The Green Bungalow

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 415, 25 July 1928, Page 5

The Green Bungalow

f BY A POWERFUL WRITER.

By

Fred M. White.

Author of “ The Crimson Blind," " The Cardinal Moth.'* " The House on the River," &c., Ac.

CHAPTER XVI—TWELVE O’CLOCK. “Oh, I know what you mean. Of course, I can’t say for an obsolute cer- ; tainty, but I am sure that he is all right. He has been made use of, and pell be used still further if I don’t 'interfere. You came here to-day be- ! cause the manager sent for you.” How did you know that?” Fish- ; bourne asked. i that waiters, among -her people, are very useful to me. nna I always make it a pdint to be ' to them. And servants will talk ; Retimes, you know.” Then you really know what I am here for?” tJ? t > Course 1 do - That’s why I inr: d myself upon you just now. I 'ikon lellI ell you tlle wh °le story if t innr ’ ° Ut because we scoundrels are can’t S r less lo Val to one another, I rhit \. ° “yUting of the kind. But intom°. U i uay r ely upon—l am deeply Frnna S^e< * * n *-He welfare of Miss Koj and Hoy Harley, and lam no) happV ° U ? tU 1 have made them secnlv n 1 h ‘ s ’ However, is a profound r espect b n ” 6en US ’ and 1 want you to vhett SU - redly ’” Fis Hbourne said." But vanish If , Harle y ? And why has he “Won iu mysterious fashion?” though r u 3nkly ’ 1 can>t tell y°uever v 1 i la ' e my suspicions. Whatetatinn° U j? o ’ dou t set near the police th. y° ack home and tell your Hariov u you tan no trace of hand/’ r> Ut tlle mat ter is in safe but d , e as mysterious as you like, j lfvni OQt mention my name, please. Drmv, Can trust me so far, then I can morp lS . e you will he well, and, lining er ’ un l e ss I am exceedingly PlatP you wili your Cellini Plate back again.’ havp ery We H» M Fishbourne said. ‘‘You the «, arouse d my curiosity, but, for Vo Saae °t old times, I will trust g u ’ ailc * as k no further questions. help” 111 be l° n ser than you can that, he rose and held out his f Ami e^?\J la<s our own way tnro* life, see* a H good things we ••xv>, k Y ed without sickness and strife, be** a Wor iderful World it Would kn^ w P ai n or caught cold. We wm,i^ vile ’ hacking cougns to endure, Or need £? Ve i , feel sad or S row old > ed VV oods Peppermint Cure. 50

hand, which Blythe took after a moment’s hesitation. “Thank you, my old friend,” he said, almost humbly. “You make me wish—but it is no using going into that.” Fishbourne went back home fully resolved to carry out all that Blythe had said, and contented himself with announcing that Harley had merely gone off for a day or two on his yacht. This he could not give chapter and verse for, but he professed himself quite to believe the story, though for perhaps the first time in his life he was deliberately misleading his wife. Nettie, however, was not disposed to share this sanguine view. There was no reason whatever why Roy should not have written to her, and she listened to what was being said in the privacy of one of the small drawingrooms with a certain amount of misgiving. Had she known of the interview between Fishbourne and Blythe, she might have been happier. She came down to dinner presently, however, with a smile on her lips, and prepared to take her part in the conversation as if nothing had happened. She was dressed in something simple in the way of black, with no ornaments, except a few flowers which she had culled herself in one of the conservatories. “You are just a little late,” Lady Fishbourne smiled. "I hope Mr. Shute has not been working you too i hard to-day.” | “Indeed he hasn’t.” Nettie laughed. ! “We practically did nothing this morning. But I have had an accident w r ith my watch.” “What, that pretty oval set in diamonds?” Lady Fishbourne asked. “The one that belonged to your mother?” “Yes, indeed.” Nettie explained. “I don’t know how it happened. You know, I only wear it in the evenings, as a rule. I left it on my dressing table this morning ” “I hope there have been no more burglaries,” Shute said with a laugh. “In the present disturbed state of society, wasn’t it rather foolish of you to leave it about?” “I never thought of that,” Nettie said. “At any rate, I left it on my dressing table, and when I went to my bedroom just now to change, I found Bert Marshall’s sells the best.

it lying on the floor with the glass broken. I suppose some of it got into the works, for it had stopped.” “I am sorry to hear that,” Shute said. “Usually you are the spirit of punctuality. And, talking about our work this morning, I am afraid I shall have to get you to make up for it to-night. You must give me an hour after eleven o’clock.”

“What a thing it is to be a literary man,” Lady Fishbourne said. “If I sit up after eleven o’clock at night, I am good for nothing all the next day.” Shute remarked that he thought the late evening was the best working time in the twenty-four hours. He had a little room leading off the picture gallery allotted to him for his literary work, and there he and Nettie worked at all sorts of odd times. And it was all the same to her. He might keep her perhaps an hour or two after everybody had gone to bed, but, in that case, she would probably have the next day free. So that she lingered in the drawing room after Lady Fishbourne had said good-night, for she and her husband kept early hours, as befitted people who live the healthy outdoor life. Shute stood in front of the fireplace talking in his easy way as he smoked a final cigarette. “I am sorry that Macglendy was called away on business this afternoon,” he said. “That’s the worst of being a man of affairs. Your time is never quite your own. If I were rich like Macglendy, I should cut the whole thing and go and live somewhere in South America. Or California might be good enough.” “But he is coming back to-morrow, isn’t he?” Nettie asked.

“So he said. But you never can tell where he is concerned. Now, you sit quietly down and finish your cigarette while I go upstairs and get all the papers out. I will give you a call when I am ready, then I can come down and put the lights out, as I promised Fishbourne I would.”

Shute sauntered out of the drawing room up the big staircase, and into the little room, where he switched on the light. He got out his books and papers, and arranged the typewriter on a little table with its back to the fireplace. Then, carefully consulting his watch, he compared it with the clock on the mantelpiece, which latter he very slowly and cautiously put forward for an hour. It was just after eleven as he did so, and, this being the done, he walked downstairs again and called to Nettie. She rose as he switched off the lights and followed him back to the little room again. Speaking in his usual light and airy way, he almost bustled her into her chair, and placed a pile of typing paper by her left hand. Then, without another word, he began to dictate. He stopped every now and again to make certain corrections, which were interrupted from time to time bv some personal anecdote or adventure,' which Nettie usually found entertaining enough. But to-night he was more than usually discursive. At the end of an hour she had got through a certain amount of work, but not quite so much as usual, which Shute laugh-

ingly attributed to his constant interruptions. Still, a great many sheets lay presently to Nettie’s right hand, and she was beginning to tire when suddenly Shute announced the fact that they had done enough for the evening, and that she might put away all her various impedimenta. “My word,” he said. “It’s close on one o’clock. I had no idea it was so late. Quite meant to have finished that chapter this evening, and I have no doubt that I should have done so if I had not talked quite so much. Are you very tired?” “Oh, I can go on, if you want me to,” Nettie said. Shute seemed to hesitate just for a moment. “No, you won’t,” he said suddenly. “It is entirely my fault that we have not finished the chapter and I am not going to keep you up any longer. We will finish after breakfast, and, if it is a fine day, you can have the remainder of it to yourself.” Nettie rose thankfully enough from the table, for she had been in the open air all day, and was feeling unusually tired. Not that she was in the least sleepy, because she was far too disturbed in her mind for that. Almost mechanically, she said good-night to her employer and turned thankfully into her bedroom. Shute shut the door and, removing the pendulem from the clock, compared the dial with his watch, and put it back to the correct time. Once he had done that, he sl|it off the lights and went into his own room. There he turned on the elec-

tries, and lighted a cigarette. Seated in an armchair by the side of the bed was Macglendy. “Weil, you have taken your time over it,” the latter grumbled. “It’s past twelve o’clock, and you promised to be here by then. What on earth have you been up to?” “Oh, I have not been wasting my time,” Shute grinned. “As a matter of fact, I have been working an alibi. I have clearly established in Miss Frond’s mind that it is past one. That’s why I sneaked into her bedroom and temporarily put her watch out of action. Then I put the clock in my working room on for an hour, and, if anything does go wrong with our plans, then I can call her as a witness to prove the fact that we were grinding away at our work when the clock struck one.”

“Oh, nothing is going wrong,” Macglendy said. “I was supposed to have gone off to London this morning in my car, which I have managed to get rid of in Brighton, and here I am, hack in the house again, thanks to that rope ladder of yours. And the sooner we start to work, the better. I don’t think the old butler is likely to trouble us because I have seen to that. He would never expect to be doped twice, within the same week, and I am prepared to guarantee that he will not wake before morning. Now, if you are quite ready, we will make a start.” “Oh, there is no hurry,” Shute said. “It’s only a few minutes past twelve, so you might just as well let the household have a chance to properly settle

down before we start operations in 1 earnest. After that, it is only a mat- i ter of opening the butler’s pantry from 1 the outside, and clearing out the safe. 1 In an hour’s time I shall be back here 1 again, and you will be in the motorboat on your w-ay to the yacht. With any luck you will be back here again to-morrow in your car as if nothing had happened; indeed, it may be days before the robbery is discovered. What have you been doing since you left here this -morning? Did you go -to Brighton?” “Of course I went to Brighton,” Macglendy growled. “Somebody had to look after the trouble at that end, and as there was nobody else but me I had to do all the work. But I didn’t go anywhere near Brunswick Square, as you can imagine.” “No, I suppose not. Did you see anything of Blythe?” “No, I didn’t,” Macglendy said. “It will be time enough to deal with him when we have finished this job. I suppose you don’t intend that he should share in our present game?” “Not if 1 can help it,” Shute said. “But he is an awkward customer to deal with, and, if he finds out, there is certain to be trouble. However, if you are prepared to risk it, I am.” “Come on then. Let’s get busy. I took the rope ladder that I got into this room with and placed it on the chair yonder. Aren't you going to change your boots?” While all this was going on, Nettie was still sitting in her room, wide enough awake, and not in the least inclined for bed. She was still worrying over Harley, and the strange way in which he appeared to be treating her, so that sleep was out of the question. She rose presently, and, putting out the light, threw up her window and drew the curtains aside. It was dark enough outside, with a thin moon just slipping over the horizon into the hazy sky, but in the silence of the night she could make out certain dim objects as her eyes became accustomed to the gloom. Then it seemed to her that she could hear strange scratching not far off, and something like heavy breathing. Leaning out of the window, almost perilously, she could see round a corner of the house on to the terrace, and presently it seemed to her that a figure dropped from one of the bedroom windows, followed by another. And as these figures strode across the terrace, with a thrill she recognised that one of them was Shute. She watched them almost dazedly till they disappeared from sight. Then she threw on her dressing gown and hastened along the corridor in the direction of Lady Fishbourne’s bedroom. Thereon, she knocked loudly. CHAPTER XVII.—THE TROUBLE AT VICKERY’S. Nettie almost repented what she had done before she had knocked on Lady Fishbourne’s door. It seemed to her to be somewhat cowardly to make all this fuss, and after all probably about nothing. Possibly she had

been altogether mistaken, and had not seen Shute after all. She had been quite sure of it at the moment, but now in cold blood, at that chilly hour in the early morning, she was by no means certain. Besides, there had been a burglary here lately, and perhaps the police were secretly watching the house. Once again she Knocked, but this time timidly, but no kind of response came. Then, suddenly changing her mind, and ashamed of her want of courage, she retraced her footsteps by the light of the single electric bulb she had switched on to show her the dim way along the corridor, crowded as it was by the quaint old furniture and other ancient art treasures. She did not see Fishbourne’s door open, and her host, in his silk pyjamas, watching her discreetly as she turned back toward her own bedroom. Perhaps she was looking for something, he imagined, and had probably found it, so he refrained from saying anything, and went back to his bed, turning out the lights he had blazed on when the knocking had disturbed him, and thinking no more about the matter. There was nothing to worry about.

But it was a long time before Nettie crept into her own bed. She was thoroughly awake now, and sleep seemed very far off. But, strain her ears as she would, she heard nothing further, and gradually she lapsed into slumber, and the sun was shining brightly as she woke to the knowledge of another perfect day. The rest of them were down in the morning-room and breakfast was nearly over when she joined them. “I must put the blame on my watch again,” she smiled; “and, besides, I was very late last night.” “And, moreover, the fault was entirely mine,” Shute said. “It must have been past one a long way before I realised how late it was. and allowed my secretary to escape.”

Fishbourne appeared as if about to say something, then changed his mind. He was thinking about the little episode in the corridor the night before, and was himself inclined to believe that it had been much earlier when he had seen Nettie standing outside his wife’s bedroom door. He seemed to recollect that the clock in his own bedroom had pointed to

something after twelve when he shut down the lights and pulled the blankets over him. But it was not worth discussing the matter, and he allowed it to pass. They came to the end of their breakfast at length, and began to discuss the plans for the day, seeing that. Nettie’s services were not required till the evening, and the fact that Macglendy had telephoned, apparently from London, to say that he hoped, with any luck, to reach Fishbourne Towers by luncheon time. They were still discussing this problem when the staid old family butler came into the room in a state of mild excitement, and announced that Sir Jasper Vickery would like to see his lordship at once. Hard on the heels of the butler, there followed a little, red-faced man, in a state of considerable agita- [ tion, who, without waiting to say good morning, burst at once into his grievi ances.

“Look here, Fishbourne, by Jove,” he said, “a dashed unpleasant thing happened at my place last night. Tinburglars got in, probably the same gang that robbed you.” “Is that so?” Fishbourne exclaimed. “I hope you caught the brutes. Or did they get away with the stuff?" “Oh, they got away with it, all right,” the litle baronet groaned. "It was between twelve and a quarter to one. They managed to climb up the balcony, and forced the catch of my wife’s dressing-room. We had been to a big show at the Brighton Hippodrome, in aid of some charity or other, and my wife was wearing most of her best jewellery. She left it on her dressing table when she went to bed. very foolishly, and, I suppose, by some means or other, the thieves got to know all about it. Anyway, they had all the stuff in their pockets when, in getting away, one of them managed to break a window pane. I heard that, and I roused the whole household. I actually saw them both. They went along the Lewes Road, and we were following them in five minutes, but no good. I got back to the house and telephoned the police at Lewes and Brighton, and though they were on the spot almost at once, they could not find a single trace of those chaps anywhere. Of course, all the roads are being watched, and they tell me they will have the chaps to a dead certainty before night, and I wish I could believe it.” Fishbourne and his wife were loud enough in their condolences, while Nettie sat there, looking down at her plate, and not daring to glance in Shute’s direction. “That’s rather strange,” she said presently. "I thought I heard somebody about this house last night; in fact, I looked out of my window and saw them. They were on the corner of the terrace. I went to Lady Fishbourne’s bedroom to tell her all about it, but she was fast asleep, and I did not lik§ to disturb her.” “Well, we seem to be In the midst of strange things,” Fishbourne laughed. “Now, what time would that be?” “I don’t know,” Nettie said. “I was very tired last night, and I took no heed of the time.” <To Be Continued.)