THE BANNANTYNE SAPPHIRES

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 777, 25 September 1929, Page 5

THE BANNANTYNE SAPPHIRES

BY

PRANK HIED

CHAPTER XVU. —(Continued.) To Patricia he said as he passed her in the drawing room, where she was Bitting with Julia Wryce: "Grelkin is still here.” “I’m very glad to hear it.” The expression in Patricia's eyes as they met his own gave Bannantyne a sensation of vague uneasiness. It was anything but the expression of a guilty person. "Obstinacy, just damned obstinacy,” he muttered to himself as he crossed the room. An hour or so later the guests took their departure. When Bannantyne returned from seeing them off Mrs. Bannantyne held out her hand to say jood-night to Maxwell Wryce. “One moment, if you please. Alice,” said Patricia. “Last night I told Henry that I should know' tonight whether I could answer a charge he made against me or not. I can answer the charge " “This is a matter between you and me, Patricia.” Bannantyne interrupted nervously. He did not want his wife to know of what he was convinced was Patricia’s “guilt.” “Such an insulting and shameful charge is not a matter just between you and me, Henry. I insist on Alice and Maxwell and Julia hearing :ny answer.” “Charge, my dear, charge! What are you talking about?” cried Mrs. Bannantyne, utterly bewildered. “What charge could Henry possibly make against you?” Intense feeling vibrated in Patricias voice as she answered: “Last night he accused me of stealing your neckl -e.” With an exclamation of horror, Airs. Bannantyne sank down upon a sofa, staring helplessly at her husband. This was not the scene Bannantyne had expected after Patricia's visit to London. He had even gone so far as to tell Grelkin he was sure she would come back with the necklace, make full confession, and there would he the end of the matter; of course, nothing was to be said to a soul. Because he was beginning to feel nertom, he said angrily; “There's no need to drag Alice and the others into the matter.” “There’s every need,” said Meredith quietly. He was standing just behind Bannantyne. * * * Furious, the latter wheeled round to be met with the same expression in Meredith's eyes—contempt and dislike— which he had seen in Patricia's earlier in the evening, and which had made him feel uneasy. His nervousness increased, and he said, speaking even more angrily than he had done to Patricia. “Mind your own business, Guy. ■ OB've no right to interfere.”

“A woman’s honour is very much her husband’s business,” Meredith answered, “therefore I’ve every right to interfere.” Bannantyne’s irritation over what he considered Meredith’s “barging in,” led him to say contemptuously, “Yes, I daresay. But you and Patricia are not married yet.” “We were married yesterday in London. I heard you were making this charge against her, and decided she ought to have the protection of my name.” As he spoke Meredith crossed over to where Patricia was standing and put his hand on her arm. “Now, my darling,” he said, “give Henry his answer.” CHAPTER XVIII. Patricia turned to Bannantyne. “You said Grelkin was still in the house. I wish him to hear what I have to say. Please send for him.” For a moment Bannantyne hesitated. An intense stillness was in the room. Mrs. Bannantyne and Julia Wryce, sitting side by side, were clasping hands and looking straight in front of them. Maxwell Wryce, seated opposite, was looking hard at the carpet. Each felt the moment was electric with possibilities, and each one carefully avoided looking at Bannantyne, at the young man and woman standing together by the sofa, or at one another. The silence, the rigidity of these five people, gave Bannantyne a curious sensation that he, not Patricia, was the accused person. With a muttered, “Well, if you want a fuss you shall have it,” he strode across to the fireplace and rang the bell. When the butler had answered it and Bannantyne had given his order, Meredith, after a whisper from Patricia, leit the room. He returned in a few moments carrying a cardboard box. _ “Phaugh!” cried Bannantyne directly he saw the box. “The whole thing is bluff! I knew it! Now, what pretty story are you two going to spin to explain how Alice’s necklace got into that box?” As he spoke Mrs. Bannantyne and the two Wryces turned involuntarily and looked at the cardboard box. Then they looked at one another in amazement. An ugly pallor crept oyer Mrs. Bannantyne’s face, and she said under her breath; “Is it possible? Is it possible? Then Grelkin came in. Bannantyne went over to the fireplace and took his favourite attitude his back toward the grate, his hands clasDed behind him. It was a vantages ground from which he felt he dominated the room. „ -am “I sent for you. Grelkin, he said.

“because Miss Daynesford wished me to do so. You will remember last night she promised to tell me something about the sapphire necklace after she had been to London today. She wants you to hear what she has to say.” Grelkin bowed awkwardly. His quick eyes had noticed instantly the cardboard box which Meredith had placed in front of him on the padded arm of the sofa. Patricia made a few steps forward. This brought her .directly facing Bannantyne. But she spoke to Mrs. Bannantyne. “Last night, Alice, Henry told me he was convinced I had taken your necklace when I was here for the night of the 14th of July; that I took it to London on the 15th and pawned it for £3,000. He considered he had absolute proof of this because of an entry in my diary which this man here”—a contemptuous wave of the hand indicated Grelkin—“stole from my bedroom. He and Henry apparently read my diary ail through and Henry has it now. At least, he has not returned it to me.” “Honestly, Patricia,” said Bannantyue, much perturbed, “I had forgotten all about it—believe me, I had.” m * Patricia went on as if he had not spoken. “This man Grelkin, in Henry’s presence, told me that because of this entry in my diary he had made inquiries and had found that I pawned a necklace at Yestborougli’s on the 15th of July and that the necklace was redeemed a month ago. Upon this, knowing that Guy and I were in desperate need, Henry arrived at the conclusion that I had taken your necklace, ‘borrowed it,’ as he said, to raise the money to pay the taxes on the Mexican property; that I had redeemed it when the property was sold, and had had no chance since of putting it back. “My answer to you, Henry, is that I did pawn a necklace for £3,000 at Yestborough’s on the 15th of July, and that I redeemed it a month ago. I have the necklace here.” She turned to Meredith. He took off the lid of the cardboard box, then lifted from the box a circular-shaped leather case. This he gave to Patricia. She touched a spring which released the upper half of the case, then with a quick movement placed the open case on Mrs. Bannantyne’s lap, saying: “That was the necklace I pawned, Alice.” Bannantyne stepped forward, but instead of the marvellous, unforgettable blue of his wife’s sapphires which he expected to see, there was the blaze of diamonds of unusual size and lustre; and edging the diamonds Was the sheen of magnificent pearls. Nobody spoke. Bannantyne stood staring down at the glittering stones as if suddenly stupefied. Mrs. Bannantyne was too bewildered by the hideous situation which had burst in on her quiet, well-ordered life to speak. Julia Wryce broke the silence. She had been bending down looking at the necklace closely. “Surely” she cried, turning to Patricia, “this is Alary Latchmere’s necklace.” “Yes, it is,” Patricia answered, picking up the case and giving it to Aleredith, “and for fear Henry should accuse me of stealing—or, as he puts it.

‘borrowing’—this necklace, too, I must explain how I was able to pawn it.” Bannantyne had gone back to his place on the hearthrug, but now he stood with his back to the room, looking at the empty grate. “You know how desperately Guy and I needed £3,000,” Patricia continued. “When I got to London from here on the morning of July 15, it occurred to me that, although Mary Latchmere couldn’t possibly lend me the money herself, she might know somebody who could. So I went straight to her from the station, and told her the position. She was full of sympathy and understanding, as she always is, but knew nobody. I was just coining away, when suddenly she picked up this cardboard box, which was standing on her table, and said: —‘l have it! Here’s my necklace! Pawn that, and get it out when you sell the property.’ “She said she believed she had no business to lend me the necklace, because it is one of the Latchmere jewels, so made the stipulation that I was not to speak on the matter to a soul, not even to Guy, for fear her husband would hear of it. She had worn the necklace the night before, and was going to take it back to the bank when I arrived. They were just off to America, and it would be months before she would want the necklace again. And, as she said, it made no difference to Lord Latchmere whether the necklace was safe at the bank or safe at a pawnbroker's, but it made ’ all the difference in the world to Guy and me if it was at a pawnbroker’s.” ’ “I promised her that I would not tell anyone, and that directly Guy sold . tlio Mexican property I would get the , necklace out and put it in my own | bank. This I did. Guy and I took it from the bank this morning, and then waited all day for a cable from Mary in answer to one I sent from here this morning on our way to the station. That is a copy of my cablegram, and that is Mary’s answer.” She held out a piece of paper, and a telegram to Julia Wryce, saying mockingly:—“Read them out, Julia. Henry is so suspicious that if I read them he may think I am inventing.” Julia Wryce looked inquiringly at Mrs. Bannantyne, who in turned looked at her husband’s back. Perhaps because he had made no sign when he heard Patricia’s explanation; perhaps because his broad shoulders seemed obstinately non-committal, Mrs. Bannantyne said, a note of sharpness in her voice, “Please read them.” Julia Wryce read from the paper: ’ “By curious coincidence, your kindness has resulted iu charge of theft being made against me. May I break promise made in July? It is the only answer to serious attack on my honour. Writing, Patricia.” Then she read the cablegram, which ran:—“Full liberty to say what you choose; dying to know details.—Mary.” Bannantyne swung round quickly. His face was livid. “Why couldn’t you have told me this when I first asked you the night Grelkin came?” he asked, savagely. “Why couldn’t you have told me when you found I had every cause to suspect you?” “You forget my promise.” “That’s all very well,” retorted Bannantyne, “but last night Grelkin and I assured you the name wouldn’t go beyond ourselves. If you had only spoken, all this fuss and bother would never have happened.” “I'm not in the least surprised, Henry, that you should have thought I stole Alice’s necklace,” Patricia said, her voice showing that she was beginning to lose the marvellous control she had kept over herself throughout this painful scene. “You accused my father of being a thief. It is only natural that you should accuse his daughter of being a thief as well.” Then she broke down, sobbing as she turned with outstretched arms to Meredith. “Guy, take me away. Take me away.” Meredith took Patricia to the sitting-room on the ground floor of the tower in which he and Maxwell Wryce had their bedrooms. She was overwrought, and he knew they would be undisturbed there. He put her in one of the big easy chairs and poured out a whisky and soda. Patricia was not crying, but her breath was coming in hard little sobs. “Drink that, my darling,” Meredith said, giving her the glass. He sat down on one of the arms of the chair and put a hand *on her shoulder. Patricia, trembling, and strained by the scene she had just gone through, leant against him. She was about Ito speak, when he said: “No, finish that first, and then we’ll talk.” (To be continues tomorrow.)