The DESTROYING ANGEL.

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 823, 18 November 1929, Page 5

The DESTROYING ANGEL.

BY

CHAPTER VIII. ♦ Cont inued.» A lull fell, but only temporarily. As the minutes lengthened the gallery grew more and more obstreperous and turbulent. Wave upon wave of sound swept through the auditorium to break, roaring, against the obdurate curtain. When eventually a second figure appeared before the footlights, the audience seemed to understand that Max dared not show himself again, and why? It was with difficulty that the man—evidently the stage manager contrived to make himself disconnectedly audible. “Ladies ami . .’’ lie shouted, sweat heading his perturbed forehead . . . “regret . . . impossible to continue . . . money . . . box-office . . An angry bowl drowned him out. He retreated at accelerated discretion. Whitaker, slipping through the stage door behind the boxes, ran into the last speaker standing beside the first entrance, heatedly explaining to any one who would listen the utter iutility of offering box-office prices in return for seat checks which in the majority of instances had cost their holders top-notch speculator prices. ‘‘They'll wreck the theatre!” he hunted excitedly, mopping his brow with his coat-sleeve, “and damned if I blame ’em! What Cell'd she wana pull a raw one like this for?” Whitaker caught his arm in a grasp compelling attention ‘‘Where’s Miss Law?” he asked. “You tell me and I'll make you a handsome present,” retorted the man. “What happened to her? Can’t you find her?” “I dun no—go ask Max.” “Where is he?” “You can search me: last 1 saw of him he was tearing the star dressin’ room up by the roots.” Whitaker hurried on just in lime to see Max disappearing in the direction of the stage door, at which point he caught up with him. and from the* manager's disjointed catechism of the doorkeeper garnered the information that the star ha l hurried out "f the building while Mux was making his announcement. before the ‘ urtaln. Max swung angrily upon Whitaker. “Oh. it’s you. is it? Perhaps you tan explain what this means? She "'as looking straight at you when she dried up! I saw her ” “Perhaps you’d better find Miss Law and ask her.” Whitaker Interrupted. “Have you any idea where she’s

gone?” “Home, probable.” Max snapped in return. “Where's that?" “Fifty seventh Street —house of her own—just bought if." "Come on, then.” Passing his arm through the manager’s. Whitaker drew him out into the alley. “We II a taxi before this mob ” “But. look here —what business’ve you got mixing in?” “Ask Miss Law.” said Whitaker, shortly. It had been on the tip of his tongue to tell the man flatly: “I m her husband.” But he retained wit enough to deny himself the satisfac-

LOUIS JOSEPH VANCE

Copyright by Public Ledger.)

tion of this shattering rejoinder. ’l know her.” he added, “that’s enough for the present.” “If you knew her all the time, why didn’t you say so?” Max expostulated with passion. “1 didn’t know l knew her—by that name.” said Whitaker lamely. At the entrance to the alley Max paused to listen to the uproar within his well-beloved theatre. “I’d give 5,000 dollars if T hadn’t met you this afternoon!” he groaned. “It’s too late now.” Whitaker mentioned the obvious. “But if I’d understood. I promise yon l wouldn’t have come at least to sit where she could see me.” He began gently to urge Mux toward Broadway, but the manager hung back like a sulky child. “Hell!” he grumbled. "I always knew that Woman was a Jonah!” “You were calling her your mascot two hours ago.” “She’ll be the death of me. yet," the little man insisted gloomily. He stopped short, jerking his arm free. “Look here. I’m not going. What’s the use? We'd only row. And I’ve got my work cut out for me back there” —with a jerk ot' his head toward the theatre. Whitaker hesitated, then without regret decided to lose him. It would be as well to get over the impending interview without a third factor. “Very well.” he said, beckoning a taxicab into the curb. “What’s the address?” Max gave it sullenly. “So long.” he added morosely as Whitaker opened the cab door: “sorry 1 ever laid eyes on you." Whitaker hesitated. “How about that supper?” he inquired. "Is it still on?” “How in blazes do I know? Come round to the Beaux Arts and find out for yourself —same’s I'll have to.” “All right.” said Whitaker doubtfully. He nodded to the chauffeur and jumped into the cab. As they swung away he received a parting impression of Max. his pose modelled on the popular conception of Napoleon at Waterloo: hands clasped behind his back, hair in disorder, chin on his chest, a puzzled frown shadowing his face as he stared somberly after his departing guest. CHAPTER IX. BAFFLED Whitaker settled back and. oblivi-

ous to the lights of Broadway stream- j ing past, tried to think —tried with £ indifferent success to prepare himself against the unhappy conference he > had to anticipate. It suddenly presented itself to his reason with shocking force that his attitude must he ' humbly and wholly apologetic. It was » a singular case: lie had come home s to find his wife ou the point of mar- i J rving another man —and she was the J one entitled to feel aggrieved! Strange j J twist of the eternal triangle • • • j He tried desperately, and with equal c futility, to frame some excuse for his fault. 1 Far too soon the machine swerved I into sJth Street, slipped halfway t down the block, described a wide arc to the northern kerb and pulled i up. trembling, before a most modern f residence between 6tli and • til 1 Avenues. - Reluctantlv Whitaker got out and. on suspicion, told the chauffeur to c wait Then, with all the alacrity of a condemned man ascendin? the . scaffold, he ran tip 'he steps to the front door.

• A manservant answered his ring without undue delay. Was Miss Law at home? He would ; see. This indicated that she was at home. Whitaker tendered a card 1 ’ with his surname pencilled after that of Mr. Hugh Morten in engraved script. He was suffered to enter and wait in the hallway. He stared round him with pardonable wonder. If this were truly the home of Mary Ladislas Whitaker—her property—he had builded far bet j ter than he could possibly have for seen with that investment of 500 dollars six years since. But wno, remembering the tortured, half-starved . child of the Commercial House, could have prefigured the Sara Law of today—the woman who, before his eyes. | within an hour, had burst through the counterfeit of herself of yesterday like some splendid creature emerging j from its chrysalis? The manservant brought his dignity ! down stair again. Would Mr. Whitaker be pleased to wait in the drawing-room? Mr. Whitaker * surrendered topcoat! and hat and was shown into the j designated apartment. Almost immediately he became aware of feminine footsteps on the staircase— tapping heels. the faint murmuring of skirts. He faced tlu* doorway, indefinably thrilled, the blood quickening in throat and temples. To his intense disappointment then; ! entered to him a woman impossible to confuse with her whom he sought: ! a lady well past middle age, with the dignity and poise consistent with her years, her manifest breeding and her : iron-gray hair. “Mr. Whitaker?” He bowed, conscious that he was being narrowly scutinised, nicely weighed in the scales of a judgment prejudiced, if at all, not in his favour. “I am Mrs. Secretan. a friend of Miss Law’s. She has asked me to . say that she begs to be excused, at least for tonight. She has suffered a : severe shock, and is able to see nobod v ” “I understand —and I’m sorry,” said Whitaker, swallowing his chagrin. “And 1 am further instructed to ask if you will be good enough to leave your address.” “Certainly: I’m stopping at * the Ritz-Carlton: but . he demurred—“l should like to leave a note, if I may—?“ Mrs. Secretan nodded an assent. “You will find materials in the desk there.” she added, indicating an escritoire. Thanking her, Whitaker sat down, and, after some hesitation, wrote a few lines: Please don't think l mean to vc • the slightest inconvenience or distress. 1 shall be glad to further your wishes in any way you may care to designate. Please believe in my sincere regret . . . Signing and folding this, ho rose and delivered it to Mrs. Secretan. , “Thank v u." he said with a cere- : monious bow.

The customary civilities were scrupulously observed. ITo found himself in the street, with his trouble reward for his pains. EXTRA! Dimly he became aware of the violent bawlings of a brace of newsvendors who were tramping through the street, one on either sidewalk. Beyond two words which seemed to be' intended for “extra” and “tragedy” their cries were as inarticulate as they were deafening. At the spur of a vague impulse,, bred of an incredulous wonder if tho papers were already noising abroad the news of the fiasco at the Theatre Max. Whitaker stopped one of the men and purchased a paper. It was delivered into his hands roughly folded so that a section of the front page which blazed with crimson ink was uppermost—and indicated, moreover. by a ridiculously dirty thumb. “Tlier’y'are. sir. Orrible moider . . . Thanky ...” The man galloped on. howling. But Whitaker stood with his naze riveted

| in horror. The news item so pointj edly offered to his attention was > clearly legible in the light of the car \ i lamps: LATEST EXTRA TRAGIC SUICIDE IX HARLEM RIVE R Stopv»ing his automobile in tho middle t.f Washington Bridge at 7.30 p.m.. Carter | S. Drummond, tile lawyer and fiance of j Sara Raw, thy. actress, threw himself i to his death in (he Harlem River. The ! oudy has not as yet been recovered. Whitaker returned at. once to the j , Theatre Max. hut only to find the j front of the house dark, 46th Street | gradually reassuraing its normal not- J j turnal aspect. At the stage door he discovered that no one knew what had become of the manager. Eventually the latter realised that i it wasn’t absolutely essential to his j peace of mind or material welfare to find Max that night. He had been, as I j a matter of fact, seeking him in j thoughtless humour—moved solely by j the gregarious instinct in man, which made him want to discuss the amazing events of the evening with the j , one who. next to himself and Sara Law. was most vitally concerned with them. He consulted a telephone book without finding that Drummond had 1 any private residence connection, and then tried at random one of the clubs I of which they had been members in j common in the days when Hugh I Whitaker was a human entity in the; knowledge of the town. Here he had better luck- - luck, that is, in so far as it put an end to his • wonderings for the night: he found a clerk who remembered his face without remembering his name, and who. consequently, was not unwilling to talk. Drummond, it seemed, had lived at the club; he had dined alone, that evening, in his room: had ordered his motor-car from the adja--1 cent garage l'or 7 o’clock: and had j left at about that hour with a small handbag and no companion. Nothing j further was known of his actions save • the police report. The car had been found stationary on "Washington ; Bridge and deserted. Drummond’s ! motor coat and cap on the driver’s ! seat. Whitaker walked back to his hotel. There was no other place to go; no I place, that is, that suited his humour in that hour. He could call to mind, j of course, names of friends and ac- j quaintances of the old days to whom there was no reason why he shouldn’t turn, now that he had elected to re discover himself to the world: but : there was none of them all that lie really wanted to see before he had j regained complete control of his emotions. Next to poor Peter Stark, whom his heart mourned without ceasing, he had cared most for Drummond of all the men he had known and liked : in the old life. Now . . . he felt alone and very lonely, sick of heart and forlorn. There was, of course. Lynch, his partner in the Antipodes; Whitaker was fond of Lynch, but not with the affection that a generousspirited youth had accordc l Peter j Stark and Drummond —a blind and . unreasoning affection that asked no questions and made nothing of faults. The capacity for such sentiment was ; . dead in him, as dead as Peter Stark. ! as dead as Drummond. . . . CHAPTER X. ENTER MR. EMBER. It was nearly midnight, but the hour found Whitaker in no humour for bed or the emptiness of his room. He felt painfully the heaviness of his debt to the woman he had mar- • ried. He who had promised her n#w life and the rich fulfilment thereof had accomplished only its waste and desolation. He had thrust upon her the chance to find happiness, and as rudely had snatched it away from her. Nor could he imagine any way in which he might he able to expiate his breach of trust —his sins of omission

and commission, alike deadly and unpardonable! Unless .. - He caught eagerly at the thought: he might “die” again—so away once more, and forever; bury himself deep beyond the groping tentacles of civilisation; disappeai finally, notifying her of his intention, so that she might seek legal freedom from his name. It only needed Max’s silence, which could unquestionably be secured, to insure her against the least breath of scandal, the faintest whisper of gossip. . . . Not that Max really knew anything; but the name of Whitaker, as identified with Hugh Morten, might better be permitted to pass uneclioed into oblivion. . . . And with this very thought in mind he became aware of the echo of that name in his hearing. A page, bearing something on a salver, ambled through the lounge, now and again opening his mouth to bleat, dispassionately: “Mista Whitaker! Mista Whitaker!” It was a cable message; very probably an answer to his to Grace Pettit. Whitaker tore the envelope and unfolded the enclosure, glancing first, at the signature to verify his surmise. As he did so he heard his name a second time. “Pardon me; this is Air. Whit alter?” A man stood beside the little table —one whom Whitaker had indifferently noticed on entering as an equally lonely lounger at another table. “My name is Ember.” he said, qfiietly. “If you’ll permit me—my card.” He offered a slip of pasteboard engraved with the- name of Martin Ember. “Ancl I’ll sit down, because I want to talk to you for a few’ minutes.” Accordingly he sat down. Whitaker glanced at the card and cuiestioningly back at Air. Ember's face. “I don’t know you. but . . . What are we to talk about, please?” “Airs. Whitaker.” he said. Whitaker stared, frowned and jumped at a conclusion. “You represent Mrs. Whitaker?” Mr. Ember shook his head. “I’m no lawyer, thank heaven! But. T happen to know a good deal it. would be to your advantage to know, so I’ve taken this liberty.” “Airs. Whitaker didn’t send you to me? Then how ? Wliat the deuce ! ”

“I happened to have a seat near your box at the theatre tonight,” Mr. Ember explained coolly. “From — what I saw there. 1 inferred that you must be —yourself. Afterward 1 got hold of Max, confirmed my ssupicion and extracted your address from him.” “I see,” said Whitaker, slowly—not comprehending the main issue at all. “But I'm not known here by the name of Whitaker.” “So T discovered," said Ember, with his quiet. engaging smile. “If 1 hadn't remembered that you sometimes registered as Hugh Morten —as. for instance, at the Commercial House six years ago ” “You were there?” “A considerable time after the event —yes.” The man- nodded, his eyes glimmering. Whitaker shot a quick glance round the room, and was relieved to find they were not within earshot of any of the other occupied tables. “Who the devil are you?” he demanded bluntly. “I was,” said the other slowly, “once a private detective. Now—l'm a person of no particular employ, ment, of indepenuent means, with a penchant—you're at liberty to assume—for pokin’ my nose into other people's business.” “Oh . . .” A word, “blackmail," leaped into Whitaker's consciousness, and served to harden the hostility in his attitude. “Mrs. George Pettir once employed me to find her sister. Miss Mary Ladislas, who had run away with a chauffeur named Morton." pursued the man, evenly. “That was about the time —shortly after —the death of Thurlow Ladislas: say. two months after the so-called elopement."

•.lust a minute.'* said Whitaker : suddenly-—“by your leave ” Ember bowed gravely. For a | thought longer Whitaker's eyes bored into his eyes in vain effort to fathom what was going on behind them, the animus undiscovered by his words; then, remembering, he looked down at the cable message in his hand. “Martin Ember" (it ran), “private agency 1,435 Broadway Grace Pettit.” Whitaker folded the paper and put it away in a pocket. “Go on. please.'* he said quietly. “In those days,” Mr. Ember re- j sumed, “1 did such things indilter- | ently well. 1 had little trouble in following the runaways from Southampton to Greenport. There they j parted. The girl crossed to the Connecticut shore, while the man went to Xew York with the automobile, lie turned the machine in at the Ladislas garage, by the way. and promptly fell into the hands of the police. He was wanted for theft in |

a former position, was arrested, convicted. and sent to Sing Sing, where he presently died. I’m glad to say. ... I thought this information might interest you." Whitaker nodded grimly. “Can f order you something to drink ?” “Xo, thank you—and I'm already smoking.” Mr. Ember dropped the ash from a cigar. “On the Connecticut side (because it was my business to find out things) I discovered that Miss Ladislas had registered at the Commercial House as Mrs. Morton. She was there, alone, under that name, for nearly a week before you registered as Hugh Morten, and in the space of a few hours married her. under your true name, and shipped her off to Xew York.” “Right.” Whitaker agreed steadily. “And then 7” “I traced her to the Hotel Belmont, where she stopped overnight; then lost her completely; and so reported to Mrs. Pettit. I must mention here, in confidence, in order that you may understand my subsequent action, that my bill for the investigation was never paid. Mr. Pettit was not in very comfortable circumstances at the time. . . . Xo matter. I didn't press him, and later was glad of it, for it left me a free agent—under no obligation to make further report.” “1 don " understand you.” “In a moment. . . . f came into h little money about that time and gave up my business: gave it up. that is, so far as placing myself at the service of the public was concerned. 1 retained my devouring curiosity about things that didn't concern me personally. although they were often matj ters of extreme interest to the gen-

eral public. In other words. I continued to employ my time professionally. but only for my private amusement or in the interests of any friend -. . . . After some time Mr. Drummond sought me out end begged me -to renew my search for Mrs. Whitaker: you were dead, he told me: she was due to come into your estate —a coni ’ fort able living for an independent woman.” “And you found her and told Drummond ?” Whitaker leaned over the table studying the man’s face with intense interest. “Xo —and yes. I found Mrs. Whitaker. I didn't report to Drummond.' “But why—in heaven’s name?” Ember smiled somberly at the drooping ash of his cigar. “There were several reasons. In the first place I didn’t have to: I had asked no retainer from Drummond, and I rendered no bill: what I had found out was mine, to keep or to sell, as I chose. I chose not to sell because—well, be cause Mrs. Whitaker begged me not to.” “Ah!” Whitaker breathed, sitting back. “Why?” (To be continued tomorrow)