Her Hidden Husband

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 661, 13 May 1929, Page 5

Her Hidden Husband

Serial Story

By

Arthur Applin

Author of "The Dangerous Game/* *'The Greater Claim/* -The Woman Who Doubted/' dec., <Cc.

Copyright

CHAPTER IX. “Sorry,” Denny said quickly, ‘‘but I thought you knew I’d got rooms here, too. so I've been expecting to see you. I looked out for you on the boat 'fain. . . . Don’t think me presumptions, but—well, coming back to England’s always rather a lonely job, isn't it? And a boarding house after a ! liner!” Pete nodded sympathetically; prob■•bly he only meant to be friendly—and ~w as ( * u * te a nice youth really. “Yes. it does seem rather queer. , doesn’t it. Well we must try and 1 cheer oue another up. Good-night!” j She moved quickly and followed the roairi upstairs. Denny stood at the ! bottom of the staircase watching her j cut of sight, a deep frown on his forehead. He had heard the taxi drive i U P atd knew who had brought her to the boarding house. He was jealous, nhv, he asked himself, should he allow an adventurer like James King to j carry her off without putting up a j fight for her himself? King experienced a sense of exhila- 1 ration driving alone to his club. The taxi took him down Park Lane past the houses of millionaires. He looked at them with curiosity rather than envy, thinking that after all they Weren’t much to look at; probably I lolei Markham would instal herself iQere before many months had passed. |

lie wondered for the first time how she would spend poor old Markham’s money. Of course, she would marry again; she could have any man she chose —good looks and wealth. A shudder ran through King’s bodj—he hated himself for the thought, but he pitied the man she bought with her dead husband’s money. Presently the taxi turned up a street of Piccadilly and stopped at a small but imposing building. King jumped out quickly aud paid the driver. This for the moment was his temporary home, and he felt both excited and shy. A smart, uniformed page boy ran down the steps aud seized his suitcase. He followed him into a large, octagonal shaped hall, with its high roof supported by marble pillars aud comfortable lounge sofas against the wall on one side. He heard the ticking of some machine and saw a long strip of printed paper issue from its mouth. Close beside it were three boxes marked “Telephone.’’ The paved floor was covered with three immense rugs. “Tes, sir?” A magnificent, uniformed individual, who for a moment, King thought, might be an admiral or a general, was looking at him interrogatively through the small window of the bureau in which he stood. The hall porter, of course . . . King smiled; he felt like a schoolboy again. He gave his name and said |

he had wirelessed from the Malaya for a room to be reserved for him. The porter consulted a book by his side and a horrible thought occurred to King that perhaps he hadn’t paid his subscription, or worse still “That’s right, sir,” the porter said. “Room 96. The best I can do now; we’re very busy. Would you mind signing your name?” He shouted instructions to the boy who was holding King’s suitcase to take him to his room. King took up a pen and looked at the big, leatherbound volume in front of him. On the page facing him were a dozen signatures of members and opposite some the names of friends introduced He fingered the pen uneasily as he saw the porter watching him. “Had an accident on board coming over—right I hand’s still a bit groggy,” he ex- [ plained, as slowly In a large copy book hand he scrawled his name: James King. A lift took him to the third floor, j At the end of the corridor the boy j opened a door on to a small, pleasantly furnished room overlooking the ; street. He had hardly left him when a valet appeared, offered to unpack, ! and asked him if he would like a bath. King shook his head; he wanted to be left alone: he wanted to get to bed. He didn’t want to think of anything or remember anything, except the woman he loved whom he was going to make his wife. When he had undressed and got into his pyjamas he stood at the window looking down j into the street. It was like a quiet back-water of Loudon’s great river of ; life. A comfortable feeling of security came to him. Somehow he j felt at home; everything had been i made easy for him. He looked up j at the sky and saw the stars shining j dimly through a veil of mist. But for J Violet Markham’s dark hint about his past he would have been supremely \ happy at that moment. He saw clearly now on what a great j adventure he was embarked; he felt

alternately like a soldier setting forth to fight against overwhelming odds and like a pilgrim going out to the Holy Land. He was going to make a name and fortune for himself here in London, just as Markham had done out East, and he was going to visit that wonderful world where love was supreme and beauty the ultimate goal. He heard the notes of some giant clock booming midnight as he fell asleep and the same sonorous clang-

iug awoke him soon after sunrise. He sat upright, listening and remembering; it was Big Ben at Westminster that called the hours to London’s mil- j lions. It was like recognising a ; friend. Extraordinary that a bell j should stir to life some tiny cell in his ! ’ mind. He laughed as he jumped out of j bed and rang for his bath; he was j eager now for the great adventure aud j the first bout with life. Only two j or three men were having breakfast in 1 the dining-room when he went down- | stairs. They were hiding behind • newspapers and no one took the least j notice of him.

When he went out the sun was shining through the trees in the Green Park: brightly coloured omnibuses rolled east and west crowded with people and the pavements were alive with young men and pretty girls whose skirts barely covered their knees. They were something he remembered as if he had seen them in a dream. He turned up a narrow thoroughfare—Old Bond Street —and came to a sudden halt outside a small jeweller’s shop. He knew he was in a fashionable quarter of the town, in the street which pandered to the tastes of the very rich. He went inside and chose a small gold and platinum ring which he ordered to be engraved with Pete’s name. On his way to the j bank he stopped at a florist’s and bought a large bunch of lilies of the valley which he sent by express messenger to Pete’s boarding-house. He was really living now he thought, as he strode down Pall Mall. He almost longed to meet someone who ! would recognise him that he might j share his happiness, j The manager of his department at the bank was a tall, pale man with a bald head, who gave him a flabby hand when King introduced himselt and produced his credentials. The colourless grey eyes looked at him without recognition. “Mr. Viber, the former manager, whom of course you will remember, died five years ago, but if you will tell me what we can do for you I am entirely at your service.” “First of all tell me exactly what I’m worth. Afraid I didn’t keep very strict accounts out East —too busy working. Then I would like to go through any papers and documents which I left in the bank’s possession when I went abroad. I’ve returned home for good, you see, and I intend settling down.” Two hours later when King left he carried with him a large bundle of documents which he clasped tightly In his hand—the slice out of bis life; a bit of the past with which he was eager to renew acquaintance He knew his exact financial position, too; worth just over twenty thousand pounds, part of which was lying to his credit, waiting for investment. A poor man, he had said to the manager, but he was going to be a rich one! He lunched at the club; the diningroom was full now, but beyond an occasional glance, no one took any notice of him. He didn’t care: he studied his fellow-members attentively. There was scarcely one he wanted to know: they were all alike, made on one plan, dressed by the same tailor, scarcely human, machine made. They belonged to a w-orld lie didn’t want to enter but of which he might make use ... He went upstairs to the readingroom and. lighting a cigar, sat down at a, writing table, unfastened the racket of documents he had brought from the bank. Except for an old man, who had dozed by an arm

chair in the window, he was alone. His heart began to beat quickly as he lingered the papers, glancing at the headings on the folded sheets. All around him the wall was lined with shelves containing books of reference, histories, lives of great men, and here before him lay his own life waiting to be read. No sound penetrated the room, not even the voice of London which is never quiet. He began to feel afraid —not for himself but for Pete. He closed his eyes remembering those ecstatic moments the previous evening: when he had held her in his arms and kissed her and she had promised to be his wife, whatever happened to him. He was tempted to tear up the documents without reading them and throw them away; she wouldn’t care, he knew —that was what made her so wonderful, and that was what made him hold honour dearer than love. The quiet room was waiting; the lives of those other men in their vellum covered volumes, neatly numbered and ticketed, and put away, were also waiting and watching, too. he felt, as if the spirits of the dead still lingered among the musty pages. He picked up a parchment document; “The last Will and Testament of James King, Esq.”—dated only ten years ago .... Perhaps there was someone who loved him waiting for him in the world, someone who depended on him. He was about to split it open when a large blue document beneath ir caught his eye. The fine pointed writing was faded but certain words were plain as he unfolded it. It was au agreement on his behalf by his

father, whereby he had been articled to a firm of solicitors in the city. The idea of his being a solicitor struck him as being so ludicrous that he laughed, until he realised that here perhaps was a clue which would give him all the information he wanted. As he scribbled the name and address of the solicitors in his notebook a servant crossed the room and stood by his side: “Mr. James King? You’re wanted on the telephone, sir?” He followed the man out of the i room downstairs and entered one of the little boxes indicated. Putting j the receiver to his ear he asked who j w’anted him. “Vera speaking. Is that—is that—j Jim?” He held his breath. The moment, had come he had feared and yet de- | sired; recognition. And it came mysteriously over a wire. “Yes, I’m James King. I didn't quite get your name, though.” ! There was a moment’s hesitation, and then: “Vera —Vera Carvick. Oh, don’t say you’ve forgotten me. I was reading last night about the aw*ful accident at Singapore and the paper said you had just arrived on the Malaya. You might have wired me—but perhaps you have forgotten. “Of course I haven’t,” he said, steadily, “but I didn't know where you I were.” He heard her laugh: it was a pleasant, rather boyish voice. “I’m I at the Ingenue Theatre. I’m quite a star now, Jim! What are you doing? j Can’t you run round and see me? We’ve got a matinee but I shall be free at five o’clock. Do come round ■ to my dressing-room, there's a dear.

Perhaps we could dine together afterwards. It will be fearfully thrilling to see you again T ’* “Yes,” he said; “yes . . . it’s a long time though ” “Come round at once! I’ve got to go now; the third act's just commenced. I’ll tell the doorkeeper you’re to be shown up to my dressingroom—you’ll find me just the same, : Jim!” Before he could reply he heard the j receiver replaced. For a few m»»j ments he remained standing in th«* telephone box dazed, then he walked ! into the hall and sat down with his • back to the wall, staring in front of him. Before going to the Ingenue Theatre King returned to the reading-room to ? collect his papers. He glanced at hi will again. It had been made on one [of those printed forms purchased at any stationer’s shop. It was very brief, scarcely a page and a-half, and i lie read it through standing at the . window*. He was hardly surprised 'to discover that he had appointed | Vera Carvick, of Stanhape Mansion-, j to be his sole executrix, and that he i had left her his entire real and perI sonal estate. i It was nearly five o’clock before he reached the Ingenue Theatre. Directly j he gave his name at the stage door he was shown into Vera’s dressingroom. It was empty, but a woman who was evidently her dresser told him Miss Carvick would not be long. !It was a very small room, full of colour and perfume. All one side was occupied by a curtain v/ardrobe, f where he saw dres.se.- and dainty feminine garments hanging. (To be continued d.silv)