The DESTROYING ANGEL

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 827, 22 November 1929, Page 5

The DESTROYING ANGEL

BY

LOUIS JOSEPH VANCE

(Copyright by Public Ledger.)

CHAPTER XVII.—THE SPY ile had long since been aware of its | resonant diapason, betokening a j heavy sea; but the spectacle of it was ! oll e ever beautiful in his sight. Whitecaps broke the lustrous blue, clear to ! its serrated horizon. Inshore the tide was low. The broad and glistening expanse of naked wet sand mirrored the tender blueness of the skies far out to where the breakers weltered in confusion of sapphire, emerald and snow. A mile offshore a fishing smack with a closereefed. purple patch of sail was making heavy weather of it; miles beyond it. again, an inward-hound ocean steamship shouldered along contemptuously: and a little way eastward a multitude, of gulls. with flashing pinions, were wheeling and darting and screaming above something in the sea —presumably a school of fish. Midway between the sand bluff and llu: breaking waters stood the woman Whitaker had followed. (There wasn’t any use mincing terms; he had followed her in his confounded, fatuous curiosity! ) Her lace was to the sen, her hands clasped behind her. Now the wind modelled her cloak sweetly

! to her body, now whipped its skirts s | away, disclosing legs straight and x J slender and graciously modelled. She s was dressed, it seemed, for bathing; :- | she had crossed the bay for a lonely o j bout with the surf; and, having found j its dangerously heavy-, now lingered, ; j disappointed hut fascinated by the t j majestic beauty of its fury, f ! W hitaker turned to go, hi's inquisi--3 | tiveness appeased; hut he was aware - j of an annoying sense of shame which j ke considered rather low on the part - of his conscience. True, he had fol- ' lowed her; true, he had watched her ut a moment when she had every rea- ' son to herself alone. ' wint , sky.' the sand, the sea, and the , scjuabbtng gulls. Rut— the beach was , | tree for all: there was no harm done; i ke Uadn t really meant to spv upon | her, and he had not the slightest in lention of forcing himself upon her consciousness. ' Intentions, however, are one thing; accidents, another entirely. History is mainly fashioned of intentions that ’ have met with accidents. ■ Whitaker turned to go; and, turnjus., let bis gaze sweep up from the beach and along the brow of the bluff. Ho paused frowning. Some 20 feet or so distant the legs of a man, trous ered and booted, protruded from a hollow between two hummocks of sand. And the toes of the boots j ? ver ® digging into the sand, indicat- | ms that the man was lying- prone; and that meant (if lie were neither dead ] nor sleeping) that he was watching the woman on the beach. Indignation—righteous indignation warmed Whitaker's bosom. It was all very well for him to catch sight ol the woman through her cottage window by night, and to swim over to the beach in her wake the next morning; but what right had anybody else i to constitute himself her shadow? .! All this on the mute evidence of the i boots and trousers; Whitaker, to his I j knowledge, had never seen them before, but lie had so little doubt, they j I belonged to the other watcher by the | window last night that he readily | persuaded himself that this must i SO. ~ j

Besides, it was possible that the man was Drummond. Anyway, nobody was licensed to skulk among sand-dunes and spy u poll unescorted females! Instantly Whitaker resolved himself into a select Joiut Committee for the j Promulgation of the Principles of Modern Chivalry and the Elucidation j of the Truth. ] He strode forward and stood over j the man, looking down at his back, it was true, as he had assumed: the j-fellow was watching the woman. Chin in hands, elbows half-buried in sand, he seemed to be following her with an undeviating regard. And his hack - was very like Drummond’s; at least, in height and general proportion his ' figure resembled Drummond’s closely ! enough to leave Whitaker without any deterring doubt. j A little quiver of excitement mingled with anticipative satisfaction ran through hint. Now. at last, the mys- 1 tery was to be cleared up. his future relations with the pseudo-suicide defined and established. Deliberately lie extended his bare, foot and nudged the man’s ribs. '•Drummond . .’’ he said in a cleatvoice. decided but unaggressive. V ith au oath and what seemed a! single, quick motion, the man jumped 1 to his feet and turned to Whitaker' a startled and inflamed countenance. : “What the devil!" he cried angrily. "Who.are you? What do you want? What d'you mean by coming round here and calling me Drummond? He was no more Drummond than he was Whitaker himself. Whitaker retreated a step, non-’ plussed. "I beg pardon.” he stammered civilly, in his confusion; “I ! took you for a fr —a man I know.” "Well, I ain’t, see!” For a moment the man glowered at Whitaker, his features twitching. Apparently the j shock of surprise lfad temporarily dis-1 located his sense of proportion. Rage j blazed from his bloodshot, sunken eyes, and rage was eloquent in the set of his rusty, square-hewn chin and j the working of his heavy and begrimed hands. "Damn you!” he exploded suddenly. “What d'you mean by butting in—” "For that matter”- —something, clicked in Whitaker’s brain and sub-1

consciously he knew that his temper! "as about to take the bridge—“what ! the devi! do you mean by spying on ! that lady yonder?” It being indisputably none of his | j concern, the unfairness of the ques- ! I tion only lent, it offensive force. It i "as quite evidently more than the i man could or would bear from any j oiiicious stranger. He made this pain- | lully clear through the medium of an ! intolerable epithet and an attempt to 1 land his right list on Whitaker's face. ! The face, however, was elsewhere I j "non tile first reached the point j lor which it had been aimed; ami I \\ liitaker closed in promptly as the ‘ fellow's body followed his arm, thrown j off balance by the momentum of the j unobstructed blow. Thoroughly ; angered, he had now every intention I of administering a sound and salutary lesson. Iu pursuance with this design he ; grappled and put forth his strength ! to throw the man. V. hat followed had entered into the calculations of neither. Whitaker | felt himself suddenly falling through air thick with a blinding, choking cloud of dust and sand. The hody of tile other was simultaneously wrenched violently from his grasp, i Then lie brought up against soliditv with a bump that seemed to expel ever cubic inch of air from his lungs. And he heard himself cry out sharply with tile pain of his weak ; ankle newly twisted. . . Ho sat up, gasping for breath,! brushed the sand from bis face and eyes, and as soon as his whirling wits settled a little, comprehended what had happened. Half buried in the debris of a miniature landslide, he sat at the foot of the bluff, which reared its convex l'acc behind and over him. Immediately above his head a ragged break in its profile showed where the sand, held together solely by beach grass, had given way beneath the weight of the antagonists. A little distance from him the other man was picking himself up, apparently unhurt but completely surfeited. \\ ithout delay, with not even so much as a glance at Whitaker, he staggered : off for a few paces, then settled into' a heavy, lumbering trot westward along the beach. Ibis ccpiduct was so inconsistent’ with ins late belligerent humour that If liitaker felt inclined to rub liis eyes a second time. He had anticipated—as soon as in condition to reason at all—nothing less than immediate re- : sumption of hostilities. Yet here was tlie fellow running away. Incomprehensible! And yet. save at the first blush, not :

80 incomprehensible; "the chief of the | man ’ s tles,re had been unquestionably j lo see without being seen: his race | at being detected had led him to a I mis-step; now he was reverting to his I original plan with all possible expo- j dition. He did not wish the woman ! I to recognise him; therefore he was j J putting himself out of her way. For ' £l, e was approaching. When Whitaker caught sight of the! ; girl she was already close at hand’j one had been running. Now, as their ! glances met, hers keenly inquiring of \\ liitaker's still bewildered eyes slie * pulled up abruptly and stood as tare! i He saw, or fancied, something closely ! akin to fright and consternation in ! her look. The flush in her cheeks ' gave way to a swift pallor. The hands ' trembled that drew her beach-cloak close about her. She seemed to j make an ineffectual effort to speak. I On his part, Whitaker tried to get * up. A keen twinge in his ankle, how-! ever, wrung an involuntary grunt j i rom him. and with a wrv grimace he sank back. "O* cried impulsively.! “\ouTe hurt!” She advanced a pace, solicitous and sympathetic. Oh. not much.” Whitaker replied in a tone more of hope than of assurance. He felt tenderly of the injured 1 member. “Only an ankle—twisted it a few days ago, and now again. It’ll I be all right in a moment or two.” Her gaze travelled from him to the edge of the bluff. ‘‘l didn't see—T mean. I heard something, and turned, and saw you trying to sit up and the other man rising.” “Sorry we startled you,” Whitaker mumbled, wondering liow the deuce he was going to get home. His examination of the ankle hadn’t proved greatly encouraging. (To be continued tomorrow)