The Nets of Fate

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 329, 14 April 1928, Page 19

The Nets of Fate

SERIAL STORY

By

OTTWELL BINNS

CHAPTER 111. ‘Who—who lives there?” asked the young man. He had the air of a man who did not know what to say, or what course to pursue. But the girl did not notice it, and answered readily enough. “I don’t know. Pat did not say.” Dorian Paxton was silent for a moment, then he said -with a careless air. “I think I should let Mr. Pat make his own way to Lancaster Gate if I were you.” "If you were I, Ad knew Pat as well as I do, you would do nothing of the kind,” she answered smilingly. “If I don’t call for him, he will think i am too tired, and will make his way to the club instead of Lancaster Gate.”

“But,” her companion objected, "Carlow Gardens is out of your way, that is, it is out of your way from Mrs. Perowne’s. If I w r ere you ”

“You would call for Pat, as 1 shall. And see, there is Mrs. Perowne signalling. I must go, and then you will loel at liberty to go home and rest, Dorian. You are not at all well, I c an see. .. . No,” she continued, as made as if to accompany her, Please do not trouble, dear. If I jtaow Mrs. Perowne she will be at ten minutes in putting on her c *°ak. Run home, dear boy, and ring up in the morning to tell me you quite well.” She gave him a hand, and a moment jater joined her chaperone. Dorian Paxton stood and watched them out °f the supper-room, then he drank another cognac, and made a hasty departure. During the few hours she had spent the Harding-Harding’s, one of the lO Ss, for which it is justly famed, had upon the metropolis, and ? e chauffeur having to drive careJocelyn realised that she was Jpady late when they turned in the Jkection of Carlow Gardens. The fflowledge, however, did not greatly Q mturb her, as she was sure Par yyum wait for her. It was with confluence, therefore, that she waited ir»

thje brougham, while the chauffeur left his seat and disappeared through the iron gateway of No. 7. He was gone quite a long time, and she was just beginning to wonder what kept him, when she heard a stumble of feot, and the next moment the door was opened. It was the chauffeur. “If you please, Miss Jocelyn, I can’t make anyone hear in that house. I’ve pressed the bell-push till my rhumb is sore!” “Did you hear the bell?” she asked. “Yes, miss! It sounds like a tirealarm, and if there’s anybody in that house he is bound to hear it! There’s something jolly queer about It, too! The outside door is half open, and the ’all door isn’t shut, which isu’t the way to leave a house on a night like this. There isn’t a light in the nail, neither, but there’s, a room in the back lit up. I can see the light shining in the hall, Miss Jocelyn.” “Then there must be someone in the house,” his mistress replied quickly. “Wait here In charge of the brougham and I’ll go myself.” “It’s mortal thick, Miss Jocelyn. You can’t see a ” “Fudge, James!” she interrupted, with a little laugh. “I’ve been out in a fog before, and enjoyed it!” She wrapped her fur cloak around her, and, stepping out of the vehicle, passed through the gateway of No. 7. It was very dark, and the fog certainly was confusing, but a line of railings at the side of the path gui led her straight to the door. She mounted the three steps in front, noted that the two doors were open as the man had said, then, feeling for the bellpush, placed her thumb upon it and pressed it hard. The loud whirr of the electric bell sounding through the silence almost startled her. She hastily removed her thumb, aud waited. There was no response. Impatiently she t 'ied again, making the bell sound for quite half a minute. Still, her summons was disregarded, nor was there auy sound of movement In the sileW house. She waited a moment or two, and glanced hack toward the road. The lights of the brougham, dimly visicie, gave her courage. She turned again to the open doors, and to the light shining into the hall from the room that the chauffeur had mentioned; then she pushed the outer door further back, and after a moment’s further hesitation stepped inside. Before the second door with the frosted glass panel, Jocelyn Ambrose hesitated once more. To pass through it into the hall beyond seemed an unwarrantable Intrusion. After a moment’s thought she tapped on the glass with an ivory-handled fan that had been in her hand when she left the brougham. There was no response, and pushing the door more open, she rapped quite hard upon the panel. The house still maintained its inscrutable silence. Then

thrusting the inner door wide open, she stepped boldly into the hall. A heavy carpet drowned any sound that her lightly shot feet might have made. The only illumination was that which came from the half-open door of the lighted room, and the hall was full of strange shadows. Looking round, she descried a staircase with a broad bannister, a hat and coat rack on which hung one or two articles of male outdoor attire. Round the walls hung trophies of Zulu shields and assegais, two or three antelopes’ heads, and one of a lion which seemed to grin malevolently at her amid the shadows. Further, a large gong of beaten copper was slung on a curious stand that seemed to he made of bones. As her eyes lighted on this an idea occurred to her, and taking a barbaric drum-stick which hung upon the stand she smote the gong twice. The noise reverberated through the silent house. It seemed to her, as she waited there, that anyone in the house must have heard the rumbling thunder the gong made, and when its vibrations had ceased, without any sign of human presence having been given, she stepped quickly to the door of the lighted room, tapped smartly with her fan; and then thrust the door wide open and looked round. There was no one In the room. It was a beautiful room, furnished in Sheraton style, and lighted from the ceiling with electric lights hidden in Moorish lamps of quaint design. The debris of a supper remained on the table, with covers set for two, and two or three empty wine bottles on the sideboard showed that whoever had supped there had not been sparing of refreshment. There was nothing else of note, and after a moment she turned and left the room, and standing in the hall once more, wondered what she should do. It seemed clear that neither her brother uor anyone save herself was in this silent house, and she was oppressed with a sense of mystery. Why should the place have been deserted —as apparently it had been? As the questions shot through her mind, her eyes alighted on a door which stood wide open, from Its position plainly giving access to a room at the front of the house, and at the same moment she caught the gleam of a switch just inside the door. She moved toward it, and, with her hand upon it, paused. She could see nothing in the recesses of the room, but close to the door there was an overturned chair. She stared at it fascinated. An overturned chair in itself is nothing, but taken in conjunction with that deserted house, to Jocelyn Ambrose it seemed full of sinister suggestion. The silence became suddenly appalling. The darkness of the room seemed full of menace, and as she hesitated with her hand upon the switch, to her alert senses a new phenomenon manifested itself, a scent of something familiar, which for the

moment she could not place, but which stung the nostrils a little. Fear of that dark and silent room surged in her heart. She dropped her hand from the switch, and turned to the hall door. She had actually taken a step or two toward it when her courage came back with a rush, and with it an overwhelming, impelling curiosity. She simply must know whether there was anything in that room, or whether, like a child, she had been frightening herself with mere mental bogies. She turned round, went back to the door, and resolutely pressed down the switch. Instantly the room was flooded with light, revealing the pallor of her own face, and her beautiful lips pressed resolutely together. She looked round the room with apprehensive eyes—and then stared in amazement. The room looked as if a tornado had passed through it. Chairs and tables were overthrown, and at the window a long curtain hung from a single pole-ring as if it had been savagely torn away to unmask someone seeking concealment behind it. A screen lay tilted against the grand piano, and’ a chair thrown against an ebony stand was plainly responsible for a broken statuette of the Venus de Milo, which lay in the hearth. There had been a fire in the grate, but it was now grown to cold ashes, while by one of the few' chairs -which still preserved its customary position was a small Moorish table with two white and gilt coffee cups upon it. From her place by the door, Jocelyn Ambrose noted all these things in one comprehensive glance, and even while she looked she -wondered -what was responsible for such disorder. It looked, she thought, exactly as if a wild bull had been turned into the room, .and goaded to do all the damage possible. She stared round more carefully, and a yard or more beyond the doorway, caught sight of a crumpled handkerchief. Stepping forward she picked it up, and looked at it curiously. If was of silk, -with a monogram in the corner, the letters

of which were so intertwined that she could scarcely make them out. She did not trouble to do so, but, standing there, she gazed toward the further end of the room, searching for any sign that would account for the strange disorder and wreckage* around her. She found a most unexpected one, and as she did so a little cry broke from her lips, and she staggered backward against a Buhl cabinet, and remained staring, with the fixed gaze of fear. The thing that held her gaze was a man’s shoe, standing perpendicular from the heel, with the toe poiuting to the ceiling. It projected from one side of the piano, and as she continued to stare at it, she divined that the owner’s foot was in it, and that he was lying there behind tne piano, 011 his back. Again the acrid smell, which she had noticed before when she had stood by the door with her hand upon the switch, impigned upon her tautened senses, and this time she recognised it. It was the smell of burnt gunpowder. She knew now that she was in the presence of tragedy, that behind the piano was a man who had been shot, but whether he was dead or alive she did not know. The deserted house, the disorder of this once beautiful room, the odour of burnt powder stinging the nostrils, all were explained, and took on a dread significance by reason” of that foot projecting from the side of the piano. For a full minute she stood there shaking with fear, then as a little self-control came to her, for the second time she turned to flee from this silent house, which now stood revealed as a place of tragedy. Even as she did so an- arresting thought flashed through her brain. Pat! Where was he? In the urge of curiosity which the deserted house had occasioned, and in the investigations which had resulted, she had temporarily forgotten the primary object of her presence there. Now it came back to her with stunning force, checking the impulse to flee, and holding her rooted to the place where she had been standing with a still greater dread in her heart. Was that Pat, lying there? As the question shot through her mind, she turned her eyes slowly toward the piano. The foot was still there, and she scrutinised it carefully. Was it Pat’s or somecyie else’s? A foot seen in the position that she saw this one offers very little to help the identification of :he owner, and the soles of dress shoes display a remarkable monotony. Naturally the scrutiny revealed nothing to help her, and she stood there torn between opposite desires, the first to flee from this house of terror, and the second —to settle the cruel doubt which was tearing at her heartstrings. She stood where she was for quite a long time, then at last, with clenched hands and set face, she moved forward, picking her way carefully amid the debris of the room. A dozen steps brought her to the piano, and for a second she stood, her heart thumping w'ildly, afraid to look either round it or over it. Then she braced herself once more, and took a step forward.

“Thank God! Oh, thank God!” There was a note of inexpressible relief in the half-suppressed cry that broke from her lips, and with one hand clutching the piano, she leaned forward a little to look at the man -who lay there. He was between thirty and forty years of age, with features of a handsome Teutonic type, dressed in evening clothes. The dropped chin, the half-opened mouth, the glazed eyes told their own tale, while the ruddy stain on the ruffled evening shirt showed where the bullet that had killed him had penetrated. The man was quite unknown to her, and as he was beyoud any mortal help, Jocelyn Ambrose turned hastily away, and moved hurriedly toward the door, conscious that she was rapidly losing hold of herself. When she reached the hall, she was unreasonably afraid of the shadows of its recesses, and the thought of the dreadful thing in the room behind sent a cold shirer through her. She was feeling faint when she reached the steps, yet tried hard to keep herself in hand. But on the second step, she glanced instinctively to the right, where the light shining through the blinds of the room she had left shed a dim radiance in the fog. Then she had a great shock, for against the light standing between the steps and tiic window she saw the silhouette of a man. At the sound ot her light feet on the steps, the shadow turned, and as it did so, she gave a little cry of fear, then a sobbing gasp, and her over-wrought nerves giving way altogether, she collapsed in a dead faint. CHAPTER IV. Slowly, as one awakens out of a drugged sleep, Jocelyn Ambrose came to herself. Her eyes opened and looked vacantly around, seeing only in the most indistinct fashion, the things which presented themselves to her gaze. “Ah, she will be all right now!” As the words sounded in her ears the veil which had been over her senses was half-lifted. She became conscious of a strong scent of eau-de-cologne, and of the pungent taste

of brandy. The veil was further lifted. The vacancy left her eyes, and, as they grew bright, she awoke to the full consciousness of familiar things. Forms and colours, which at first had seemed a mere indistinct blur, became defined realities, and she realised that she was in her own room, lying on the bed, and that by her side was her maid and another of the servants. “What is the matter?” she asked in a weak voice. “Tell me, Tindall, why ?” The maid Tindall intervened quickly. “It will be better not to speak for a little while, Miss Jocelyn, or the faint may return. It happens that way sometimes.” She closed her eyes and remained perfectly still. She never remembered having fainted before, and knew nothing about such attacks; perhaps it was better to accept Tindall’s advice, since she was experienced in such matters. For a few minutes she remained perfectly still, her mind in a state of suspended animation, and Tindall thoughtfully chafed her hands, and bathed her forehead with the eau-de-cologne. Then, feeling stronger, she opened her eyes, and raised herself a little. 1 “How did it happen, Tindall?” “That I cannot say, Miss Jocelyn. James brought you home from Mrs. Harding-Harding’s in the brougham, and when he opened the door you were lying on the seat unconscious. James and I carried you indoors, and I had you brought up here, as Miss Ambrose is sleeping, and I thought it wise not to disturb her. I think you must have overtaxed your strength at the ball. Miss Jocelyn. But please, ah ” She broke off as the girl fell back upon the pillows, her eyelids fluttering, her mouth working | strangely. “The brandy, quick, Agnes! She ; is fainting again!” The other servant present passed her a wine glass with the spirit in it; and, raising her mistress’s head, Tindall put the glass to her lips. “Drink quickly, Miss Jocelyn!” The girl obeyed her almost automatically, and as the brandy burnt her mouth and throat she revived, and the threatened faint was checked. Tindall gave the wine glass to the other maid, and, as her mistress’s eyes opened again, she said urgently “Please do not try to talk, Miss Jocelyn. There is no need, and to do so just now taxes your strength.” Jocelyn Ambrose laj* perfectly still. ! For the moment she had no desire to 1 speak, or to hear anyone else do so. j With returning consciousness came j the vivid remembrance of all she had ! seen at No. 7 Carlow Gardens, the j strange silence of the house, the dis- ! order of the room in the front, the dead man lying behind the piano, the ; shadow of that other man outlined ; against the light from the window. In i quick succession these things came to her, and at the end of them the inevij table question, what did it all mean? | Scarcely had this question pre--1 sented itself to her mind when another ! followed on the heels of it. Who 4 had killed the man whom she had

seen lying stark in that disordered room? As this last question presented itself the thought of her brother came to her, and she shuddered with apprehension. That Pat could do such a thing was altogether incredible, and yet She had left him at that house of tragedy, and had called for him near the time appointed, to find ho was not there, that the house was empty save for the murderej man. In her first confused thougnt the circumstances seemed to point directly to her brother as the possible slayer of the dead man. and the anguish of the thought was intolerable. She gasped with the pain of it. and opened her eyes, to find the maid watching by her side. “My brother, is he ?” “Mr. Ambrose returned very shortly after you and he left the house together, Miss Jocelyn. He used the telephone and then wrote a note for you, and afterwards went away.” “Where is the note?” she asked quickly. “It is in the boudoir, Miss Jocelyn. If you feel able ” “Fetch it, Tindall!” she said, in a voice so peremptory that the maid departed without further words. She returned bringing an envelope, lightly gummed down, and her mistress, opening it with shaking fingers, took out the Single sheet of notepaper that it held, and rapidly scanned her brother’s message. “Dear Jos (it ran), —The man whom I went to see at Carlow Gardens was, unfortunately, in no condition to discuss business, so I have been forced to return here. In order to save you the trouble of calling for me on your way back, I tried to get through to the Harding-Harding's on the telephone, but couldn’t; therefore 1 I am leaving this note to explain the matter. Pleasant dreams. —Pat.” As she reached the end of the brief note a great wave of relief surged in her heart. The note was so natural, j the explanation so ordinary, that she could not question its authenticity. For the moment the great fear that had overcome her was thrust in the background. It -was not possible that Pat should have killed that man at > Carlow Gardens and then returned to Lancaster Gate to write her a not<=* like that. She could not believe it of him; and when she remembered and told herself that the wrecked room, the creation of so much disorder mu?t have taken an appreciable amount of time, the maid’s testimony of her brother’s early return seemed absolutely conclusive. (To be continued >