DESTROYING ANGEL

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 828, 23 November 1929, Page 27

DESTROYING ANGEL

BY

LOUIS JOSEPH VANCE

(Copyright by Public Ledger.)

CHAPTER XVIII. THE CONSEQUENCES OF A SPRAINED ANKLE. “But I—ah—how did it happen?’' “A mere misunderstanding,” he said lightly. “I mistook the gentleman for some one I knew. He resented it. so we started to scrap like a couple of schoolboys. Then I wish to heaven it had been his leg instead of mine!” "But still I hardly understand. . . .” She was now more composed. The colour had returned to her face. She stood with head inclined a trifle torword, gaze intent beneath delicate brows; most distractingly pretty, he thought, in spite of the ankle—which really didn’t hurt much unless moved. “Well, you see. I—ah—l'm visiting Ember—the cottage next to yours, I believe. That is, if I'm not mistaken, you have the Fiske place?” She nodded. "And so, this morning, it struck me as a. tine young idea to swim over here and have a look at the beach. I ah—you rather showed me the way, with your motor-boat. I mean I saw' you start out.” He felt better after that; open confession is great help when one feels senselessly guilty. He ventured an engaging smile and noted with relief

that it failed either to terrify or to | enrage the young woman. ' On Tlu* other hand, she said en- ; couragingly: "I see.” I “And then 1 found that chap watch- | That startled her. “How do you I mean—watching me?" | “Why—ah—that’s what he seemed , to be doing. lie was lying at full | length up there, half hidden —to all I appearances watching you from behind a screen of beach grass.” “But —I don’t understand —why j should he have been watching me?” ' “I’m sure I don’t know, if you don’t.” She shook her head. “You must be mistaken.” “Daresay. 1 generally am when I jump at conclusions. Anyway, he : didn't like it much when I called him out of his name. 1 gathered, in fact, that, he was considerably put out. Silly, wasn’t it?” “Rather!” she agreed gravely. For a moment or two they eyed one another in silence. Whitaker wondering just how much of a fool she was thinking him and dubiously considering various expedients to ingratiate himself. She was really quite too charming to be neglected, after so auspicious an inauguration of their acquaintance. Momentarily he was becoming more convinced that she was exceptional. He essayed to walk. Twenty feet

i and more of treacherous, dry, yielding : 1 sand separated them from the flight . i of steps that ascended the bluff. It • 1 proved no easy journey, and its dif- : ficuity was complicated by his deter- • ruination to spare the woman as * much as he could. Gritting his teeth, he grinned and bore without a mur- : mur until, the first stage of the jour- | ney accomplished, he was able to ; grasp a handrail at the bottom of the 1 stairs and breathe devout thanks I through the medium of a gasp. •‘Shall we rest a bit?” the woman; asked. “Think ! can manage—thanks,” he said, panting a little. “It’ll be easier now—going up. [ shan't need help.” He withdrew his arm, perhaps not without regret, but assuredly with a ; comforting sense of decent consideration for her. as well as with some slight and intrinsically masculine satI isfaction in the knowledge that lie : was overcoming her will and her rej sistancc. “No —honestly!” he insisted. “These | handrails make it easy.” | “But please be sure,” she begged. “Don’t take any chances. I don’t ! mind ” I “Let me demonstrate, then.” The stairway was comfortably narrow; he had only to grasp a rail with either hand and half lift himself, half hop up step by step. In this manner he accomplished the ascent in excellent, if hopelessly ungraceful, style. At the top he limped to a wooden seat beside one of the bathhouses and sat down and with so much grim decision in his manner that it was evident to the woman the moment she rejoined him. But he mustered a smile to meet her look of concern and shook his head. “Thus far and no farther.” “Oh, hut you must not he stubborn ! ’’ “I mean to be—horrid stubborn. In 1 fact, 1 don’t mind warning you that

; there's a famous strain of mule in the j Whitaker make-up.” | She was, however, not to be diverted, and her fugitive l'rown bespoke impatience, if he were auv ! judge. "But seriously, you must ” • “Believe me," he interrupted, “it l i am to reiain any vestige of selt'-re- ! spect, I must no longer make a crutch j of you.” i “But, really. I don't see why “ “Xeed I remind you I am a man?” !he argued lightly. “Even as you are I a very charming woman ” j The frown deepened while she j conned this utterance over. “How do you mean me to interpret I that?” she demanded, straightforward, i “The intention was not uncompliI mentary, perhaps,” he said gravely, “though the clumsiness is incontestable. As for the rest of it —I’m not trying to flirt with you, if that’s what you mean—yet. What 1 wished to convey was simply my intention no longer to bear my masculine weight upon a woman—either you or any ' other woman.” j A smile contended momentarily j with the frown and triumphed bril- : liantly. “I beg your pardon. I’m sure. But do you mind telling me what you do mean to do?” “No.” “Well, then " The smile was deepening very pleasantly. “I mean to ask you,” he said deliberately, taking heart of this favourable manifestation, “to whom am - I indebted?” To his consternation the smile vanished, as though a cloud had sailed before the sun. Doubt and something strongly resembling incredulity informed her glance. “Do you mean to say you don’t know?” she demanded after a moment. “Believe me, T’ve no least idea ” “But surely, Mr. Ember must have told you?”

“Ember seemed to be labouring j under the misapprehension that the j Fiske place was without a tenant.” “Oh!” “And I'm sure he was sincere. j Otherwise it’s certain wild horses j couldn't have dragged him back to ! New York.” “Oh!” Her toue was thoughtful. “So j he has gone back to town?” "Business called him. At least. ' such was the plausible excuse he j advanced for depriving himself of my exclusive society.” “I see,” she nodded—“l see .. .” "But aren’t you going to tell me? Or ought I to prove my human intelligence by assuming on logical grounds that you’re Miss Fiske?” "IC you please,” she murmured absently, her intent gaze seeking the distances of the sea. "Then that’s settled,” he pursued in acceuts of satisfaction. “You are Miss Fiske—Christian name at present unknown to deponent. I am one Whitaker, as already deposed—baptised Hugh. And we are neighbours. Do you know, [ ihink this a very decent sort of a world after all?” CHAPTER XIX. THE BEGINNING OF A FRIEND- ! SHIP. “And still” —the woman returned 1 to the charge—“you haven’t told me ; what you mean to do, since you refuse i my help.” "I mean,” Whitaker asserted cheer-1 fully, "to sit here, aping Patience on I a monument, until some kind-hearted | person fetches me a stick or other I suitable piece of wood to serve as ! emergency staff. Then I shall make | shift to hobble to your motor-boat and I thank you very kindly for ferrying I me home.” , "Very well,” she said with a busi-1 ness-like air. “Now we understand | one another. I’ll see what I can find.” Reviewing their surroundings with a swift and comprehensive glance, she ; shook her head in dainty annoyance, ; stood for an Instant plunged in spec-; ulation, then, light-footed, darted from sight round the side ot' the bathhouse. He waited, a tender nurse to his ankle, smiling vaguely at the benign sky. Presently she reappeared, dragging an eight-foot pole, which, from certain indications, seemed to have been formerly dedicated to the office of clothesline prop. “Will this do?” Whitaker took it from her and 1 weighed it with anxious judgement, j “A trifle tall, even for me,” he allowed. “Still—” He rose on one foot and tested the , staff with his weight. “ ‘Twill do,” He decided. “And ihank you very much.” But even with its aid, his progress I toward the boat necessarily consumed a tedious time. It. was impossible to favour the injured foot to any great extent. Between occasional halts for rest, Whitaker hobbled with grim ; determination, suffering exquisitely but privately. The girl considerately schooled her pace to his, subjecting him to covert scrutiny when, as they moved on, his i injury interested him exclusively, j He made little or no attempt to ; I converse while in motion; a spirit! j of bravado alone, indeed, would have l I enabled him to pay attention to any-! thing aside from the problem of the ' | next step, and bravado was a i stranger to his cosmos then, if ever, j i So she had plenty of opportunity to make up her mind about him. If her eyes were a reliable index, | she found him at least interesting, j At times their expression was enigmatic beyond any reading. Again they seemed openly perplexed. At all ! times they were warily regardful. Once she sighed quietly with a i passing look of sadness of which he j i was wholly unaware. . . . > “Odd—about that fellow,” he ob- | served during a halt. I was sure T i knew him both times —last right as j well as today.” ! “Last night?” she queried with j patient interest. “Oil, yes. 1 meant to tell you. He i was prowling round the bungalow—--1 Ember's, I mean—when I first saw | him. I chased him off. lost him in I the woods and later picked him up | again just at the edge of your j grounds. That’s why 1 thought it | funny that he should be over here ! this morning shadowing you—as they | say in detective stories.” i "No wonder!” she commented symj pathetically. “And the oddest thing of aii was ! that I should be so sure he was ! Drummond—until I saw ” "Drummond!” “Friend of mine . . . You don't by ! any chance know Drummond, do you?" “I’ve heard the name.” You must have. The papers were j full of his case for a while. Man | supposed to have committed suicide j—jumped off Washington Bridge a week before lie was to marry Sara Law. 1 lie actress?" (To be continued tomorrow;