Her Hidden Husband

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 670, 23 May 1929, Page 5

Her Hidden Husband

Serial Story J

By

Arthur Applin

Author of “The Dangerous Game/* “The Greater Claim " “The Woman Who Doubted” &c. t <£c.

Copyright

CHAPTER XIX. —Continued “Dearest, I knew you couldn’t kelp it, and what are two or three hours when in about twenty-tour hours we shall he together for all time.” She felt his body stiffen; she looked at him and saw at once by the expression of his face that something serious had happened. “Don’t tell me unless you want to, Jim, only remember if I can help I can bear anything.” They came to a halt beneath the branches of a huge chestnut tree which almost touched the ground. "My memory has come back to me; I have discovered my identity. I know who I am.” She took his hand but she didn’t speak; she knew there was more to come. Never had he loved her as much as he did at that moment. Courage and faith—two qualities he had always put at the head of all human virtues, and he remembered he had chosen Jim King as his companion because he possessed them. He took a tight grip of the hand she had slipped into his. “X am the man who was supposed to have been killed on board the Malaya at Singapore docks. It was Jim King who was killed. I am Alfred Markham.” He explained, conscious of being surprised how clear it all was in his own mind—yet of course he remembered everything that' ha*d happened from the rush to catch the ship to the waking up in the state room with his mind as blank and empty as a squeezed sponge. “It makes no difference to me, sweetheart, will it make any difference to you?” Until that moment she had been brave and calm. “Your wife ” she faltered. “She has run off with that fellow, Bosworth—married, of course. I haven’t absolute proof but l shall get it in the morning and then I shall follow them. It's a nasty business; I'm afraid it will make a big scandal. I’m a rich man, you see, and it’s the sort of story newspapers will revel in. But if it will give me my freedom I meant to have taken it, anyway, when I returned home, because our marriage from the beginning was a failure; we have never been anything to one another.” "What will you do when you find them?” she asked. “f don't know —I don't know; but because 1 love you I will try and keep my hands in my pockets.” She begged to he allowed to come with him, but he refused, aud she knew by the tone of his voice that it was useless to plead or to argue. “It only means putting off our marriage for a little while —if you are sure you will love Alfred Markham just as you loved Jim King.” “It wasn’t the name I loved, but the man,” she assured him. as she gave him her lips in a long kiss, which she felt might be the last for many weeks. The first thing Markham did the following morning was to visit the offices of the# Sleeping Car Company. There he was able to discover that a Mr. Thomas Bosworth had engaged a two-berth wagon-lit to Aix-les-Bains, travelling from Victoria Station at ten o’clock on the '7th of the month. Markham looked at his watch; it was then a quarter past nine. He drove back to his club, picked up his bag, and went straight on to Victoria. As soon as he had taken his ticket and booked a seat on the boat express, he telephoned Pete. He told her what he had discovered. “I hate rushing off without seeing vou again, but with any luck, I shall be back in a few days; meauwnile —” “I'm ail right. Don't worry about me, clear.” Courage and faith! He wanted all he had got at that moment. Events had been happening a bit quickly. He was running away from what he most desired, from all that was beautiful, to perform a very ugly, if necessary,

job. All his life had been spent in adventure; adventure with nature, fighting great forces, building and creating. Now he had to combat the unknown forces put into action by a civilisation which failed to function properly—evil forces in the untutored hearts of men and women. “Good-bye, beloved! God keep you.” He replaced the receiver of the telephone quickly, bought a bundle of illustrated newspapers at the bookstall, and took his seat in the train. In no mood to read, the pictures would help to distract his thoughts, for it was useless to think any more; he had spent the night in thinking; now there was nothing left but action. But his restless mind throughout the long journey continually carried him back to the old days out East. It wasn’t easy to realise his best friend and chosen companion was dead — and poor old King’s girl, Vera Carvick. He smiled a little bitterly as he remembered how easily she had let him go;*of course, she had known that something was wrong. These modern women were made of brave stuff, he thought; loyal, too. He wondered how she -would take the news; hoped Pete would tell her. Anyway, there would be Jim’s old home waiting for her now—glad he had bought it; glad he had asked her to help him decorate and furnish it. Funny how things seemed to be slipping into their right places like pieces in a puzzle! Perhaps that was the whole of life —-making all the queer, shapeless little bits of which it was composed, all the men and women with rough edges so diversely shaped and designed, eventually fit together into one complete and perhaps beautiful whole. And then, as he caught a glimpse of Paris sweltering under the midsummer sun, he wondered with a touch of cynicism exactly where his wife and Bosworth could be placed in the puzzle which confronted him. Curiously enough, he slept as peacefully as a child most of the way from Paris to Aix, only awakening as the train began to circle the lovely lake of Bourget. He saw the Dent du Chat casting its reflection into the deep green waters; a white-sailed boat running with the breeze; young men and women diving from a jetty; an army of fir trees black against the blue sky; goldeu flowers falling in a mass over red rocks. How life was beautiful! Why was it man alone made such a nless of the business of enjoying it? And then the dull and dusty station received him. He drove through the funny little town which lay in the hollow of the hills to the hotel he had chosen. After he had bathed and changed, he walked up to the Place outside the Baths, where beneath magnolia trees in full bloom, a band played and people sat drinking the waters, reading their newspapers and gossiping. He took a seat near the flower stalls in the shade where he could see the people as they passed to and fro. This was the fashionable hour, and here it seemed certain, Violet would come. But he was disappointed. At half past twelve everyone drifted away to dejeuner, and at one o’clock the place was deserted. While he had his lunch he searched in the visitors’ list but he couldn’t find Bosworth’s name. They might have altered their plans—though hardly from fear of being followed — yet he had a feeling that he would find them, perhaps at one of the great expensive hotels crowning the hill. He spent the afternoon at Caramello’s on the shores of the lake where the world took tea and bathed. This w*?s a place he was certain would attract Violet, but again, he was disappointed. Still, there was one

| Miss Rowse, in a shell pink satin frock, with hem of art blue. Miss Finlay, wearing crocus mauve | georgette and lace. Miss A. Gibbs, in an apple green taffeta frock, with trimmings of oriental tones. Miss M. Grindrod, whose lichen green chiffon velvet frock had diamante trimmings. Miss D. Roberts, in a frilled cyclamen taffeta frock, featuring an uneven hemline. Miss X. Dempsey, wearing an apricot crepe de chine frock, with dainty trimmings of silver. Miss Queen Kimber, in a frock of gold lame and scarlet ring velvet. Miss Hilda Pallister, wearing black panne velvet, with relief of briccjue. Miss Thelma Kimpton, in shell pink crepe de chine, with reliefs of silver. Miss Freda Cummings, Auckland wearing blush rose ring velvet and georgette. Miss Q. Broberg, in eau de nil georgette worn over satin luxor, and finished with large taffeta bow. Miss D. V. Wood, in beige georgette, worn over an apricot satin slip, with van dyked lace hem. Miss B. Wilkinson, wearing violet shot taffeta with velvet posy. Miss Leigh, in a frock of old rose crepe marquise. SUNGLOW GEORGETTE Miss Isobel Gibbons, whose frock of georgette in shades of sunglow was made with an uneven hem. Miss Olive Coverdale, wearing almond green crepe de chine, with posies to tone. Miss Edna Williams, in a frock of emerald green, featuring an uneven hem. Miss J. Harris, whose saffron frock was inset with silver lace and had a silver taffeta skirt. Miss Patrica Doscawen. in a frock of paon blue taffeta, with diamante trimmings. Miss Caenor Maxwell, wearing apple green taffeta, with relief of silver lace. Miss H. Maxwell, in a frock of black and apricot taffeta, with uneven hemline. Miss S. Pegler, whose frock of green georgette was finished with sprays of silver. Miss K. Harris, wearing a l'rock of peach bloom pink taffeta. KNOX CHURCH SOCIAL EVENING AT PARNELL The congregation, of Knox Presbyterian Church. Parnell, held the first of its winter series of monthly socials in the Church Hall. Bird wood Crescent, on Tuesday evening. Many parishioners were present, who enjoyed the songs, competitions and games. The Rev. MacDonald Aspland was in charge of the evening, and everything went well. Songs were given by Mrs. Bagrie and the Misses I. and D. Bagrie and Miss Peggy Dougherty played a pianoforte solo. The pupils of Miss Ebba Gunman gave several Maori choruses and folk songs, the solo parts being taken by Master Jack Gunman and Master Norman Dunn. After the entertainment supper was served by the members of the committee, Mrs. Grant, Misses I. Scarborough, E. Grant, R. Craig, A. Walker, E. Jennings and Messrs. Mclntyre. Hunter, Wood, Trott and Rishwortli.

I chance left of finding them quickly; he was sure if she were at Aix she would never resist the fascination of the Casino. At ten o’clock he paid his subscription and walked into the baccarat rooms. He wandered about listening to the cries of the croupiers, scraps of conversation in nearly every language. A queer game, he thought— : the rich trying to rob each other for no other reason than the excitement given by the possibility of losing. He came to the table where play was highest, gradually found an opening in the crowd and stood behind the croupier’s chair. And there facing him, with a pile of plaques and mille notes in front of her, her jewelled fingers playing with them as if their touch fascinated her, he saw his wife. CHAPTER XX. The shoe containing the cards had just reached Violet Markham; with a careless gesture she threw five mille notes on to the table. The croupier announced two hundred and fifty louis in the bank. Markham smiled as he realised she was starting the bank at about fifty pounds—not a bad beginning! Playing with his money —the diamond rings on her fingers and the pearl necklace round her neck; the frock she was wearing—more the advertisement of a dressmaker's art than a dress —all had been bought with his money. He glanced at the other players and at the people standing behind the chairs, wondering where Bosworth was. He wouldn’t be far away, also having a, little flutter probably at another table with the fortune he himself had made sweating in the East under tropical suns. Someone said “banco”—a thin, pale man with tired blue eyes, receding forehead and bluish black hair heavily greased and perfumed. He threw five notes on the table as Violet dealt the cards, picked his up. asked for auother and then as Violet turned hers over the croupier announced, “Neuf a la bauque.” He saw her eyes gleam and she gave the shoe a little shake as if she were sure it was full ot' winning eights and nines for her. Tlfe man on her left nodded, intimating that he Would again go for the bank, and he pushed forward ten mille. Again Violet won. Markham had seen the game played at Singapore,'taken a hand himself once; he began to remember it. Fortunes could be won and lost in a night more often lost. A game of pure chance only fit for fools and millionaires to play. Violet had dealt herself another nine and won again. He wondered how long she would go on. She could “pass” the bank at any moment and take her winnings, but it was evident she had no intention of doing so. He sensed it wasn’t the money she wanted, though he knew how avaricious the possession of wealth makes both men and women. It was the thrill she was after, the fierce excitement, the envy of the other players, the admiration of onlookers. She was out to make a sensation; to pose in the limelight. He noticed the long amber cigarette holder by her side, the thin gold cigarette case, the automatic lighter inlaid with butterfly wings, her vanity bag. The crowd around the table in-