DESTROYING ANGEL

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 838, 5 December 1929, Page 5

DESTROYING ANGEL

BY

LOUIS JOSEPH VANCE

(Copyright by Public Ledger.)

CHAPTER XXXVIf. Slowly, on tiptoes, Whitaker stole toward the door, out into the hall; at the foot of the stairs he paused, listening with every nerve tense and straining; he fancied 'he could just barely detect the slow, regular respiration of the sleeping woman. And he could see that the upper hallway was faintly aglow. She had left her lamp burning, the door open. Last, night, though the lamp had burned till dawn, that door had been closed. . . . Ha gathered himself together again, took a single step on toward the kitchen; and then, piercing suddenly the absolute stillness within the house, a board squealed like an animal beneath his tread. In an instant he heard the thud and patter ot her footsteps above, hen loud, quickening breathing as she leaned over the balustrade, looking down, and her cry of dismay: “Hugh! Hugh!” He halted, saying in an even voice: "Yes; it is I.” She had already seen him; there was no use trying to get away without her knowledge now; besides, he was no sneak thief to fly irom a cry. He burned with resentment, impatience and indignation, nit he waited stodily enough while he woman flew down the stairs to his side ‘Hugh.” she demanded. whitewed and trembling, “what is the natter? Where are you going?” He moved his shoulders uneasily, forcing a short laugh. “I daresay you’ve gqessecl it. Undoubtedly you liave. Else why ” He didn't finish save by a gesture of resignation. You mean you were going—going to _try to swim to the mainland?” “t meant to try it.” he confessed. But, Hugh—your promise?” “I'm sorry, Mary; f didn't want to imhnije. But yon see .. . this state l ’t things cannot go on. Something “as got to be done. It's the only *ay I know of. I—l can't trust myself .» You’d leave me here while you »ent to seek death!” on, it' isn’t as dangerous as all iik ** you’d only been asleep, as thought you were, I’d’ve been back riore you knew anything about it.” 1 should have known!” she de--1 ared passionately. “I was asleep, -I, knew- the instant you stirred. I, 1 jne; how long did you stand '.king here, to learu if I was awake or not?” Several .minutes.” i knew it, though I was asleep, couldn't wake till the hoard peaked. I knew you would try it—mifkk, Irom the time when you luobled and evaded and wouldn’t u * a straight promise. Oh. *h, my Hugh, if vou had gone and me . . .!’’ >»av r a T 0 s ** o °k all d broke. She ’beii im Perceptibly toward him, U a *aL resting a shoulder against *onis J and 'luivering as though she Port * lave fallen but for that sup- ,,' He found himself unable to andY* t * le re Proach of those dark Ball fffineus eyes set in the mask of ]j. h r flfat was her face In the half j, a , fire hallway. He looked away, ° ed , miserable, pained.

“It's too bad,” he mumbled. “I’m sorry you had to know anything about it. But ... it can’t he helped. Mary. You’ve got to brace up. I won’t he gone four hours at the longest.” “Four hours!” She stood away from the wall, trembling in every limb. “Hugh, you—you don’t mean —you’re not going—now ?” He nodded a wretched, makeshift affirmation. . “It must be done,” he muttered. “Please ” “But it must not be done! Hugh!” Her voice ascended. "I—l can’t let you. I won’t let you! You . . . It’ll be your death —you’ll drown. 1 shall have let you go to your death ” “Oh, now, really ” he protested. “But, Hugh, I know it! I feel it here.” A hand strayed to rest, fluttering, above her heart. “If I should let you go . . . Oh, my dear one, don’t, don’t go!” . „ “Mary,” he began hoarsely, I tell you ” # “You’re only, going, .Hugh, because . . because I love you so. 1. . . lam afraid to let you love me. That’s true, isn’t it? Hugh—it’s true?” “I can’t Stay. - . .” he muttered with a hang-dog air. She sought support of the wall again, her body shaken by dry sobbing that it tore his heart to hear. “You—you’re really going?” He mumbled ail almost inaudible avowal of his intention. •Hugh, you’re killing me! If you leave me ” He gave a gesture of despair and capitulation. “I’ve done my best, Mary. I meant to do the right thing. I ” / “Hugh, you mean you wont go. Joy from 'a surcharged heart rang vibrant in every syllable uttered m that marvellous voice. But now he dared meet her e>es. ••Yes ” he said, “X won’t go —nodding,’ with an apologetic shadow ot his twisted smile. “I cant it . . .

if it distresses you. “Oh, my dear, my dear. Whitaker started, staggered with amaze, and the burden of his wife m his arms. Her own arms clipped him close. Her fragrant tear-gemmed face brushed his. He knew at last the warmth of her sweet mouth, the dear madness of that first cat ess. The breathless seconds spun their golden web of minutes. They did not move” Round them the silence sang like the choiring seraphim. . • ■ Then through the magical hush of that time when the world stood still, the thin, clear vibrations of a distant liail:

in I his y embra< e his wife stiffened Mini lifted her head to listen like «i , f ,wn As one their hearts R ’t-ed ' paused, then hammered Wildly 'With a common impulse they started apart. “1 iste'iF He held up a hand. This time it rang out more near and almost unmistakable. “ Ahnv T The house, ahoy. \\Vth the frenzied leap of a madwhi taker gained the kitchen as fl°uTg out°into the dim silvery witchery of the " ig ’! t -_ #aring , while the girl He stood staring. h is arm. stole to his and caj ufted tte He Passed it. ™ “ pointed toward other hand, du . v the moment ,he northern beach. speak he could not ti u auc horage a Ih„ the hit S e We vachf hovered ghostlike, SSS.S « S islaQd ’ her slowms

ports aucl green starboard lamp painting the polished ebony of the still waters with the images of many burning candles. On the beach itself a small boat was drawn up. A figure in white waited near it. Issuing from the deserted fishing settlement, rising over the brow of the uplands, moved two other figures in white and one in darker clothing, the latter leading the way at a rapid pace. With one accord Whitaker and his wife moved down to meet .them. As they drew together, the leader of the landing party cheeked his pace and called:

“Hello, there! Who are you? What’s the meaning of your fires?” Mechanically Whitaker’s lips uttered the beginning of the response: “Shipwrecked—signalling for help.” "Whitaker!” the voice of the other interrupted with a jubilant shout. “We’ve found you!” It was Umber.

CHAPTER XXXVIII. Seldom, perhaps, has a habitation been so unceremoniously vacated as was the solitary farmhouse on that isolated island. Whitaker delayed only- long enough to place a bill, borrowed from Ember, on the kitchen table, in payment for what provisions they had consumed, and to extinguish the lamps and shut the door. Ten minutes later he occupied a chair beneath an awning on the afterdeck of the yacht. "Ember,” he demanded querulously, “what happened?” “Finding you’d vacated tho bungalow, I interviewed Sum Fat qiid Elise, and pieced together a working hypothesis. It was easy enough to surmise Drummond had some pal or other working behind him. I was glung-shotted from behind, while Drummond was walking ahead. And two men had worked in the kidnapping of Mrs. Whitaker. So I went sleuthing, traced you through the canal to Peconic, found eye-witnesses of your race as far as Sag Harbour. “There 1 lost you—and there I borrowed this outfit from a friend, an old-time client of mine. Meanwhile, I'd had a general alarm sent out to the police authorities all along (ho coast, clear to Boston. No one had seen anything of you anywhere. it was heavy odds-on that you’d gone to the bottom in that blow, all of you, lint i couldn't give up. We kept cruising, looking up unlikely places. And at. that we were on the point of throwing up the sponge when X picked up a schooner that reported signal fires on No Man’s Land. ... I think that clears everything up.” “Yes,” said Whitaker, sleepily. “And now, without ingratitude, may 1 ask you to lead me to a bath and my bunk? I have just about 15 minutes of semi-consciousness to go on.” And so strong was his need of sleep that it was not until ten o’clock the following morning, when the yacht lay at her mooring in the East River, that Ember succeeded in rousing him by main strength and goodwill. This having been accomplished, he was left to dress and digest the fact that his wife had gone ashore an hour ago. after refusing to listen to a suggestion that WJltaker he disturbed. The note Ember handed him purported to explain what at first blush seemed a singularly ungrateful and ungracious freak. It was brief, but in Whitaker’s sight eminently adequate and compensating.

Dearest Boy,—l won't let them wake you. but I must run away. It's early and I must do some shopping before peoole are about. My house here is closed; Mrs. Secretan is in Maine with the only keys aside from those at Great West Bay, ami I'm a positive fright in a coat and skirt borrowed from the stewardess. I don’t want even you to see me until I'm decently dressed. I shall put up at the Waldorf; come there tonight and we Will dine together. Every fibre of my being loves you. MARY.

For freedom from all household insect pests spray room freely with Flytox. Kills swiftly, surely. 13

Obviously not a note to be caviled at. Whitaker took a serene and shining face to breakfast in the saloon, under the eyes of Ember. Toward noon they parted ashore, each taking a taxicab to his lodgings. The understanding was that they were to dine together—all three, Whitaker promising for his wife —upon the morrow. At six that evening, returning to his rooms to dress, Whitaker found another note awaiting him, in a handwriting that his heart recognised with a sensation of wretched apprehension. He dared not trust himself to read it in the public hall. It was agony to wait through the maddeningly deliberate upward flight of the elevator. When he at length attained the privacy of his own apartment, he was sweating like a panic-stricken horse. He could hardly control his fingers to open the envelope. He comprehended its contents with difficulty, half blinded by a swimming mist of foreboding. My Dear, —I find my strength unequal to the strain of seeing you tonight. Indeed, I am so worn out and nerve-racked that I have had to consult my physician. I-Ie orders me immediately to a sanatorium to rest for a week or two. Don’t worry about me. I shan’t fail to let you know as soon as I feel strong enough to see you. Forgive me. I love you dearly. AIARY. The paper slipped from Whitaker’s trembling hand and fluttered unheeded to the floor. He sprang to the telephone and presently had the Waldorf 'on the wire; it was true, he learned, Mrs. Whitaker had registered at the hotel in the morning and had left at four in the afternoon. He was refused information as to whether she had left a forwarding address for her mail. lie wrote her immediately, and perhaps not altogether wisely, under stress of distraction, sending the letter by special delivery in care of the hotel. It was returned him in due course, of time, embellished with a pencilled memorandum to the effect that Mrs. Whitaker had left no address. He communicated at once with Ember, promptly enlisting his willing services. But after several days of earnest investigation the detective confessed himself baffled. “If you ask me,” he commented at the conclusion of his report, “the answer is, she means to be let alone until she’s quite ready to see you again. I don’t pin any medals on myself for this demonstration of extraordinary 1 merely point out the obvious for your own good. Contain yourself, my dear man —and stop gnawing your knuckles like the heavy man in a melodrama. It won’t do any good; your wife promised to communicate with you as soon as her health wa§ restored. And hot only is she a woman who keeps her promise, but it is quite comprehensible that she should have been shaken up by her extraordinary experience to an extent we can hardly appreciate who haven’t the highly sensitive organisation of a woman to contend with. Give her time.”

“I don't believe it I” Whitaker raged. “She —she loved me there on the island. She couldn’t change so quickly, bring herself to treat me so cruelly, unless some infernal influence had been brought to bear upon her.” “It’s possible, but I ”

“Oh, I don’t mean that foolishness about her love being a man’s deathwarrant. That may have something to do with it, but—but, damn it I —l conquered that once. She promised . . . was in my arms . . . I’d won her. . . . She loved me; there wasn’t any make-believe about it. If there w&re any foundation for that poppycock, I’d be a dead man now —instead of a man ill-used! . . . No;' somebody has got hold of her, worked on her sympathies, maligned me. . . .”

“Do you object to telling me whom you have in miud?” “The man you suspect as well as I —tho one man to whom her means everything, the man you named to me the night we met for the first

time, as the one who’d profit the most by keeping her from leaving the stage.” “Well, if it’s Max, you’ll know in time. It won’t profit him to hide the light of his star under a bushel —he can only make money' by displaying it.” “I’ll know before long. As soon as he gets back in town —” “So you’ve been after him?” “Why not? But he’s out on the Pacific Coast, or so they tell me at the theatre.” “And expected back—when?’ * “Soon.” “Do you know when he left?” “About tho middle of July, they say in his office.” “Then that lets him out.” “But it’s a lie.” “Well ?” “I’ve just remembered. Max was at the Fiske place, urging her to return, the night before you caught Drummond at the bungalow. I saw them walking up and down in front of the cottage, arguing earnestly. I could tell by her bearing she was refusing whatever he proposed, but I didn’t know her then, and naturally l never connected Max with the fellow I saw, disguised in a motoring coat and cap. Neither of ’em had any place in my thoughts that night.” Ember uttered a thoughtful “Oh?” adding:—“Did you find out at all definitely when Max is expected back?” “Two or three weeks now, they say. He’s got his winter productions to get under way. As a matter of fact, it looks to me as if he must he neglecting ’em strangely. It’s my impression that the late summer is a producing manager’s busiest time.’ “Keep out of Max’s way. Don’t risk a wrangle with him.” “Why the devil should I he afraid of Max?” “I know of no reason—as yet; but I prefer to work unhampered by the indiscretions of my principals.” “Oh, go ahead —to blazes—as far as you like.” “Thanks,” Ember dryly wound up the conference, “but these passing flirtations with your present-day temper leave me with no hankering for greater warmth. ...” Days ran stolidly oil into -weeks, and these into a mouth. Nothing happened. Max did not return; tho whispered rumour played wildfire in theatrical circles that the eccentric manager had encountered financial difficulties insuperable. The billboards flanking the entrance 1o the Theatre Max continued to display posters announcing the reopening early in September with a musical comedy by Tynan Dodd; but the comedy was not even in rehearsal by September 15. September waned and October dawned in grateful coolness: an exquisite month of crisp nights and enlivening days, of mellowing sunlight and early gloamings tenderly coloured. Country houses were closed and theatres reopened. Fifth Avenue after four in the afternoon became thronged' with an ever-thickening army—horse,, foot and motor-car.

Then suddenly the town blossomed overnight with huge eight-sheet posters oh every available hoarding, blazoning the news:

JULES MAX begs to announce the return of SARA LAW, in a new Comedy entitled “Faith,” By JULES MAX Theatre MAX—Friday, October 15. But Whitaker had the information before he saw the broadsides in the streets. The morning paper propped up on his breakfast table contained the illuminating note under the capdon, “News of Plays and Players.” To he Continued Tomorrow.