THE BANNANTYNE SAPPHIRES

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 769, 16 September 1929, Page 5

THE BANNANTYNE SAPPHIRES

BY

FRANK BIRD

FOR NEW READERS Gervase Daynesford, head of a great ■tockbroking firm, is about to take into partnership Guy Meredith, the orphaned son of an old friend. Guy is engaged to Daynesford’s daughter Patricia, and the partnership was to be his wedding present. On the day before the articles are signed, Daynesford tells Guy that by rash speculation he has brought about the ruin of the firm, which in a few weeks will cease to That same night Henry Bannantyne and his wife Alice are giving a ball in honour of Patricia and Guy. Henry Bannantyne is a wealthy banker, and a cousin of Daynesford’s, and he and his wife have introduced Patricia into society and practically adopted her. Daynesford begs Guy not to let Patricia hear of the disaster until after the ball, and Guy agrees. On his way down to join Patricia, Guy meets Maxwell Wryce and his sister Julia, and Lady Latchmere, all friends of the Bannantynes, who will be at the ball. Feeling unfit for company, however, he travels alone. He finds Patricia, and she detects at once that he is worried. He evades the question, being unable to tell her of the disaster that has overtaken her. CHAPTER I.—(Continued.) Meanwhile, Patricia Daynesford was thinking, too, but hers were happy thoughts. She had dressed early and was waiting for her father and Meredith in a little oak-panelled room off the hall at Arlstone, her own sanctum. As she sat by the fire, watching the leaping flames from the logs, her thoughts were of that wonderful moment two months ago when she and Meredith had understood one another, suddenly, passionately, almost without a word. Since Christmas she and Mrs. Bannantyne had been on the Riviera after paying a visit to Maxwell and Julia Wryce at a villa the former had in Corsica. The day after her return Meredith came down for the week-end. Patricia’s heart throbbed as she rose to greet him. She could see him now. coming swiftly across the room, his hands outstretched, joy, happiness, delight, beaming in his face. “I dor/t know what I’ve done without you all these weeks,” she heard him say. Then her hands were clasped in his, and they stood looking at one another. His eyes were no longer those of a loyal, devoted friend. She saw something in them that set her heart beating wildly. And in her eyes Meredith lead something that made him cry excitingly:— *‘Ah, you do, Patricia! You do!” And before she realised what had happened she was in his arms, his lips Dressed to hers, in that most exquisite °f all moments, lovers’ first embrace. Patricia smiled happily at the dancing flames. And now they were to be married in June. All these years they had really been falling in love w'ith °ne another and neither of them had realised it, until Meredith had found Arlstone intolerably empty without her and she found herself wishing for him every day at Cannes. Julia Wryce said she thought it must be very dull

to marry a man one had known practically all one’s life. "‘There will be nothing to find out,” she had added, with her cheerful laugh. “No surprises for you at all!” But that was just why she, Patricia, felt so sure of the future. She knew the courage, flfce quiet strength, and the absolute loyalty of the man she was going to marry. . . . The door opened and Meredith came into the room. With a glad cry she ran across the room and was caught in his arms. “How lovely you look!” he said, holding her away from him and looking at her. “Lovely! A new dress?” She moved away a few paces, then turned and stood, a vision of youth, prettiness and happiness, clad in exquisite blue and shimmering silver. “It’s ripping, simply ripping!” Meredith cried. “I’ve never seen you look so well! There’ll be nobody at Brentland to touch you!” Then his heart sank. Who knew whenever Patricia would be able to have a dress like this again! The thought brought a shadow to his face and Patricia detected it instantly. “Guy. you’re looking tired,” she said. “Yes. badly tired, and worried, too! Is anything wrong?” For one moment Meredith was tempted to tell her. Patricia was always so wise; she always understood. But fche looked so radiant, so happy in the shimmering blue and silver. It would be cruel to sweep all this away now. Let her have one evening more of happiness. So instead of the tragic words that were hovering in his mind, he said: “It has been rather a trying day at the office, and you father's staying on. He won’t be able to dine at Brentland.” “Oh! I had hoped that just for once—our dinner. . . Patricia’s voice was keen with disappointment. Meredith clasped her suddenly in a passionate embrace. “Bother the office!” he whispered, “bother everything except just you and me! I’m so happy! And because I’m happy, you must be happy too. Now. run away and dress, or we shall be late.” , _ _ W r ith a radiant smile she lett bun. For a few moments Meredith stood numbed and chilled with misery. Tomorrow Patricia would know that she would be outside this world of Pleasant luxury, perhaps for all her lile, that all the luxuries and comforts which she had taken for granted, because she had never known anything else, would be swept out of her existence, perhaps never to return. And it. was he who had to tell her the truth and deliver the blow. Yet, terrible though the situation appeared at the moment, it afterward became almost insignificant in view the great disaster that fell upon them later that night. If in her heart of hearts Mrs. Bannantyne considered that Patricia “might have done better for herself than marry Guy Meredith, an absolutely penniless young man with his way still to make, she kept that opinion to herself. She had ambitions for the girl’s future,, and had been bitterly disappointed when Patricia had declined two proposals, either of which would have led her ultimately into the peerage. However, she reflected philosophically, they all knew Guy Meredith, and a good, steady fellow he was. That at any rate was a considerable asse for Patricia’s future. Nor dld private disappointment have an) effect

on the brilliance of the dinner party and the ball which she gave in their honour. In fact, nothing so lavish and so magnificent had been given at Brentland since the marriage of her youngest daughter. She was in the drawing room, waiting the arrival of her guests, when Lady Latchmere and Julia Wryce came in together, a striking contrast, Lady Latchmere being small and dark, and Julia Wryce tall and fair. "Ah,” cried Lady Latchmere, “you are wearing your sapphires! I don’t think I am an envious person, but I must say I do envy you that necklace. I’ve never seen stones with such colour and fire.” “It is lovely, isn’t it," Mrs. Bannantyne answered. "The stones are 400 years old, and were once worn by a queen of England and two queens of France.” It certainly was a superb necklace. A row of sapphires was clasped round her neck, and hanging from it by a network of small diamonds was another row of larger stones, from which, on a chain of diamonds, depended five superb pear-shaped sapphires. In both rows the stones were of exceptional colour and brilliancy, but the five pendant stones seemed to be made of liquid blue light. The effect on Mrs. Bannantyne’s white skin was dazzling. "Do you keep it in the. house?” asked Julia. Mrs. Bannantyne nodded. “Yes,” she said, “it is always here.” ■ “But aren’t you afraid of burglars?” Mrs. Bannantyne laughed. “It would need a very clever burglar to find out where I keep my necklace.” she said. “Nobody knows except Henry and myself, and it’s in a place far safer than any bank.” • • « To Patricia that evening was one of the happiest she had ever spent; to Guy Meredith it was one of the most miserable. There had never been such a ball for years in the whole of Kent. Within the house, with Its massive carved staircase and its wide corridors, was a bower of flowers. Great flares on the tops of the two towers shone like searchlights far across the slumbering Weald, disclosing, long before ten o’clock, a line of motors stretching from the hall door down the drive to the lodge gates, and from all the roads —north, east, west, and south —flashing lights showed more cars, and yet more cars, hurrying to the stately house on the hill. Since Patricia and Meredith were practically the son and daughter of the house for that night, they had little opportunity for dancing with one another Meredith was relieved that it was so, for each time he caught a glimpse of her gliding round the room, now with this partner, now with that, radiantly happy, his heart sank. Under the soft glow of the lights it seemed to him that her auburn hair had a more lustrous sheen, and that the shimmering blue and silver of her dress was echoed in the starry brightness of her eyes. And tomorrow all this radiance, this happiness, would be destroyed. And the blow would have to come from him! When he was dancing with other people it was easier to forget the shadow, but when he and Patricia snatched a dance together he had to exert all his will power lest she should see his trouble. Just before midnight he saw her blue and silver draperies fluttering toward him. “Am I to have another dance? he said. “Oh, no, not yet,” she said. ’ Alice has got one of her blinding headaches. I’ve just helped her upstairs, and put her to bed. She’s begged me to stay until the end and help Henry.” The dismav. on Meredith’s face was so unmistakable that she added:—“l know you are tired, Guy. Suppose you

slip off after supper and send the car back for me?” An hour, two hours, perhaps longer, waiting at Arlstone to tell Patricia the ghastly news, Meredith felt, would be unendurable. Better the mockery of the lights and music, the gaiety here, a thousand times. “Oh, no,” he answered decidedly. “I shrill wait. I certainly would not leave you to come back all alone.” “Don’t mind me if you want to* change your mind,” she said. .“Now I must see that everybody has partners. Come and help me.” From time to time Mrs. Bannantyne was made almost helpless by devastating headaches. They descended upon her without warning. “Just like some wild beast leaping out of a jungle/’ she used to say. Bed was the only cure. Resistance only made matters worse, and no matter where she was when the enemy made its onslaught, she had to go to her room. Julia Wryce had brought Patricia a message that Mrs. Bannantyne wished to see her in her husband’s study. Directly Patricia entered the room and saw Mrs. Bannantyne sitting by the table, shading her eyes from the light, she knew what had happened. “Oh, you poor dear!” she said. “One of your heads!” She knew from past experience that MA. Bannantyne could not bear to be touched at these times of suffering. “And tonight—your night! It’s too hard,” Mrs. Bannantyne answered. There was a dullness and flatness in the tone of her voice which showed Patricia that the attack was a particularly severe one. “I simply can’t go on, my dear! I’ve been trying, but it’s no use. Don’t tell Henry. He’s playing bridge. He’ll be so upset that everybody will know in five minutes and then your dance will be ruined. You can tell Henry after supper. Then it won’t matter so much. You’,ll stay to the end and be hostess, won’t you?” “Of course I will. Don’t sit up a minute longer, Alice. Let me send for your maid.” “I don’t want to bother her.” Mrs. Bannantyne answered, rising unsteadily to her feet. “She’s helping them downstairs. If you’ll go with me to my room I can manage to get to bed.” Mrs. Bannantyne’s foot was on the first step of the stairs when she suddenly drew back, putting her hand up to her throat. “The necklace!” she said. “I had forgotten it. I must put it awav.” “But don’t you keep it in your oedroom?” Patricia asked. “Oh, no! It wouldn’t* be safe there. Henry only lets me keep it in the house on condition that I put it away every time after I’ve worn it. He always has to help me, because I can’t manage alone.” Patricia was rather puzzled, but instantly she said: “Can’t I help you?” Mrs. Bannantyne hesitated. “We put it in my sitting-room.” she. explained, “in a place no thief could possibly discover. Not a soul except us tw'o knows where it is kept.” Mrs. Bannantyne hesitated again. “Well, then, Alice,” said Patricia, “if you can’t put the necklace away by yourself, let me help you.” Mrs. Bannantyne was almost at the end of her endurance. Longing to get j.o the quiet and darkness of her bedroom, and at the same time to know that her precious necklace was safe, she agreed to the girl’s suggestion, adding: “I dare say it sounds foolish, but you must promise me—promise me, Patricia —you’ll never tell a soul—not even Guy or your father —where we keep it.” “Of course, I won’t!” Patricia replied immediately. “And j'ou won’t tell Henry that you helped me?” “No.” A door at the eud of the library opened into Mrs. Bannantyne’s sittingroom, a door which was seldom used, the usual entrance being from the winter garden which ran the whole

width of the ballroom and the draw-ing-room. Tonight the w'inter garden, with its tinkling fountain in the centre, and its masses of flowers and lofty palms, was a bower of softlyshaded lights, given up wholly to dancers. The door into Mrs. Bannantyne’s sitting-room from that side was locked. Patricia knew the room as well as her own snuggery at Arlstone Lodge. When she opened the door leading from the library, the place was in darkness. She touched an electric switch at one side of the door, and immediately there was a flood of soft pink light from candelabra in ormolu mounts set at intervals all round the walls. Low bookcases of satinwood ran round the w'hole room, the tops of which served as consoles, laden with china, photographs, and all the little knick-knacks a woman likes to collect about her. But on the other side of the fireplace of carved marble, the bookcases ran up to the ceiling. Apparently they were let into the wall instead of standing out from it like the others, but they were actually the doors to cupboards, and the rows of books they appeared to hold were only wooden blocks with their backs covered with leather, titles of books being painted on them in gold letters. Knowing that the bookcases were masked doors, Patricia was not surprised when Mrs. Bannantyne opened the one on the right-hand side by pressing a concealed spring. “So this is where you keep your necklace,” she said, wondering why Mrs. Bannantyne wanted help to put it away. “No; not in the cupboard. In the 1 door. All those sham books on the top shelf are really wooden boxes. But they are fastened by double springs, and it takes two people to work them. Would you get a chair, my dear?” Mrs. Bannantyne pulled the door wide open, so that it stood right out into the room. Although she had seen it opened many times, Patricia had never noticed before that it was the same thickness as if it held real books. Directing Patricia to put the chair close to the edge of the door and to stand on it, Mrs. Bannantyne told her that just below the level of the top shelf she would find a small raised lump in the wood if she ran her fingers down the sides. “I’ve got it!” said Patricia, coming upon something hard and round and slightly above the level of the woodwork. “Wait a moment, my dear. That's one spring. The other is just above the bottom shelf. Oh, my head! v ’ She stooped with difficulty, putting her hand on the edge of the door, close to the bottom shelf. “Press yours!” she said. “We must both press together.” Patricia pressed on the round lump beneath her fingers. There was a • click, and just to the left of her hand an inch or so or a small steel rod shot out. “That’s right,” said Mrs. Bannantyne looking up. “Now pull the rod right out. It fastens all the sham books together.” The rod came out quite easily, and then Mrs. Bannantyne directed her to take down the third book on the lefthand side. Except that it was of wood it was exactly like a book, even to the edges being painted to represent gilded leaves. “Henry', always calls this our burglarproof safe,” Mrs. Bannantyne said as she took it from Patricia. She pressed both edges and one of the leather covered sides flew open disclosing a box lined with -white velvet. Mrs. Bannantyne unfastened her sapphire necklace and placed it carefully in the box, each stone lying in an indentation made for it in the velvet. Then she snapped down the lfd. v Eggs are cheapest now. Keep a sup - ply for the dear season. Sharland’s Egg Preservative. All stores. 11

“Push it back on the shelf as far as it will go," she said, handing the jewel book-box to Patricia, “if you don’t the rod won’t go through those two holes at the bottom.’’ The rod ran in easily. When its head sank into the level of the woodwork a sound as of the wards of a lock shot home came from the far end of the shelf. “Ah,” said Mrs. Bannantyne, “it’s fastened. Thank you, my dear. Now' I shall be in peace.’’ It was broad daylight when the car drew up at the front of Arlstone Lodge. Faithful to her promise to Mrs. Bannantyne, Patricia had stayed until the end of the ball and the last guest had departed. She was very tired, and during the six-miles run from Brentland had scarcely spoken as she nestled against Meredith’s shoulder. But she was happily tired, thinking what a wonderful thing love is; how it makes everything in the world so utterly different. Then came a thought w’hich made her nestle even closer. In a very little w’hile she and Guy would be together for always——always—always. That was her last remembrance until she found Meredith shaking her gently. “Here we are,’’ he \£as saying. “Wake up, old sleepy head!” He had been thankful for her silence. The news could not be told j now until he came back from the City | in the evening. The poor child was ! too tired. ! Patricia stood yawning on the door-

step while Meredith unlocked the front door. She was thinking vaguely how much pleasanter it is to come home in the early morning from a ball in the country than in London, when a sudden exclamation from Meredith made Her turn sharply. “Look," he said, “the lights are all on! ” . “Daddy must have forgotten to switch them off before he went to bed. How strange!" Patricia said. “And look, Guy, the lights are on ! everywhere." The drawing-room, the dining-rooni ■ the morning-room. Daynesford’s rtudy, 1 and Patricia’s snuggery, all opened ! from the big square hall. All the ; doors, except that of the study, were i standing ajar, showing the electric ■ light blazing in all the rooms. “How [strange!" Patricia repeated. “Poor | old darling, he’s been sitting up for us and has fallen asleep." “I’ll go and see," said Meredith, crossing the hall to the study •door. He opened it and went in. i “Is he there?" Patricia called. There was no answer. I “Is he there?" she called again. Again no answer. Throwing off her j cloak, Patricia crossed to the study. ! But as she reached the door Meredith ! came out, his eyes staring, his face a j greyish white. “You can’t come in, darling! You j mustn’t come in!" he said thickly. Involuntarily she made a movement i as if to force her way past him. But he stretched out both arms to bar hei passage, his hands grasping the lintels of the door.

;| “Darling, you cant come in!” “Why?” she demanded, then uttered 1 . a sharp cry of terror. ' | Guy Meredith’s right hand was , smeared with blood. J “Don’t be a fool, Guy! I tell you i again, as I told you at Brentland last | week, there’s nothing in it. Not a penny! If there were I would have j lent you the money without a mo- * ment’s hesitation. But it would only } i be throwing it away, yes. literally S throwing it into the hole that swal 1 i lowed up everything poor Gervase Daynesford possessed. No, give up the idea, my boy. You’re only wast- * l ing your time." * * Henry Bannantyne leaned back in ; his office chair and looked at Guy l Meredith kindly. “ | The three months of unceasing r , worry and anxiety through which he r had passed since the night, when he had found Gervase Daynesford shot through the heart after he and Patl* | ricia returned from the ball at Brentland, had left their mark.

(To be continued, t