The DESTROYING ANGEL

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 829, 25 November 1929, Page 5

The DESTROYING ANGEL

Jp RY LOUIS JOSEPH VANCE

fatoggggHQf&s'-'T (Copyright by Public Ledger.)

CHAPTER XIX. —Continued. "Why . . . yes. Yes, I remember. But . . . Supposed to have coni mitted suicide'—did you say?” He nodded. "He ntay have got away with it, at that. ' Only. I've xood reason to believe he didn't. . . . I may as well tell you; it's no secret, although only a few people know it; timber saw Drummond, or thinks he <lid. alive, in the flesh, a good half hour after the time of his reported suicide.” Really!” the girl commented in a •stilled voice. Yet, for alt that, there's no proof timber wasn't misled by an accidental resemblance —no real proof—merely < n umstatitia! evidence. Though for mv Part I'm quite convinced Drummond still lives.' "How very curious i" There was Ti lling more than civil but perfuncv'i| y interest in the comment. “Are And another time, when thev were near the boat: AVhen do you expect Mr. Ember?” asked the girl. Tonight, probably. At least, he "ired yesterday to sav he'd tie clown 'might. But from what little I've een of him you can never be sure "f r.mber. He seems to lead the sedI’ntary and uneventful life of a flea on * hot griddle.” t shall be glad to see him.” said me girl in what Whitaker thought a curious toue. ' Please tell him. will >°u. Don't forget.” "It that's the way you feel about lm 1 shall be tempted to wire him not to come.” ■* ust what do you mean by that?” '**.*“ 'he woman sharplv, a glint of 'agnation in her level, challenging stare. Merely that your tone sounded a 1 vindictive. I thought possibly

want to have it out with m Cor the siu of permitting me '.. ln Cest this neck o’ the woods.” Ansnrd!” she laughed, placated. . !1 finally ;hev came to the end “e dock he paused, considering the drop to the deck of the K... tC, J hoat th a dubious look that - half expressed his consternation. . w °uhl be practically impossible to i er himself without employing the! ► intui member to an extent he didn't .■* anticipate. He met the girl’s flJ l ,rin S glance with one wholly rue- ; it it weren't low tide . . .” he exfiamed. crestfallen. she laughed lightly. “But. since it ‘:“ w tide, you'll have to let me help >0 “ again.'’ Cawicmsly lowering himself to a ng position on the dock, feet ..'["•“•■ns the l>oat, he nodded. ... , so. Sorry to be a nuisance.” " u re not a nuisance. You're

| merely masculine,” the girl retorted, I jumping lightly but surely to the r ! cockpit. , She turned and offered him a handeyes dancing w ith grey malice. ,t " hitaker delayed, considering her e gravely. "Meaning ?” he inquired pleas- . antiy. ; “Like all men, you must turn to a ■ woman in the end—however brave ; { your strut.” ] “Oh, it’s that way, is it? Thank you, but I fancy I can manage.” I a And with the aid of the clothes- i i prop he did manage to make the | < descent without her hand and with- ! s 1 1 out disaster. j i r ; "Pure blague!” the girl taunted. : ; "That’s French I'm- I-think-I'm i - smart-don’t-I—isn't it?” lie inquired j i with an innocent stare. “If so, the i ‘ answer is: I do.” Her lips and eyes were eloquent 1 2 ' of laughter repressed. • t “But now?” she argued, sure of 1 triumph. "You've got to admit you ! couldn’t, it without me now!” i i “Oh, I can manage a motor, it that’s what you mean.” he retorted, ser- > enely; “though I confess there are a few new kinks to this one that might 1 puzzle me a bit at the start. That '< 1 ; chain-and-cogwheel affair to turn the j c _ i flywheel w ith. for instance—that's a’ c t new one. The last time I ran a marine motor in this country we had f I to break our back and run chances j of breaking our arms as well, turn- 1 I ing up by hand.” c Then, in a casual voice, she in- 6 . quired: “You've been out of the 1 , | country for some time. I think you • I said?” ! “Almost six years on the other side , i of the world—got back only last ‘ c ; spring.” r “What,” she asked, eyes averted, i t i spying out the channel —“what does! one do on the other side of the 1

( uuc uu t_tii iuc uiuci oiuc vjl uic ■ j world ?” “This one knocked about, mostly, for his health's sake. That is, I w ent , away expecting to die before long. ( was disappointed, got well and strongand —took to drifting ... I beg your , pardon,” he broke off hastily; “a civil i answer to a civil question needn’t j necessarily be the history of one’s : life." , The girl put the wheel dow n slowly. . swinging the boat upon a course direct to the landing-stage at Half-a-Loaf A Lodge. I “But surely you didn't waste six = 1 \-ears simply ‘drifting'?” "Well. I did drift into a sort of r business, after a bit —-gold mining in ■ - a haphazard, happy-go-lucky fashion : —did pretty well at it and came home r to astonish the natives.” "Was it a success?” j "Rather,” he replied dryly. “I meant your plan to astonish the * natives." '■ "So did I.” | f " Y'ou flud things —New- York— ' disappointing?” she analysed his tone. -I find it overpowering and lonely. Nobody sent a brass band to , D greet me at the dock; and all the r people I used to know- are either mar- v l-ied and devoted to brats or divorced and devoted to bridge: and niy game has gone off so badly in six years c that I don't belong any more.” She smiled, shaping her scarlet lips c deliciously The soft, warm w-ind whipped stray strands of hair like P cords of gold lbout her face. Her c-velids were half-lowered against (lie h intolerable splendour of the day. The water* of the bay, wind-blurred and j tl

I dark, seemed a shield of sapphire j fashioned by nature solely to set off i in clear relief her ardent loveliness. | Whitaker, noting how swiftly the mainland shores were disclosing the finer details of their beauty, could have wished the bay ten times as wide. CHAPTER XX. MAN TO MAN Late in the afternoon of the same day Ember, appearing suddenly in front of the bungalow, discovered Whitaker sitting up in state; a com fortable wicker chair supported his body and a canvas-seated camp stool one of his feet; which last was discreetly veiled in a dripping bathtowel. Otherwise he was fastidiously arrayed in white flannels and. by his seraphic smile and guileless expres sion, seemed abnormally at peace with his circumstances. Halting, Ember surveyed the spectacle with mocking disfavour, as though he felt himself slightly at a disadvantage. He was, indeed, in a state that furnished an admirable contrast to that of the elegant if disabled idler. ITi s face was scarcely j whiter with the impalpable souvenirs 1 of the road than was his slate-coloured mohair duster. “Hel-lo!” he observed, beginning to drag off his gauntlets as he , ascended tlie verandah steps and • dropped into another wicker chair. “How do you do?” returned Whitaker agreeably. “I'm all right; but what the deuce's the matter with you?” "Game leg, thanks. Twisted my ankle again, this morning. Sum Fat j has been doctoring it with intense enthusiasm, horse liniment and chopped ice.” “That's the. only proper treatment for sprains. Bad, is it?” “Not very—not half as bad as I ! thought it would be at first. Coming i on top of the other wrench made it extra painful for a while—that's all. By tomorrow morning I'll be skipping j like the silly old hills.” “Hope so; but you don't want to overdo the imitation, you know. Give Nature a chance to make the cure ! complete. Otherwise well, you must’ve had a pretty rotten stupid time of it, with that storm.” “Oh, not at all. I really enjoyed it "* Wh it a 1» c>r* nrntoctorl

it,” Whitaker protested. "Like this place, eh?” “Heavenly!” asserted the invalid with enthusiasm. “I can’t thank you i enough.” “Oh. if you forgive me for leaving ! you alone so much we’ll call ft ! square.” Ember lifted his voice: "Sum Fat. ahoy!” The Chinaman appeared in the doorway, as suddenly and silently as i if magically materialised by the sound of his name. He bore with eireurn speetion a large tray decorated with ! glasses, syphons, decanters and a bovr! \ of cracked ice. “I make very remarkable fine quick guess what you want first.” he oh- i served suavely, placing the tray on a ■ small table convenient to Ember's j hand. “That all now?” •'\ r ou’re a sulphur-coloured wizard I with pigeon-toed eyes,” replied Ember severely. “Go away from here in i stantly and prepare me all the dinner ! in the establishment, lest an evil fate overtake you.” "It is written,” returned Sum Far. ; ' “that I die after eighty-seven years of j : honourable life from heart failure on ! ' receiving long-deferred raise in i wages.” ' He shuffled off. chuckling. "Scotch or Irish?” demanded Ember. ] clinking glasses. i . “Irish, please. How's your friend’s i case?” “Coming along. You don't seem sur- ' prised to see me.” I had your telegram, and besides i t heard your car, just now.” "Oh!” There was a significance in 'he ejaculation which Whitaker those j 1

? to ignore as he blandly accepted his E frosted glass. “You weren’t—ah—lonely?” Ember persisted. i “Not in the least.” } “I fancied I saw the flutter of a pet--1 ticoat through the trees as I came up i to the house.” “You did.” “Found a —ah—friend down here?” “Acquaintance of your, I believe: Miss Fiske.” “Aliss Fiske!” There was unfeigned j amazement in the echo. ; “Anything wonderful about that?” inquired Whitaker, sharply.-“I fancied from what she said that you two were rather good friends.” i “Just surprised—that’s all,” said Ember, recovering. “You see, I didn’t think the place was open this year.” He stared suspiciously at Whitaker, but the latter was transparently ingenuous. “She expressed an unaccountable desire to see you—told me to tell you.” “Oh? Such being the case, one would think she might’ve waited.” I “She had just started home when j you drove in,” Whitaker explained j with elaborate ease. “She’d merely ; run over lor a moment to inquire after i my ankle, and couldn’t wait.” “Thoughtful of her.” “Wasn’t it?” To this Whitaker j added with less complacency: “You'll j have to call after dinner, 1 suppose.” ; “Sorry,” said Ember, hastily, “but ; shan’t be able to. Fact is, l only ran in to see if you were comfortable—must get back to town immediately after dinner—friend's case at a critii cal stage.” “Everybody loves me and worries about my interesting condition —even ! you, wretched host that you are.” j "I apologise.” “Don’t; you needn’t. 1 wouldn’t for j the world interfere with your desper- ' ate business. I’m really quite happy j here —alone.” “Alone—l think you said?” Ember ! inquired after a brief pause, i “Alone,” Whitaker reiterated firmly. “I’m glad you like the place.” “It’s most attractive, really. . . . [ I say, who are the Fiskes, anyway?” “Well ... the Fiskes are the people who own the next cottage.” “T know, but ” “Oh, l never troubled to iuquire; j have a hazy notion Fiske does something in Wall Street.” Ember passed smoothly over this flaw in his profes-

; sional omniscience. “How did you ! happen to meet her?” “Oh, mere acicdent. Over on the beach this morning. I slipped and hurt my ankle. She—ah—happened along and brought me home in her motor-boat.” On mature reflection, Whitaker had decided that it would be as well to edit his already sketchy explanation of all reference to the putative spy who wasn't Drummond; in other words, to let Ember’s sleeping detective instincts lie. And with this private understanding with himself, be felt a little aggrieved because of the quarter toward which Ember presently saw lit to swing their talk. “Y'ou haven’t seen Drummond—or any signs of him, have you?” "Eh —what?” Whitaker sat up, startled. “No, I —er—how should I?” “I merely wondered. You see, I . . . Well, to tell the truth, 1 took the liberty of camping on his trail while in town with the idea of serving him with notice to behave. But he’d anticipated me, apparently; he’d cleared out of his accustomed haunts—got j away clean. I couldn't find any trace j of him.” "You’re a swell sleuth,” Whitaker commented critically. “You be . . . That’s tlie true rea- ! son why I ran down today, when I really couldn’t spare the time; I was ! a bin worried—afraid he'd maybe j doped out of my little scheme for ; keeping you out of harm’s way.” "Oh, I say!” Whitaker expostulated, touched by this evidence of disinter- ; ested thoughtfulness. "You don’t mean ” "On the contrary, i firmly believe j him responsible for that attack on j

3 you the other night. The man s a - dangerous monomaniac; brooding over his self-wrought wrongs has made him such.” “You persuade yourself 100 much, > old man. You set up an inference and idolise it as an immortal truth. Why, you had me going for a while. - Only last night there was a fellow skulking round here, and I was just dippy enough, thanks to your influ- [ ence, to think he resembled Drummond. But this morning I got a good • look at him, and lie’s no more Drumi mond than you are.” , “Who was he, then?” Ember sat up. eyes snapping. “Simply a good-for-nothing vagabond —tramp.” “What’d he want?” “Search me.” “But why the devil didn’t you tell me this before?” “You don’t mean to say you attach any importance to the mere fact that an ordinary tramp ” “I attach importance to many things that other people overlook. That’s my artfulness. I don’t suppose it has occurred to you that tramps follow the railroads, and that Long Island is free of the vermin lor the simple reason that the Long j Island Railroad doesn’t lead anyS where any self-respecting tramp j would care to go?” “it s true—l hadn’t thought ’""of that. So that makes the appearance of a tramp in these parts a suspicious circumstance?” "it does. Now tell me about him — everything.” So the truth would out, after all. W hitaker resignedly delivered himself of the tale of the mare’s nest —as he still regarded it. When he had come to the lame conclusion thereof, Ember yawned and rose. “What are you going to do about *t?” Whitaker inquired with irony. “Wash and make myself fit to eat food,” was the response. “I may possibly think a little. It’s an exhilarating exercise which I don’t hesitate to recommend to vour distinguished consideration.” . He was out of earshot, within the bungalow, before Whitaker could think up an adequately insolent rej tort. He could, however, do no less than smile incredulously at the beautiful world; so much, at least, he owed his self-respect.

CHAPTER XXI. ANOTHER ATTACK! In the deepening twilight a mental shadow came to cloud the brightness of hitaker s confident contentment, i He sat brooding and mumbling curses i on the aelie in his foot and was more | than slightly relieved when Sum Fat j lighted the caudles in the living room | and summoned Ember to help the ini valid indoors. Neither good food nor good comi Pany seemed able to mitigate this sud- ! ( len seizure of despondency. He sat i glooming over his plate and glass, she 1 burden of his conversation, yea, yea j HfK l hay, nay; nor was anything of Ember’s intermittent banter apparently able to educe the spirited retorts ordinarily to be expected of him. I-lis host diagnosed his complaint from beneath shrewd eyebrows. “Whitaker,” he said at length, “a

pessimist has been defined as a dog j that won’t scratch.” “Well?” said the other sourly. “Come on. Be a sport. Have a good I scratch on me.” ! Whitaker grinned reluctantly and | briefly. j “Where’s my wife?” he demanded j abruptly. | “How in blazes !” “There you are!” Whitaker com plained. “You make great pretensions, and yet you tall down flat on your foolish face three times in less than as many hours. You don’t know who the Fiskes are, you’ve lost track of your pet myth, Drummond, and you don’t know where I can find my wife. And yet I’m expected to stand round with my mouth open, playing Dr. Watson to your Sherlock Holmes. I could go to that telephone and consult ‘lnformation’ to better advantage!” ■ “What you need,” retorted the other, ; unmoved, “is a clairvoyant, not a detective. If you can’t keep track of I your trial marriages yourself . . .!” i He shrugged. “Then you don’t know —haven't the : least idea where she is?” “My dear man. I myself am beginning to doubt her existence.” “I don't see why the dickens she doesn't go ahead with those divorce | proceedings!” Whitaker remarked ; | morosely. “I've met few men so eager for full membership in the Alimony Club. . What’s your hurry?” “Oh, I don’t know.” Which was ; largely truth unveneered. “f'd like to | get it over and done with.” “Y’ou might advertise —offer a suitj able reward for information concern-

ing the whereabouts of one docile and dormant divorce suit ” “I might, but you’d never earn it.” “Doubtless. I've long since learned never to expect any reward commensurate with my merits.” Ember pushed back his chair and. rising, strolled to the door. “Moonrise and a fine, clear night,” he said, staring through the wire mesh of the screen. “Wish you were well enough to go riding with me. However, you won’t be laid up long, I fancy. And I’ll be back day after tomorrow Now I must cut along.” And within 10 minutes Whitaker heard the motor-car rumble off on the woodland road. He wasn't altogeher sorry to be left to his own society. He was, in fact, rather sharp-set for the freedom of solitude, that he might pursue one or two self-appointed tasks without interruption. For one of these Sum Fat, not without wonder, furnished him materials; canvas, stout thread, scissors, a heavy needle, a bit of beeswax; with which Whitaker purposed manu facturing an emergency ankle-strap. His other task was purely one of self-examination. Since afternoon he had found reason gravely to doubt the stability of his emotional poise. In fine, he could not be blind to the fact that he was in grave danger of making an ass of himself if he failed to guide himself with unwonted circumspection. And all because he had an eye and a ’ akness for fair women, a lonely path to tread through life. and a gregarious tendency, a humorous faculty and a keen appreciation of a mind responsive to it. • • •

i And all in the face of the fact that he was not at liberty to make love. . . . And all this problem the result of a single day of propinquity! He w?nt to bed. finally, far less content with himself than with the crazy issue of his handicraft. The latter might possibly serve its purpose; but Hugh Whitaker seemed a hopeless sort of a proposition, not in I the least amenable to the admonitions |of ccmmon sense. If he were, indeed, i he would have already been planning jan abrupt escape to town. As matters j stood with him, he knew he had not j the least intention of doing anything | one-half so sensible, i But in spite of his half-hearted perturbation and dissatisfaction. the weariness of a long, full day was so . heavy upon him that he ■went to sleep almost before Sum Fat had finished making him comfortable. Extinguishing the candle. the i Chinaman, moving with the silent as- | surance of a cat in the dark, closed and latched the shutters, then sat i down just outside the living-room : door, to wait and watch, sleeplessly ; alert. (To be Continued Tomorrow.)