The Step In The House

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 473, 1 October 1928, Page 5

The Step In The House

By

Rina Ramsay.

CHAPTER IX.—Continued. He loved her and so he believed in her. It might be primitive, but it was inevitable to him. Illogically, irrationally, he would go on believing. He would sooner persuade himself that Johnny Adams was up to the neck in some base, complicated plot. Mrs. Price was coming along to the study door with her mincing step. She put her head in with a sort of shyness as if she half expected her interruption might precipitate an explosion. She must have heard him walking up and down, up and down. “The Grays have sent over twice from Mucking," she said. "The child’s ill —it’s had two convulsions." “Twice”? he said, looking round. "Once when you were out. When Miss de- Stair was in here waiting for you. I left the message on your desk." He looked down at the bit of paper between his fingers. He had only had eyes for the words she had written. He saw now there was something else on the other side. "Oh. you did come into the room, then, did you?” he said. “You had some conversation with her? You told her she was ruining my career in the place?” "When I am asked a question,” said Mrs. Price, “I do not tell a falsehood.” "Oh, then you assured her it wasn’t SO?”

i Something in his voice shook all prudence out of her. “I told her it certainly was.” Her voice had become suddenly shrill and vulgar. “I told her if you went on taking notice of her you wouldn’t soon have any practice left.” He measured her with one look. No doubt she had really done so, with a false air of authority, posing as the decorous widow of his predecessor. “I shall have no housekeeper after to-morrow at any rate,” he said quietly. “Please make your arrangements. I'll give you a cheque tonight." He took his hat and left the house, walking rapidly down to the garage near the station to hire a car. He must put himself and his dearest interest on one side and go first to where there was a child in danger That was the penalty of a calling that dealt only with realities; life and death.

The owner of the garage, an agreeable one-legged man with a turn for gossip, took out the car himself. “You off duty again, doctor?” he said and grinned.

“Yes,” said Richardson curtly. “Jim came In with the bus just now,” said the man with a side-long glance. “He says he saw a car uncommon like yours going south on the London road, with a lady in It, driving. She went spinning by him, but he said the front mudguard was bent like yours.” Going south. He would remember that. He tried to call up the --oad as it lay on the map. She would get a clear stretch for twenty miles. Howfar would she go? Would she press on for London? He got in again at six. He had

saved a child’s life and lost two hours. There was a curious emptiness in the town. It was dull as a wilderness, empty of her. But there was a telephone message for him. Mrs. Price had written it sulkily down and left it on his table. “Your car is in Watson’s garage at Whiteboro’. Forgive me.” To think she had spoken to him and he had not been there to hear! The magic power of the telephone, and how he had missed it smote him. He got Whiteboro’ and tried to communicate with the garage, but it. was closed for the night. He must go down there himself on the first, train in the morning, and see if he could get news of her and pick up his car. In the meantime he went over to Harry Dodds’s house. The two old servants were in a high state of alarm and wonder. She had no intention of going away when she left the house they were sure. Mr. Adams had called and departed quickly. They knew something he had said had upset Missie, for she had run up to her room and came out with her face white and wild, and they had both watched her running across the street to the doctor’s house. Wasn’t she coming back?

“She didn’t mean to run away from us,” asseverated Mrs. Beamish. “She hadn’t even her fussy little bag in her hand, gloves nor nothing.” But then, smitten by a thought, she whisked round and went panting up the many flights to the girl’s chamber at the top of the house. Above she could be heard rummaging, shutting drawers. Then down she came again, looking odd.

“Well,” she said. “She must have been in again when my back was turned. That little flat portmanteau thing she had with her is vanished; and half her things. Only her little shoes is left, setting in a row under the toilet, all pointing to the door.” Then she turned savagely round on Sam.

“Don’t look like a funeral, you,” she said. “She’s not drowned herself, not she. She’s just got tired of the wickedness of this town and the spying of the police. It’s all very well for your sister’s husband’s cousin in a good situation to go crazy and put herself in the river because they said she’d stole a safety-pin, and take her Sunday hat with her in a parcel! There’s no likeness between the two. Don’t you dare to think it! A sharp little lady like Missie, that’s travelled the world, she can take care of herself. Drowned? Not she!”

Sam kept his mouth shut, enduring meekly the violence with which his wife cast the idea from her and the doctor left them both, one fiercely angry, the other dumb, but in their hearts, with the ready pessimism of their kind, agreed. There was a river at Whiteboro’. He had gone fishing there once. A shallow river, deep in mud. He got no sleep that night. Foolish fancies racked him. In the morning he took the first train for Whiteboro’. He had wired overnight for a man who helped him occasionally to come and take over his patients.

More from habit than anything else as he settled himself in the train, and the paper boy ran along, he leant out and bought two or three picture papers. Nothing but rubbish in them of course, but he hadn’t had time to glance at his own “Morning Post” at breakfast.

He looked indifferently over the smirking faces of criminals and politicians and ugly women, that was the common fare. All at once his own photograph stared at him out of the

printed page. His own face of two years ago, taken out of a group of cricketers, looking very pleased with the world.

“Good Lord”! he muttered. Below himself he read “Dr. Charles Richardson, whose motor-car played an important part in the disappearance ” And opposite him, he saw with disgust an elaborate portrait of a woman in evening dress in the fashion of years ago; paste combs, imitation pearls, frizzed hair, and a fan. He recognised her at once. It wasn’t necessary to read the legend underneath, to follow a series of snapshots illustrating Mrs. Price at the doctor's garage. Mrs. Price at the front door, Mrs. Price looking out for the doctor’s return —to see who had done this, who had taken a priceless opportunity of wreaking her spite and satisfying the offended vanity of six years’ vain scheming, vain blandishments in his house. He had never realised till now what an incubus she had been, how adequately Johnny Adams had summed her up. Mrs. Price, wnose only virtue had been her cooking . . . A dangerous woman and prompt. Well, what had she said and done? It was easy to find the headlines, to grasp that now the great poisoning

Read the Glad News:” on the posters. Peruse the good news in "the Press,” Cut out crude dopes, achieve your best holies, There’s something to ease your distress. ‘Read the Glad News!” and be cheerful, No longer that bad cold endure: Cease to be tearful, do not be fearful— Take Woods’ Great Peppermint Cure. — i.

was disposed of, there was room to work up this other one. There were ten columns of Mrs. Price —the delightful widow of Dr. Charles Richardson’s predecessor, who kept house for him and defended his interests in everyway, but had not been able to prevent his kindheartedness from being imposed upon; her description of the murdered man’s reputed niece, of her strange conduct, and daring flight in the doctor’s own motor-car. She had spared him nothing, down to the telephone message, with its last words, “Forgive me,” that she had taken down for him.

There was only one comforting item in the whole sickening business, and that was that they had not got hold of a. photograph of the unlucky girl herself.

He got out at Whiteboro*, a sleepy little town, forty miles near London, and went straight down to the garage. It wasn’t a big one, but a small place tucked in a corner between the river and a lane that ran out of the main street. There was a smell of stagnant waterweeds at the back of it, and evidently it had been a stable, turned roughly to a more modern usage. Two or three men in the yard moved apart when they saw him, and one remained stationary, while the other two began pushing out a car. He recognised the familiar old red bonnet.

So he was instantly recognised! Mrs. Price had pilloried him in the papers to some purpose! He ground his

teeth, but went coolly forward. The third man said, "Good morning, doctor,” and he saw it was Mr. Smith. He might have expected that. Somehow he hadn’t. “Pity you didn’t wring your housekeeper’s neck in time,” said Mr. Smith quietly. “I wish you had.” “So do I,” said Richardson. “Well? You know?” “No,” I don’t—yet. But there's very little doubt of it,” said Mr. Smith. “She lost her nerve unexpectedly, and gave us the slip. She isn't a fool, that girl. She turned the car in here and took the train for London.” “Did she? You’re sure of that?” said Richardson eagerly. He had looked backwards, toward the river. The detective followed the involuntary 1 glance, and smied. ! “Positive,” he said. “No, no, doeJ tor, don’t get rattled. She’s safe 1 enough. She asked to look at a time table here. They've got one hanging ; up in the office. There was an ex--1 press to London due in seven min ! utes, and she asked if she could get | it. They told her the station was | only a few yards on, and she hurried ; in that direction.” Richardson took a long breath. (To be Continued.)