TO THE UTTERMOST FARTHING.

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXXII, Issue 10400, 22 August 1911, Page 2

TO THE UTTERMOST FARTHING.

CHAPTER ll—Conntinued. y "The man isn't the husband, but probably should be," was his mwaru comment, "What can I do for yoj, Mrs Moncton?" he asked aloud. "I will tell you in a moment. . Fiea,«o givo me a minute or two. I want to 'think before I speak. I want ( to be quits aire that I make no ma- \ take—that I say nothing wrong, j Sho started suddenly to her feet. Let me go to the window—let me get some air f The- dreadful heat and closeness make me faint. She stepped to the window, so hast, lv or ro inclinable of measuring aor distance in the dark that she struck against and almost overturned a chair. There had been a wild outbreak of emotion in her voice, and the lawyer s composed eyebrows went up. She iv?s not voung," she was not pretty, she had somehow almost repelled him, lut he was beginning to be interested in j her. 1 . Although standing with her bac>v to him, he knew that sflie had put up her veil as she leaned out and clutched the sill. He half rose, and then sat down again. For an instant the absurd thought came to him that >m« had it in her mind to spring out and fling herself upon the flags of t-he court below. She drew down-her veil, turnei back into the room again, and sank into the nearest chair, one standing close against the great bureau which filled up the space between the fireplaco and the wall. Severance rose quickly. "I am afraid you are ill," he said. "Not ill—only faint! It is heat—l shall be better presently. ' She made a gesture with her hand :m keep him from approaching her. "Oh. please don't notice me! Please tit down! I can tell you all now." Again she halted, and her hands became clenched. "I told you that I was in great trouble. My trouble is that I have been receiving anonymous letter s." "Indeed!" Severance instantly wondered how "the man"—of whosj existence he was certain —might xmixed up with the letters. "Of a painful nature?" he said suggestively. "Of a dreadful nature. They arc cruel, they are scandalous! they arc full of lies! They get worse ind worse, and my husband has seen them."

"Their design is to separate him from you, perhaps." "Yes, I am sure of it.'' "Have you been receiving them a long time?" ' "Yes, months." "And you have no idea as to who may be their writer?" "Yes", I suspect some one." "A friend, probably?" . "Yes— a —a "

Severance sprang up, as what 'ie had expected happened, and her head fell back against the side of her chair. He had been putting his questions medhanically as he watched 'ier face grow whiter and whiter ind heard her voice become lower. But as he approached she rallied and waved him away before he could touch her.

''"Give me a glass of water," she said faintly, "and if there is a woman m the house -"

"The caretaker's rooms are below; I will fetch her. But let me get some water first."

He hurried out. The kitchen, like the rest of the chambers, was in darkness —the caretaker did not troub'e herself unduly about anything. Be was at a loss among kitchen things, and it took him two minutes of fumbling to find the matches and light the gas, and fully as long to discover i glass and draw the water. Re-entering through the door of communication, which had shut behind him, he was astonished to find that the ohair in which his visitor had sat was now empty. A glance round showed him his visitor standing by the open outer door which led to the staircase, her erect figure scarcely distinguishable in the gloom. Hearing his exclamation, she returned a pace. "I—l thought the air would be fresher on the landing," she said, inarticulately. "I felt stilling in the chair. I am better—much better. Please do not call the caretaker. It is quite unnecessary."

"The woman is probably out; I called down the speaking tube and got no answer. lam glad you are feeling better, Mrs Monckton. I thought you would faint. Will you drink the water?" "Yes, thank you."

She caught the glass from his hand, pushed up the veil, and drank oho water feverishly. As he took the glass again he motioned toward the chair.

"No, no!" she said, in the same rapid, muffled way. "I cannot stay now. I—l must have air. I will coma in the morning, and finish what 1 have to say. I can see you then, i suppose. Can you promise me that I shall?"

"Certainly! If twelve'o'clock wiil suit you I will be at liberty then." "Then at twelve I will be here. Good night!" "Good night!"

She was close to the door, was even passing through, when he held out his hand, which she touched slightly with her right hand, at the same time holding up her skirt with her left. Without another word she went down the stairs. Severance, turning back into his room, laughed cynically.

OUR NEW SERIAL.)

By CARL SWERDNA, Author of "A Mere Ceremony."

"She shouldn't have taken off her gloves," he raid, "or, at any rate, she shouldn't have let me see the W--hand when she held up her skirt. Mrs Monckton, eh! Just as I expected; There was no wedding ring." Prospective wealth had not made Bernard Severance a lazy man, and at nine o'clock the next morning • • was seated at his breakfast table. The first letter of the little pile which lay beside his plate was still in His hand when familiar steps upon -lie stairs were followed by an equally familiar knock upon the door. Tom Moorfiold entered—fresh, brisk ar.d cheerful, and with the air of a ma\i in whom the memory of breakfast had already paled before the anticipations of lunch. Since his marriage Tom had taken -ardently to floriculture, and was up and out in his garI den by seven o'clock all the summer I through. : "Hello, old fellow, how are you-" lie said. "Fine time of day to be doling over the teapot in such fine weather as this!" Tom laughed, shook hands, and took a chair. "Can't stop a moment," he said, "but I promise! Lucy I'd run in. I had orders to ask you"something last night, but that news of yours drove the subject out of my head. We've got a little dinner party on to-night. Only a few people I —all people you know : Will you make one? Lucy says you must. She badgered me for letting it slip. No other engagement on, I suppose, have you? "No, nothing. My compliments and thanks to Mrs Moorfield. I shall he happy to come." "I told Lucy that she'd better make the most of you-while she could <:et you, for we should be quite 'no class 1 compared with the people of Redbourne. She said she had made \\\- her mind to spend the first long vacation there after you own it. By 'he way, she sends a barrel of congratulations."

"Very good of her, and I hope *he will visit Redbourne," Severance °aid heartily. "Won't you take somethins;? A cup of coffee?" "Coffee? My good fellow, ■ I bud breakfast two hours ago. I can spare ten minutes for one of your cigars, though. Don't disturb yourself—T know where to find them.. Get i,n with your letters." Severance nodded ,complying, an J Moorfield found a cigar and lighted it. He had strolled over to the window and s>tood there, puffing placidly,, when a loud exclamation made "Mini look round. His friend had started to his feet, and stood staring at -in open letter with an expression of su;h astonishment that Moorfield'>s own expression involuntarily changed to one of astonishment, too.

"Hello!" he cried. "What's the matter?"

"The matter?" Staring at the open letter Severance broke into a haifangry, half-incredulous laugh. ''lt seems that I was not far out in that idea of mine!" "What idea?"

"Why, the notion that Sir Bernard may have had the will sent to mo to keep it out of the way of Derek Willoughby. Just look at that." He extended the letter, and Moorfield read it aloud.

"A friend begs Mr Severance to be careful and to keep guard over Sir Bernard Willoughby's will. A frien'] warns him that it is not safe in his possession. Unless he wishes tcrun the risk of losing both Redbourne and the money, he will place it in a safe place without delay. And if he :s wise he will keep the secret of 'is deposit from everybody."

"Well, I'll be shot!" cried Moorfield. Then, recovering, he addei. "Pooh! It's a mere scare, Severance!'

"Is it? Who should take the trouble to scare me, as you call it? Who should take the trouble of giving me such a warning for the mere joke of the thing?" "I don't know."

"There doesn't seem much of -\ hoax in giving me the very piece of advice which you yourself gave me yesterday." "True enough. It's an uncommonly queer start—no doubt of that.'' Moorfield still stared at the lot her. "A friend, eh? And what sort of ;; friend? Should you say that writing is a man's, or a woman's?" "It is so stiff and unformed, and has so little character, that it is impossible to judge. It must be either. It has been written by a totally unpractised hand or a mighty clever one." "Style and character disguised, yon mean? That might be. And—useless question, though—you have no notion of who can have sent it?" # "My dear fellow, I am as utterly m the dark as you are." I have not the least notion." "But you believe that it was written in good faith—that it's genuine s You think that?" Severance laughed. (To ibe continued.)