GIVING FRIENDS A CHANCE!

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 330, 16 April 1928, Page 5

GIVING FRIENDS A CHANCE!

j It is a real pleasure to call on Doris since she has had to cut down her expenses by half! —which sounds awfully catty, but isn’t, really. The : pleasure consists in being able to take 1 1 her a little “something” sometimes, | of which in her changed c-ircum- j stances she feels the lack. Time was j when a bunch of flowers, a box of | “chocs,” a book, or a new gramophone | record would have been so many J small coals to Newcastle. Now they i are welcome gifts, hailed with unaf- | fected joy. In the old days Doris never gave ! her friends a chance. Before finan- ! cial misfortune assailed her, her home j was so perfectly run that one could detect no flaw. There was never a flower-bowl empty. All the newest! novels found their way to her writ-1 ing table. Her music store had a \

regular monthly order for records chosen from the current lists. Her cigarette boxes were' kept filled with her friends’ favourites as well as her own. Sweets were always miraculously produced from somewhere when we gathered round chez Doris for a cosy evening. Now that the circumstances of her life have so changed, one experiences a very special delight in the opportunity to return in some small degree the hospitality once so generously lavished that there was no loophole for a little gift of guestly grace. And Doris herself is sweeter, more sensitive, altogether more charming since she disccovered that friends may sometimes like to give as well as to take. It is new to us, this pretty, shy responsiveness, this very tender gratitude for an affection that always existed, but the depths of which she obviously did not realise so long as she permitted no one but herself to do the giving. It has lent her very looks an added charm, since she learned some of the secrets of. comradeship that hitherto had been a closed book to her. In giving her friends a chance, Doris has given herself a chance too. A chance to discover, in the humbler reciprocities of comradeship, a joy every bit as sweet as that which attends the role of perpetual Ladv Bountiful. J.H.

circles, and owned mining properties in Rhodesia. These facts, taken in conjunction with the certainty that so characteristically an African weapon as the sjambok was employed in the assault committed before the murder, indicate the obvious line of investigation to be followed, a line the following of which we hope will result in the culprit being brought to justice. Any further particulars which may become known will be reported in our later editions.” As she reached the end of this lucid report, Jocelyn Ambrose, for the second time since a weakening, was conscious of a great wave of relief. Her eyes fixed themselves upon one phrase of the subject—“and that he had been dead about six hours.” She did a sum in nfental arithmetic. It was 7 o’clock when the valet had made his discovery of the crime, and reckoning back, that made the time of the murder about 1 o’clock. It had been a little after 10 when she had left Pat at No. 7 Carlow Gardens, and apart from his own letter there was independent testimony that he had returned to Lancaster Gate almost immediately. Her brother, therefore, she argued, could not have been concerned in the matter, and his calling within an hour or two of the committing of the crime, was just a mere coincidence with no bearing on the affair whatever.

Thus relieved, her thoughts turned ; to herself, to James, the chauffeur, I and to the unknown man who had | stood between the window and the i steps as she came out of that dreadful house There was nothing to be done in relation to pie last of the three. She did not know him, he had been little more than a shadow seen just before she had fainted, and she was half-in-clined to think of him as a mere creation of her imagination. As the matter touched herself she reflected that she knew nothing beyond what was already known to the police, and as she shrank from the publicity any other course would involve, she determined to keep silence. There remained the chauffeur. She must see him, at once, and beg of him to keep his counsel in the matter of the double call at Carlow Gardens. Fortunately he was an old servant, 1 who had been with her aunt, first as a coachman, and latterly as chauffeur,

and devoted as lie was to liis _employer, tHere was likelihood of little difficulty with him. She must see him about that and other things immediately. This decision made, she rang for Tindall, and when dressed, went downstairs to the breakfast-room, and gave instructions for the chauffeur to be sent to her. He came within two or three minutes, an open, pleasantl'aced man of forty, and with her first look Jocelyn Ambrose saw that he guessed why she had sent for him. His glance at the paper lying on the table to her hand, and his obvious air of embarrassment told her that., She looked to see that the door was closed, then she went straight to the point. “Good morning, James! You have seen the special edition which is out this morning?” “Yes, Miss Jocelyn.” “And you know that No. 7 Carlow Gardens is the house where we left my brother last night, and where I called for him as I came back from the ball?” “Yes, miss,” he answered again. "Have you told anyone that we called there?” , “Not a soul, Miss I wouldn t tell it for worlds.” “I thought I could trust your discretion, James, and as I am going to ; ask you to forget altogether that we ever called at Carlow Gardens ” “No difficulty about that. Miss I Jocelyn,” the man broke in earnestly. [ “No, I am sure of that, James, but as I don't want you to keep silence j under any misapprehension of my i motive for asking you to do so, I am ; going to make the truth quite plain to you. You don’t suspect me, for j instance, of being responsible for the

death of Mr. Isaac Bierstein, do you?” “Lord, no! Miss Jocelyn.” The chauffeur smiled at the notion- “ And you wouldn’t think that my brother was likely to do such a terrible thing as to kill ” “No, Miss Jocelyn,” the chapffeur interrupted, his pleasant face clouding a little. “But it has troubled me a bit, thinking that we left Mr. Pat there, and that ’ “Don’t let it trouble you any more, 1 James! Just read this note, and you will see that my brother stayed a very j brief time and then returned here, a fact that any of the servants in the house will confirm.” She handed the chauffeur the note, and' saw that he read it with careful | eyes. When he looked up she spoke again. That man Bierstein was killed about one o’clock according to the police surgeon, so that my brother, vhose call was about ten-thirty, is not the criminal.” “No, Miss Jocelyn, I see that!” The chauffeur was obviously relieved, and the cloud left his face. “There's no need tor us to say anything at either about Mr. Pat or ourselt es. “That is so,” answered Jocelyn. "If fwe could help in any wav, it would ■ j a very different matter, but under the ■ j circumstances it is, I tbink, the wisest I \ course to follow.” j “Yes, Miss Jocelyn.” The girl was silent for a moment, ; then she said hesitatingly. “James, how did I get into the : , brougham? I remember coming out • Of that dreadful house, and I think I r fainted on the steps. 1 remember i nothing after until I came to myself i in my own room. Did you see me? • Did you—” I I “No, Miss Jocelyn. If you’ll re-

member, it was foggy last night, and while you were in that house, it got thicker. X couldn't see the gate, let alone the hause.” “Then how did I get Into the brougham, James?” “Well. Miss Jocelyn, it was this way,” said the chauffeur. “I was sitting at the wheel, thinking that you (were a long time, and that if you didn’t come by the time I had counted a hundred I would go look for you, when I heard a cry from the dire, tion of the house.. I was sure it was you. Miss Jocelyn, and I slipped off the seat and made for the gate. By the time I'd found it, I heard step . an' the next second a gentleman showed up with you in his arms. “ ‘Quick, man,’ he said, ‘your mistress has fainted. Open the door ot the brougham.’ (To be continued).