat, I was not

greatly frightened; but, of course, I did not realise how terrible the danger Wa s. It upset aunt, and she is still Reiving medical attention. We were . ® test to be taken out of the burn train, you know.” Pat Ambrose nodded, and for a foment gave his attention to the soup hich had been placed before him; he asked: “Who was the man ho rescued you? Have you found out yet?" **is sister shook her head. No. I wish I had. The papers tated that he declined to give his 1 hir**’ and as ke d isa PP eareci in a red motor the moment we reached arlisle, they have not been able to discover him. The “Daily Wire” this hinted that it knew, but bend declaring that he was a gentlecir Q i Ve . ry prominent in financial idph* gave no indication of his ts* ty * Very likely it knows no more ia jn anybody else.” i n ? er brother laughed. “Very likely own- ’ you won’t catch the ‘Wire’ to fbat. Those who run it ysi'y well how that sort oi' thing

goes down with the unthinking niultitude. What sort of a man was this hero?” Jocelyn Ambrose laughed. “Even that I can’t tell you. All that I know is that he was tall g,nd thin, and had a rather abrupt way of speaking. But his face was so black with grime and stained with blood from a cut in his forehead, that I am quite sure that after he had washed I should not have known him again. So it is no use asking me to describe him.” The young man nodded his head, then he said thoughtfully, “I wonder if there is anything in that ‘Daily Wire’ hint after all?” He broke off and laughed. “It would be a trifle odd if ho turned, out to be one of those millionaires whom you so despise, Sis!” Jocelyn Ambrose joined in his laughter. “Can any good thing come out of Nazareth?” she quoted lightly. “I shall believe in the heroism and chivalry of millionaires when solid proof is set before me—not before, Pat, and you know how prejudiced 1 am. I think I shall begin to disfike even you, if you succeed in your sordid ambition.” She laughed again, then said quickly, “You have not told me what you are doing in England, Pat. Neither aunt nor I was expecting you from Africa for another three months at least. I hope things are going all right?” “Fairly well,” he answered, a slight *rown gathering on his bronzed face. “I am here on busines that may take a iittle time, but I shall have to go back eventually.” He broke off, and asked abruptly, “Are you going out to-night?” Jocelyn Ambrose quite understood that her brother was disinclined to enter into confidences about the business which accounted for his unexpected return to England. His manifest reserve worried her a little, but she gave no sign of it as she replied easily, “Yes, I am going to a dance at the Harding-Harding’s. Why do you ask? Would you care to come? I can telephone that I am bringing you with me ” “No! Jocelyn, I implore you!” her brother cried in mock terror. “I wouldn't go to the Harding-Harding’s dance for untold wealth. I should be bored to death. But as you are going out, I will go with you, and you can drop me at Carlow Gardens. It is on

yotir way to tlie Hardings, and there’s a man there who I want to see! You don’t piind?” “Of course not!” she answered, and then the conversation drifted to channels that have nothing to do with this story. An hour later as he stepped out the electric brougham at Carlow Gardens, Pat Ambrose paused with his hand on the door. “Will you be late, Jocelyn?” The girl shook her head. “I think not. It’s only my friendship with Mary Harding that takes me to the dance at all. . It is sure to be a stodgy affair. I shall probably return about two.” “Then you might pick me up here, and I’ll go back with you, and we’ll have a long chat. I shall be very busy while I am in England, 4 and there won’t be much chance of a talk after to-night.” “Delighted, of course, Pat. 1 will call for you about one.” “Right-o!” said her brother, “the number is seven.” Then he moved toward an open gate, immediately in front of him. Jocelyn Ambrose drove in to the Harding-Harding’s, and found the dance less “stodgy” than she had anticipated. Indeed, it was almost a brilliant affair —for the Harding-Hard-ing’s—the presence of a personage, in the shape of a Russian Grand Duke, having attracted a number of people who usually passed by the HardingHarding’s dances; white the further presence of a number of Americans, who were determined to enjoy themselves, helped things to go with an unexpected swing. The girl forgot her dire anticipation. She danced several dances, sat one out with Mary Harding, and then looked thoughtfully at the next dance on her programme. It was a waltz, and opposite it were initials which she had written herself. The waltz began, and no partner appeared for her. A little expression of disappointment came on her beautiful face, and she sat with eyes rivetted. on the entrance to the ballroom. It was the second time she had so sat, and as she waited she was conscious of a little stirring of indignation in her heart. Then a man stepped under the arch .of roses at the entrance to the ball-.

room, and stood there looking round. He was tall, perhaps eight and twenty years of age, and handsome after a fashion. Just now he was clearly searching the room for someone. His eyes met those of Jocelyn Ambrose, and he started to make his way toward her. As he moved to leave the bower he looked backward over his shoulder, and the girl, watching, wondered if someone had called him. When he reached her the anxious look was still on his face.

“You are very late, Dorian!” the girl whispered reproachfully. “It was entirely unavoidable, Jocelyn,” he replied quickly. “I had an accident and . cut my hand on a broken wineglass. It was a long time before I could staunch the bleeding, and in the end I had to telephone for a doctor. I rang up four before I found one at home. It is amazing that such a thing can be possible. In the case of a really serious accident anything might happen. . . . But that is my excuse, dearest, for this late arrival. I should have sent you a message, but for the fact that I was expecting to be able to start myself every moment.” The little surge of indignation of which the girl had been conscious had quite passed away at the first hurried words of explanation, and was replaced by anxiety. “I hope the cut is not serious,” she said, looking at him with sympathetic eyes. “More troublesome than serious,” Dorian Paxton replied, with a halfsmile. "You see the bandage compels me to wear a glove two sizes too large, and I am afraid that dancing is entirely out of the question. It might open the wound again.” “Then you certainly must not dance,” said Jocelyn with decision. “And really I do not mind, I am rather tired.” “Supper?” he suggested. “We can find a quiet table and forget the world.” A smile came on the girl’s face. Rosy cheeks! Bright eyes. Sure signs of pure blood. Give your kiddies Sulfarilla Tablets. They purify and enrich the blood, la Sd a box. 8.

She looked toward the elderly matron who did deputy for her aunt as chaperone. “There- is Mrs. Perowne! I am under her wing you know, but I do not suppose she will mind. The duties of a chaperone sit very lightly upon her; that is why I selected her, and really It is obvious that she is far more interested in old General Shanklin than in my humble self.” “Scandalously obvious!” replied her companion lightly. “To-night she is the embodiment of the proverb, ‘While there’s life there’s hope.’ ” “Shame on you, Dorian,” said the girl laughing softly. “She is really a dear old thing, and she has been a widow for ten years.” Her gaze turned toward the estimable lady in question, and for a moment watched smilingly her .animated conversation with the gallant general. Then she turned to her companion once more. Apparently he was not greatly interested in the little comedy of quite elderly people. His eyes were turned toward the bowered doorway through which he had passed as he entered the ballroom. There was a slight frown on his forehead, and again he wore the expression of anxiety. “Are you expecting someone, Dorian?” she asked suddenly. The young man started at the question, and his face flushed h little. - "Good heavens, no Jocelyn? Whatever put that idea into your head.” The girl laughed. “Oh, you looked as if you were, that it all!” She glanced toward her chaperone. The old general was leaning toward her, and the conversation had grown even more animated. She nodded toward them, and smiled tolerantly. "I think we may safely run the gauntlet, Mrs. Perowne will never see me go.” She rose to her feet and accompanied by the young man passed to the supper room, where her escort found a secluded table under a -large palm. She laughed as he placed a chair for her. “Really this is very nice, Dorian,” she said. “If Mrs. Perowne i* 3S happen to remember me, she will have a little difficulty in finding mt. ;

. . . Yes ... a coffee ice, please. I could not possibly face anything else at this time of the night.” A servant brought the ice, and a glass of wine for her companion. She noticed that the latter’s hand shook a little as he stretched it to take the glass, and that just a little of the wine was spilled upon the cloth. “Dorian,” she said anxiously, “I am afraid that you are not well. That accident must have been worse than you said. You really ought not to have come here.”

Paxton gave a laugh. _“Oh, it is really nothing,” he said. “But when the thing was done I stumbled over a chair and had rather -a bad shaking. I shall feel better shortly. This wine will help’” He drained it at a gulp, and forced himself to something like animation. “Almost,” he said smilingly, “I could bless the accident, because of the concern it begets in you, Jocelyn! It gives me hope—that you will yet do as I wish, and put an end to this waiting.” Jocelyn Ambrose shook her head. “Not yet,” she said, cheerfully. “I do not like secret marriages—which have to be announced in the ‘Morning Post’ months afterwards, when all one’s acquaintances put their heads together to say scandalous things. I am not in any hurry* I have patience, you know. If you were going away for a long time, it might be different.” “But if I should have to go?” he persisted. She looked at him with smiling eyes. “Then, as I said, the case would be altered.” “Jocelyn,” he said, leaning forward eagerly. “I believe you would agree, if ” “ ‘Blep&ed is he

quoted merrily, but the colour in her face and the glance of her eyes confirmed Dorian Paxton’s faith. He saw himself on the verge of securing that for which he had hoped for months. In a flash his mind saw the way opening to the object of his desires, but he was careful not to voice what he saw, and turned his face away to hide the smile of triumph that came. A moment later he glanced at her again. “You are very tantalising, Jocelyn. Will you never be serious?” Jocelyn peeped under the spreading palm leaf, and laughed again. “I shall be serious in exactly three minutes,” she said. “There is Mrs. Perowne with dear old Shanklin, and I have no doubt she is looking for me. I arranged to run her home at one-thirty, and it is close on that time now.”

“So soon?” asked her companion in disappointed tones. “Yes, ‘so soon’,” she mimicked, “though it looks as if Mrs. Perowne would grant an extension of time if

“Ask her!” Paxton broke in quickly. “Impossible!” the girl said smilingly. “There is a reason why I should not. I promised to pick up Pat at No. 7 Carlow Gardens, at two o’clock. He is going back with me. We’re going to have a long chat.” She was not looking at him when she spoke, being interested in General Shanklin and her chaperone, but when her companion did not reply she turned to him, and then asked in sudden anxiety: “Dorian, whatever is the matter? You are not well again.” There seemed considerable ground for the statement. Dorian Paxton had grown very white. There was a startled look in his eyes, and tfie

right hand, which rested upon tbc table, shook a little. “What is it?” she asked anxiously, watching him witn anxious eyes. “Only—a—little—spasm,” he stammered in reply. “It—it will pass.” He signalled to a hovering footman, said something to him in a rapid undertone, and a moment later the man returned with a stiff glass of cognac. He drank the brandy, as he had done the wine—at a gulp. The colour came back to his face, the startled look gave place to one which she could not read. She opened her lips to speak again, but he was before her. “I feel better now,” he said hurriedly. “The cognac has done me a world of good. Please do not look so anxious, Jocelyn. It was really nothing—l—l shall be all right tomorrow. . . . Where did you say you had to pick up your brother?” “At No. 7 Carlow Gardens!” (To be continued). |