THE BANNANTYNE SAPPHIRES

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 775, 23 September 1929, Page 5

THE BANNANTYNE SAPPHIRES

BY

FRANK HIRD

CHAPTER Xlir. “None, except that I promised I would tell nobody, not even Guy." "Then you won’t tell me?” "Certainly not!” Question and answer came like two pistol shots. For an tnstant they stood facing one another under the glaring light, like two duellists; the woman contemptuous, the man menacing. Then Bannantyne, muttering something Patricia did not hear, wheeled round and led the way to his study. Patricia had nothing to tell Grelkin beyond what he bad heard already. Her description of helping Mrs. Bannantyne to put away the necklace was a repetition of what Bannantyne had told him. “You are sure there was no one in the library when you and Mrs. Bannantyne passed through it to her sitting room, and \vhi»t you came back?” he asked. “Quite certain. The room was all lighted up, but there was nobody there." Grelkin pressed the tips of his lingers together, a favourite action when he was considering knotty Points, but although his attention appeared to be engrossed on his hands, Patricia was conscious that he was observing her. and closely. Mr. Bannantyne has a theory, Miss haynesford," the decided voice went on, “that a servant must either have watched you and Mrs. Bannantyne put the necklace away that night, or on some occasion when he helped Mrs. dannantyne. Now, do you remember seeing any servant anywhere near the sitting room or the library?” Patricia thought deeply for some Moments. "Now you mention it, I do,” "t sudden remembrance. . Mrs. Bannantyne and I were going rom this room to the staircase a footm&a came out of the next room, the S“u room." Which one?” Bannantyne interposed. “Bart well ” Bart»- ( i|; Ah. then Mr. Grelkin, I h„ S wrong when I told you there had the U - D0 obau &° in the servants since p of our ball. I had forgotten well, the second footman. He left about a month ago." Had he been here long?” Grelkin asked. About six months, 1 should say.”: v boantyne answered. “But I cau tell ”* eiacU y. I engage the men-servants • , and always keep their records.”

Crossing to the back of the writing table he took what appeared to be an account book from a locked drawer.

"Yes,” he said, after tprning several pages, “six months. The footmen generally stay a year, sometimes two. Bartwell, I see, left because he preferred service in London. He came to us from Lord Claverton, highly recommended—” “Did you say Lord Claverton?” Grelkin asked the question sharply. “Yes, Lord Claverton at Osslngford Park,” Bannantyne replied. “My note here says, ‘Bartwell, excellent servant, smart appearance, intelligent, competent for first footman's place.’ ” “Do you know where he is now?” Bannantyne looked at the record. “Yes, he’s in Clarges Street. I see I recommended him as valet to Mr. Manuele Leofalda, a well-known man on the South American market.” “How curious! That’s the man who bought my father’s Mexicau property,” cried Patricia. “So Guy told me,” Bannantyne said curtly. “Might I make a note of those facts?” Grelkin asked, holding out his hand for the book. Having made several entries In a notebook, the detective asked Patricia to tell them all she could remember about seeing Bartwell in the passage leading to the library on the night of the ball. “X don’t suppose I should have taken any’ particular notice,” she explained. “if the man hadn't looked so startled when he saw Mrs. Bannautyne and myself as he came out of the gunroom. But I thought perhaps he had no business in that room.” The tips of Grelkin’s fingers were again pressed together as he “Did you see what became of him?” “He went through the vestibule into the hall.” "You were then on your way to Mrs. Bannantyne's sitting room?” Grelkin asked. “No. We were going to Mrs. Bannantyne's bedroom. It was only tvhen we got to the bottom of the staircase that she remembered her necklace,” Patricia said, going on to explain Mrs. Bannantyne’s wish that her husband should not be disturbed, and how-, seeing her anxiety about the jewels, she (Patricia! had offered to help her to put them in the secret hiding-place. “Where did this conversation take place. Miss Daynesford?” "At the botom of the staircase.” Patricia answered. * $ * Grelkin looked at a rough plan he had made of Mrs. Bannantyne’s sitting room, and its way of approach from the vestibule. Then he asked: “I take it you and Mrs. Bannantyne were standing in the passage which runs outside this room and the gun room?” . ... . “Yes but The staircase is right at the end. close to the library door,” ratricia told him. Grelkin consulted his plan. He put his next question slowly. ‘This is a most important point, Miss Daynesford. Now, can you tell “ whether you saw the footman. Bartwell. pass under the archway into the hall before or after Mrs. Bannan-

tyne told you she must put tlic necklace away?” “Oh, before!” Patricia’s answer came without a moment’s hesitation. “Why are you so sure?” “Because it was as I was helping Mrs. Bannantyne on to the bottom Lstep that I looked down the passage ! and saw Bartwell disappearing under ; the archway. The next moment she spoke about the necklace.” i “Could he have heard what you 1 and Mrs. Bannantyne said?” “That would be impossible,” said Bannantyne, “if he had gone through into the hall.” Grelkin had only two more questions to put to Patricia. One was whether she had described to anybody the place in which the necklace j was kept. To this she gave a decided ! “Np.” He then asked her if she was absolutely certain that the footman had disappeared into the hall before Mrs. Bannantyne had spoken about putting the necklace away. To this she answered, “Absolutely certain.’ “Thank you,” said the detective, “that is a very important point.” “Well, what is your opinion now?” Bannantyne asked him when Patricia had left the room. “I haven’t formed an opinion yet, Mr. Bannantyne. Perhaps I may have one tomorrow evening or Tuesday. After I’ve examined the false bookcase I’ll run up to London and see if I can have a little talk with this Bartwell. As I told you on the telephone, a sense of security often' makes people give themselves away, especially when questions are put to them suddenly. Miss Daynesford is very clear in her remembrance.” “But that to me seemed all in the man’s favour,” said Bannantyne. “except there was no reason lor him to be in the gunroom that night.” “I shall ask him to explain that.” Grelkin remarked, adding a few words to his notes. “Miss Daynesford’s remembrance may be most vcJuable. Few ladies are so clear and definite. Later on, Bannantyne couiu never remember whether this remark of Grelkin’s led him to talk about Patricia. or whether further remarks from the detective and a skilful question here and there brought out the stPry of her father’s ruin. But whether Bannantyne volunteered the story, or whether it was drawn from him, the result was that when Grelkin got to his bedroom he made a note that Patricia had recently borrowed £3,000, and refused to give the lender’s name, not only to Bannantyne. but also to the young man to whom she was engaged. * s * "It’s no good getting in a rage, Guy!” “But the suggestion is damnable;” utterly damnable!” cried Meredith. “Wouldn’t you be furious?” It was a few hours later, and the two men were in the smoking room of “The Towers.” Maxwell Wryce looked distressed. “Of course, I understand what you feel about it,” he said. “If it were anybody bujt Henry Bannantyne. I'd knock him down!” Meredith retorted savagely. “May I suggest that the ash-tray isn't Henry's face? Y’ou’ll make dents in it if you bang your pipe down like that,” Wryce said quietly. Meredith threw his pipe down on the table and, jumping up, strode to the fireplace. “Henry must be mad. stark mad!" he cried, his voice vibrating with anger. “Besides, it’s unspeakably insulting! I shall tell him so.” “But you promised you would say nothing.” Wryce leant forward in liis easy chair, looking at Meredith

apprehensively, “honestly, I thought if I told you what Henry said to me you could perhaps persuade Patricia to give the name of the person who lent her the money, and that would settle Henry’s dreadful suspicions about Patricia at once.” CHAPTER XIV. Here Wryce hesitated. “I broke my promise to Henry,” he went on, getting up and standing beside Meredith, ! “because I thought, in telling you, I was helping everybody all round.” He put his hand on Meredith’s shoulder. “It’s simply silly— grotesque—foi Henry to have these doubts about Pat ricia in this necklace business. 1 top him so. But you know how pigheaded he is when he once gets an idea in his mind. To everything I said he rapped out, “Then why wouldn’t she give me the name?” “How could she when she’s promised not to?” Meredith burst out. “That’s exactly what I said,” Wryce answered, “but Henry went on just as if I had said nothing, and always anout the name. So I thought, if you could get Patricia to give you the name, I could pass it on to Henry and that would end his stupidity.” Meredith turned round sharply, his eyes bright with anger. “It would be an insult to ask her!” lie cried. “It would practically be admitting that Henry had some cause for this horrible idea that Patricia, know ing how to get the necklace, borrowed it, pawned it, and then redeemed it after we sold the Mexican property*. And then, to prove this damnable suggestion, he calmly suggests that the loss of the necklace was discovered be- ! cause Patricia handn’t an opportunity j to put it back. It’s all too ” He stopped abruptly. Wryce was gripping his arm. “Come, come, Guy, you’re going too far! Henry was not so definite as that. It was only my own impression from what he said. Perhaps it was stupid of me to have mentioned the matter to you, but, as I told you, I thought the name would satisfy Henry, and that would be the end of his grotesque idea. Of course, if you’re going to make a fuss ” Meredith broke away from Wryce’s detaining hand and walked across the room to the window. The two men were in the smoking room, a circular room with a high-groyned stone ceiling, on the grouncl floor of one of the towers which flanked the main build- ' ing of Brentland on either side. Above { it were two bedrooms, one on top of the other, reached from the smoking room by a winding brick staircase. These bedrooms were always occupied by bachelors. During this visit Mere dith had the room on the first floor; Maxwell Wryce, the room on the second floor. They had been on their way to bed 1 when Maxwell Wryce suggested another pipe in the tower smoking room i before they turned in. Then, with J delicate tact and sympathy, he hail, told Meredith of something Bannantvne had said to him before dinner. Bannantyne had spoken in such a way that Wryce could only conclude he suspected Patricia of having secretly borrowed the sapphire necklace, in order to raise money upon it to pay the taxes on the Mexican property. As he pointed out to Meredith. Wryce was in a difficult position. He was a friend of Bannantyne, and equally the friend of Patricia. Ban nantyne’s suspicion was grotesque, no, more, it was cruel. But he thought that if he told Meredith and Meredith got the name of the lender of the money from Patricia he would be help ing his friends all round. Bannantyne had spoken to him in confidence, but he had broken his promise to say nothing in the hope of put-

ting things straight. Now, he was alarmed. * Meredith had not only rejected his well-gieant attempt to smooth matters, but showed every sign of making a first-class row with Bannantyne. Wryce knew that Bannantyne would take his breach of confidence badly; probably never forgive him. And he knew, too, that with Bannantyne’s difficult temper there was the probability of his resentment being carried into their business affairs. For Wryce this was a serious matter. He waited for Meredith to speak. Guy was standing with his back to him, apparently looking at a picture. But there was something in the set of his square shoulders, the poise of his head, in his whole attitude which caused Wryce to repeat: “Guy, you promised, didn’t you, not to say anything to Henry?” “I’ve been thinking about that,” Meredith answered, turning round. “Of course I shall say nothing. My first impulse was to go and tell him what I thought of him. But that wouldn’t be fair to you. And Uve been thinking about something else as well.” Wryce’s relief was profound. He poured himself out a strong whisky and soda. Meredith crossed the room and stood by the fireplace. Wryce looked at him inquiringly. He had never seen him so gra~~ and stern. The two were silent for a while; then Wryce said, “By the way, Guy, is there any fuss between Henry and Patricia? Lately both Julia and I have thought they’re not so friendly not a bit what they used to be.” “Henry was angry because Patricia wouldn’t come and live here after her father—” Meredith hesitated over the word, then said: “died,” adding: “and lie’s gone on being angry ever since. He thought that just because he made the offer Patricia ought to accept it. Patricia wouldn’t be dependent on anybody.” ‘‘Ah, then that accounts for it,” said Wryce. “I was amazed that any suspicion of Patricia could have occurred to him in this necklace business. Now, I see. Henry’s got no end of good qualities, but cross him or thwart him and he can be positively vindictive. I’ve seen it more than once in business.” Wryce leant forward in his chair. “I don’t mind telling you,-now, Guy,” he said, his voice sinking into a tone of confidence, “that I didn’t lend you the money for the taxes because I was afraid of Henry. He and I do a good deal of business together, and I knew that if I had gone in where he was keeping out, he might take it as a personal matter, a sort of reflection on his judgment, although I should only have been acting out of friendship for you and Patricia.” Meredith thought he detected apology in this explanation. “Please don’t think I have a scrap of feeling against Henry or you for refusing to lend the money.” “I’m glad to hear you say that,” Wryce rejoined heartily. “Henry is a funny chap in some ways. I would bet you anything all the rubbish he’s got in his head about Patricia and the necklace has ‘‘curred to him just because he’s got a ‘down’ on her for not coming to live here.” “That 1 should say is the explanation,” said Meredith curtly. “There isn’t any other, and I’ve finished with Henry Bannantyne. He might just as well have had suspicions of me!” The next morning Meredith went to London by an early train, returning in time for the big luncheon which the Bannantvnes gave for the Flower Show. Mrs. Bannantyne gave a large tea-party, also in a special marquee, and at night there was a dinner-party in the oak-panelled state dining-

room, which was only used when the Bannantynes had more than twenty guests. Wednesday was a replica of Tuesday. Throughout both days Meredith avoided Bannantyne. This was easy, because, except at breakfast. Bannantyne was occupied with a hun dred duties. But at breakfast on both days Meredith noticed with flaming anger that Bannantyne did not address a single word to Patricia. On Thursday morning Meredith and Patricia went to London, also by an early train. They did not return until the late afternoon, thus missing the final function of the Flower Show — the big luncheon for the farmers and other exhibitors. Patricia found a plaintive Mrs. Bannantyne stretched out at full length on a sofa at the foot of her bed. “Why did you desert me today, my dear? You could have helped me so much. You are always so helpful, just the right word to say to everybody! Julia was very kind and good, but she isn’t you. Why did you desert me?’’ Patricia explained that most urgent business had called Guy and herself to London. “I’m getting too old and too tired for these huge affairs, people pouring all over the place like a river. But Henry loves it. and he’s so angry because he says you’ve been unkind to me. He says you oughtn't to have left me to look after all those people by myself.” They had been two difficult days for Patricia. For the first time since her father’s death she had met old neigh-

bours at Arlstone and old acquaintances in the neighbourhood. That in itself was sufficiently painful. But the obvious recollection of the tragedy at Arlstone, eloquent in the various ways in which these people greeted , her, was more painful still. There was a subtle difference, too, between their greetings now and their greet ings of old days. She was no longer | an heiress, “the only child of Mr. I Daynesford, the rich my, i ! dear.” She was only “The MisnJ i I Daynesford, you know, who w»3 i | forced to go out to work just like si i j servant or a governess after her father shot himself.” I I CHAPTER XV. l When you have lost all your money ] people, perhaps, don’t mean to be i ' actually unkind, but so many tof them * make you aware that so far as they \ , are concerned your position, is en ; - tirely changed; that while there arc- f . always potentialities about an heiress i to riches, there are no potentialities at all about the penniless daughter of a ruined father. It is all subtle, ; unexpressed. But many, many times in those j I days it was so evident to Patricia j ; that she had to set her teeth, and t restrain an impulse to rush to her r room. She repeated over and over l again to herself what Meredith had ) said when they had first realised the i ! extent of her father’s ruin: “It’s no use howling, and whatever we do we mustn't show people we’re : I knocked out. Being pitied is hate- - ful.”

She l»ad gone through all this and yet Bannantyne reproached her because she had missed the farmers* lunchteon. “I*ta sorry, Alice,” she said, “but, as I’ve told you, Guy and I were oblfeed to go to London on important business. € ‘l think were very unkind. Vbu ought to have thought of me. I'm #>ure your business, whatever it was, /could have waited until tomorrow/* Mrs. Bannantyne replied pettishly. The answer annoyed Patricia. “That was a question for me and Guy to decide,” she said with a curtness ! that made Mrs. Bannantyne turn her j head quickly on the piled-up cushions. Patricia had never spoken to her in ! this way before. ■ The inferred unimportance of her ; affairs, the unimportance of herself in comparison with what Mrs. Ban- ! nantyne wanted, was precisely the at- ; titude of neighbours and local acj quaintances against which Patricia had been inwardly raging during tho whole of the Flower Show. It was too much to be borne in silence. (To be continuecf tomorrow.) ; I