The Nets of Fate

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 357, 18 May 1928, Page 5

The Nets of Fate

— := - SERIAL STORY

By OTTWELL BIN NS

CHAPTER XXV. —(Continued.) Three hours later he sought her and found her with Mary Abingdon. “You have found him?” “Yes, he is at Rouen, at the Convent °f the Sacred Heart, and in a couple of days they are sending him down to Paris to see Nanterre.” “Who is Nanterre?” “He is the greatest oculist in Europe. Since the war began he has worked miracles.” “I must go to Rouen, before my husband leaves.” “There is a hospital train running there within the next hour or so. I thought you would wish to go. so I secured you a seat. You will be there before evening, and X hope you will dud Major Lancaster better than reported.” “Thank you. Dr. Sellars,” answered Jocelyn, quietly, “1 am very glad you were able to anticipate my wishes. In the dusk of an October evening Jocelyn Lancaster drove through the streets of Rouen to the hospital at the Convent of the Sacred Heart. She Land there a sympathetic French surgeon, who, when he heard the obiect of her visit, passed her on to Sister Marie. “So beautiful,” he whispered to himself as he watched them go down the corridor, “and the man so young, it is the great tragedy!” And Sister Marie, as she moved by visitor’s side, unconscious of her identity, babbled of the patient the ■udy wished to see. ’lt is very pitiful,” she said. “Al*ays he holds a letter which has not oeen opened, and which he will not have rjj* r «ad to him. and sometimes I hmk he is afraid to know what is j 'ten there. Then at other times { s «e him raise it to his lips so; and . he knows that it is full of ‘ Z ‘ or him, though how that can he i„ en sea l ' s not broken, and the from" unread - 1 know not ... It is 4 ‘ a lady,” she continued naively-, , ' ater . “a lady whom he madam V 1 am sure ot - and perhaps is the lady?”

Jocelyn did not feel that the question was in any way an impertinence. Sister Marie’s simple curiosity xvas not of the sort that gives offence. She nodded as she replied, “Yes, I am his wife.” , For a moment Sister Marie was too astonished to speak. Then she said gently. “And you have come to him. You will make him glad, madame. “I hope so,” answered Jocelyn, “from my heart I hope so.” “When one hopes that way for another's happiness, heaven is often kind, madame.” They came to the entrance of the small ward where John Lancaster was. and the Sister put up a warning finger. „ „ “Do not speak, madame. You shall see him first. In the cot at the far corner there.” Jocelyn Lancaster’s gaze flashed down the ward to. the cot where her husband lay. She saw the ominous bandage over the eyes, one arm . sling the other resting on the bed and the letter which she bad sent weeks ago lying close to his hand. Even while she watched, the hand touched the letter as « the sick man wished to assure himself that it xa w'as thinkWdeeplv. Her he art smote please; but do not explain. Leave that to me.” . oicter Marie nodded her comprehenctenued lightly down the o’ward 0 ’ward followed by Lancaster’s wife At the sound of their steps, 1 ancaster's hand covered the letter on iht bed, and his face turned toward them. “Monsieur Lancaster,” said the Sister smilingly, “there is a lady to see you, hut her name I must not ted you.” She nodded and smiled encouragingly at Jocelyn, and then, while the

latter still stood there silent, deftly stretched a large screen, shutting them off from the gaze of others. “Not a word, Pierre,” she whispered, as she saw a merry jest shaping on the lips of the boy from Yonne. “It is his wife. She only heard to-day, and she has come at once from Pl The boy stayed his jest, but laughed all the same, and for the next few minutes kept up such a chatter that no sound from that screened corner was audible in the ward. Sister Marie understood and smiled. Pierre might work among the wine-vats, but he had the instincts of a gentleman. And behind the screen Jocelyn Lancaster stood for one long moment, unable to find words to say; while her husband, by that strange apprehension which comes not of sight or touch or hearing, divined her pres ence. “Jocelyn!” he whispered, “Jocelyn!” “Oh, John,” she whispered back. “John!” She stooped toward him, and, as j

| she did so, the uninjured arm gath I ered her to him. “How did you know?” he asked “When did you hear?” “Only to-day, by accident. I heard a soldier telling what you had done; he said that you were hurt, that you were—were —. And I came as soor. as I could find out where you were “But not from England?” he inter rupted wonderingly. “No, from Paris. Mary Abingdon has a private hospital here, and I came oui to help her and —and —to be nearei you.” “To be nearer me?” “That was my real reason,” she answered, “though of course I was glad to have the opportunity to do mj share, and to help in some real work.’ “But, Jocelyn, you did not feel thai way when I left South ” “You have not read —I mean my letter has not been read to you. You ought to have let Sister Marie oper it. I have waited weeks for youi answer, and ” “I only got it after I came here, anc

for the present—er—reading is forbidden me.” '‘Ob, my dear!” she whispered passionately. “I know! 1 know! But you must not worry. They talk of Nanterre. They say that he can work miracles. You must hope ”

“And in the meantime, the letter, your letter? It wants an answer.” “I will read it,” she said quickly. “I am glad, after all, that you did not let Sister Marie do so, that it is left for me to do , and to make you happy.” She stretched a hand for the letter, tore it open, and began to read hurriedly the words which she had penned out of a full heart. There -were words that she stumbled over, sentences that were punctuated by sharp intakes of breath, or little gasping sobs; but he listened to the end without comment, and, when she had finished, he still was silent, though she saw that he was greatly moved. After a time he spoke. “My dear,” he said, “that is the most beautiful letter I have ever received. If I had guessed what was in it when Sister Marie brought it to me—and yet I am glad I did not, for then you would not have read it to me yourself.”

“And the answer?” she asked urgently.

“There is only one that is possible.” He drew her toward him and kissed

her, not once, but many times. They were silent for a little time, then he said: “There is a passage in your letter which makes me curious, Jocelyn. You say Pat did not shoot Bierstein as I though—has that business been cleared up?” Rapidly she told him what she knew, what Vera Vanity suspected; and before she had finished he interrupted. "Vera’s right! Paxton knows too much for an innocent man. It was just like him to try to use his own evil to the undoing of others. He knew that Pat had called, because you told him, and he knew that I had called, probably from Bierstein himself. He owed you a grudge for marrying me, and he owed me many a one for things done in Africa, and so he built up this tissue of falsehood to destroy our happiness. But as I said, he knows too much. We must let the authorities know ” “They already know,” interrupted Jocelyn. “Pat and Vera went to j Scotland Yard some time ago, and the j inspectors went to arrest Dorian Pax- : ton, but found that he had fled.”

The husband nodded. “Another proof of guilt,” he said. “But what is it to you and me, for whom love has broken into flower at last?” (To be continued.)