The Step In The House

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 477, 5 October 1928, Page 5

The Step In The House

—By

Rina Ramsay

CHAPTER IX.—(Continued) "Poor thing!” said Johnny's aunt. ‘lt makes my blood run cold.” “And you look so gentle,” said Mrs. Burton "so—so—so harmless. She Bust have been a fiend!” The large fair woman sighed. “You are all so kind to me,” she Said, “so sympathetic. 1 shall bo very •orry to leave this place when my ancle's house has been sold.” It was Johnny Adams's aunt who exclaimed at that, and hoped she would not go away from among them. “I could not bear to live in that kouse,” said Miss de Stair, “[t. would have such painful associations. 1 could never forget what had happened there.” The aunt, in her eagerness, began to suggest something—it. sounded like fumigation. Johnny frowned, interrupting her. “She won't leave us, l am sure,” he raid. “We shall try to make the place #o pleasant that she will not want to desert us. We will persuade her somehow." There was something significant in liis voice: one or two of the women smiled approvingly, scenting romance. Miss de Stair looked agreeably up at Johnny, where he stood leaning against the piano. “1 won't . . . promise yet,” she said, hi the whole room there was a pleasant flutter. And Johnny was pleased with his afternoon. He walked back with her to her Uncle’s house, after the others had dispersed. There was something to he done there—there was nearly always something for them to discuss. Some papers he had to lay before her. And he told her how good It was of her to come to aee his aunt. said*° W y ° U my ' louse '” She looked interested. “Your house, is it?” she said. “It’s * [arge house.” “Yes,” said Johnny importantly. ‘lt belonged to my father. I was his only you know, so It conies —with dferything else—to me. My aunt ®eeps house for me.” That was not literally correct. The annt owned the house at present. Afterwards— well, It might come to Johnny. "I see,” said Miss de Stair, thought*DUy. He had a feeling she was realISIQ K. as one who had only lately be°ome rich herself could not fail to realms, that Johnny was no mere country lawyer in a small way of business, but a man of property—like herself. “I daresay it wants refurnishing,” faid Johnny, “but my aunt's old-fash-™ned. I’m keeping everything as it as, at present. If I—well, some day * nope to polish it up.” He thought she understood what as in his mind. She smiled. Ive often thought,” she said irreevantly, “how noble it was of you, Mr. ®ams, not to try and influence my Poor old uncle in your own favour. You ad such an opportunity.” Johnny started.

She was not looking at him, she was •as'ng pensively at her rings. She . ore several rather pretty ones, and h e *} a( i no gloves. He had an idea e liked looking at her hands.

“I can so easily understand,” she said, “how his instinctive dislike ot Jeanne, who was masquerading as me, must, have made him struggle against (he idea of letting her become his heiress . . . and the doctor had no particular claim on him, had he? You told me, I remember, he was to have been the heir. It might just as well have be»n you. It would have done just as well, wouldn’t it, for his intention of disinheriting his supposed niece would have been fulfilled. And you never even suggested it to him— I know you didn't, because of course if you had, I’m certain he would have done it. And you had the opportunity: you must have been alone xvith him for a long while, talking things over, taking his instructions. There are un scrupulous men, Mr. Adams, who would have used that opportunity, wouldn’t they? And you didn’t. 1 can’t say how much 1 admire you for it.” Johnny coloured darkly. He gave her a sidewise glance. He was not at ail sure what site meant. She spoke so artlessly, and yet he had an uncomfortable feeling that there was more in It. Surely she was not taunting him, suggesting that he had tried and failed? She could not have any possible motive for it; she did not want to quarrel with him. He was her right hand, her mainstay. Then what the dickens did she want? Alone with him, talking things over: what did she mean by that? Lord, surely she was not insinuating—reminding him that he was the last person xvho had seen the old man alive? “You mustn’t mind my praising you,” she said quickly, noting, as she must have noted, the strange effect of her words. He felt her glance at him and glance away. “I don’t deserve any praise,” he said. “If I had been . . . unscrupulous and all that —I shouldn’t have gained much by it, should I, as things turned out?” There was an eagerness in his voice, almost a suggestion of alarm. “No, I suppose not,” she said. “But that doesn’t alter my—my admiration. And I thought I should like to know mv real opinion of you, Mr. Adams, because I do feel that you and I are allies.” Allies? —a funny word. Why could not she have said friends? For some reason or other Johnny felt prickly all over. Oh, Lord, really he was an utter fool . . . She meant no harm. Allies—working together for a common end? Well, so they were, and nothing sinist#r, nothing warlike in that. And she was a very fine woman, and everyone would applaud him, and think him a lucky fellow if he could turn that word “allies” into something closer. And he would, too. He accompanied her into the house, devoted himself for the next hour to her business, explaining matters that puzzled her in his best professional manner. And then, as he rose and collected his papers and put them away in Harry Dodds's business desk that they were using, she gave him both her hands with a pretty, impulsive gesture.

“You didn’t mind what I said, Air. Adams?” she said. “I thought you didn’t seem quite to like it. But friends—and allies —may say all sorts of things to each other.” “Oh, it was all right,” he muttered, taken aback. Why could she not let it drop? “We are allies, aren’t we?” she said sweetly. “You’ve stood by me most nobly—and—and I’d stand by you in my turn. You understand me, don’t you?” Did he? He hoped so. He hoped all this was meant to encourage him. CHAPTER X.

Richardson went through his work doggedly in those days, sticking to it. There was nothing else to be done. Apparently Mr. Smith had given up his investigations in these quarters. He had seen nothing further of him. But he had not. Through all the miserable uncertainty and wonder that possessed him he kept stubbornly before him the gleam of insight he had obtained into the working of one man’s mind. Quietly he tried to find out all that was to be known about Peter Harrison, and the little he gleaned here and there, putting one small fact with another, encouraged him. Peter Harrison was subject to odd fits of something like aberration. He would be heard muttering what sounded like threats, and would sometimes pass his hand over his eyes and look at you blankly. But the detective said no ordinary person could have squeezed out of the bathroom window and slid down by the gutter pipe. Still, the thing had been done. Possible or impossible, the murderer must have managed an escape. Never as long as he had breath in him would he believe what others did. The thing that irritated him almost beyond endurance was to see that large, fair, complacent woman where

his Elizabeth had been. It xvas unjust: the wretched woman could not help what she had done to him, but somehow he hated the thought of her, avoided the sight of her when he could. He was out of town most of the day on his country round, and in the evening he did his surgery work; he could manage to keep out of her way for the present. It was with a quick feeling of excitement, a sensation of pointing Fate, that he received a message that he was wanted at Peter Harrison’s—the daughter, the sallow woman he remembered attending formerly, xvas ill again. He went eagerly to the house. It was a small house in one of, the little side streets that ran, like a rabbit warren, behind the main street of the town. Back to back the houses huddled, and where Peter Harrison lived a high house opposite cut off the sun. His wife was dead; the daughter kept house for him, and some relation, who was called Poor Maggie, perhaps because she had a hare-lip and an impediment in her speech, lived with them both, and helped in the house. It was Poor Maggie who let the doctor in. The Harrisons had come down in the world. There were signs of it in the house. There xvas a portrait in a heavy, gold-tarnished frame, of an ugly old man in the hunting kit of a bygone day, and he had a look of Peter, a scowling, sidelong look. It hung halfway up the stairs. And on the landing above stood a stuffed tiger. There was hardly room for the beast, and it looked extraordinarily out of place in that cramped, small house with the dingy wallpaper and the chipped paint. Its yelloxv glass eyes glared balefully at Poor Maggie, as if she were responsible for putting it there, which she certainly wasn’t. She squeezed past it uneasily, and opened the door of Miss Harrison’s bedroom. Richardson, stooping be-

neath the low lintel, followed her in. He was right—his patient was an epileptic. She lay on her bed, languidly watching him as he came into the room, just as she had come out of her last fainting fit, said Poor Maggie ; but the bitten tongue and the dark red spots under her skin showed that it was no common faint. Poor soul, her inheritance was a curse upon her. Perhaps it was that very old gentleman, in the picture they clung to and were apparently so proud of, who had laid the foundation by his excesses of this terrible heritage. There was a deep bruise on her arm, already showing purple. She looked at it now and then, while he was asking one or two questions, with a worried air. It seemed to occupy her mind. “Look at that, docto .” said Poor Maggie, pointing, as she leaned interestedly over the end of the bed. “She’s worrying about it. She’s atraid it will show when she wears her new costume, and,” she added archly, “she thinks her young man will ask her how she got it.” The young woman on the bed sighed. “He’ll find out she’s been fainting again, and falling about,” said Poor Maggie. Her voice was like the maddening chirp of a sparrow. The new dress was hanging on the back of the door —a gaudy thing of cheap stuff, copied from some ambitious design in a picture paper. On the chest of drawers was laid an immense hat, and a pair of imitation silk stockings hung on a chair. All her poor finery was displayed. She had been trying it on, and the glory and agitation of it had been too much for her —it had brought on this attack. She lay there exhausted —a plain creature with troubled eyes, and tragedy very near. The doctor felt it. He was immensely sorry for her. He could not exult in this confirmation of his theory just then. “She must take care of herself. She must not let herself get excited,” he said to Poor Maggie gravely. “She wouldn’t,” said Poor Maggie, and giggled not unkindly. “She would not get excited, doctor, if she was like me, and didn’t worry about the men ” She tossed her head, and smiled encouragingly at his patient. “I don’t know what she’ll do when it comes to a xvedding,” she said. The doctor got up slowly from the rickety chair she had placed for him. “I’ll send her up some medicine,” he promised, knowing what confidence it would give. A little bromide, that was all he could do for her, and she would enjoy dosing herself and be contented, and look pathetically forward —till her next attack. He turned to Poor Maggie sharply outside the bedroom door. (To be Continued.)