TWO MEN AND MARY

Wairarapa Times-Age, 10 May 1938, Page 10

TWO MEN AND MARY

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.

COPYRIGHT.

By

HOLLOWAY HORN.

(Author of “George,” “That Man at Claverton Mansions,” etc.)

SYNOPSIS. Having taken a room at the Pavilion Hotel, she goes for a stroll in the pine woods of the Black Forest, where, to her surprise, she encounters LIEUTENANT KURT EIDENMULLER, whom she had known while at Cambridge. He is in love with her and takes her to dances and other places of amusement. Mark likes him immensely, but only as a friend. After only a few hours of their meeting, Kurt Eidenmuller has to part, having received an order from his regiment to go to Munich immediately. In the hotel where Mary is staying she makes the acquaintance of a very wealthy old Englishwoman of seventyeight. MRS. WESTERTON likes Mary and takes her as a companion at thirty bounds a month. Mrs Westerton, so she tells Mary, has no relatives except her nephew and his wife, who live in England. She hates them both.

For some days they tour in Germany, and, on Mary’s suggestion, go to Davos. On arrival at Davos, Mary goes to the Gunther Institute to see Evelyn, McCarthy’s wife. The nurse tells her Evelyn died three days ago and that McCarthy who had come for the funeral, is staying at the Phoenix Hotel. Mary is shocked at the news, and when she goes back to hex- hotel tells Mrs Westerton all about the misfortune of her friend and solicitor, McCarthy. Mrs Westerton asks Mary to ring up at once as she wants to meet him to do. some business. Mary does so, but she is told McCarthy is out. Leaving a message to call as soon at he returns, Mary goes for a walk. (Now Read On). CHAPTER V.—Continued. At the end of it he remained hers sincerely, Anthony McCarthy, but there was a personal, human touch in it which warmer her as she read. He was her friend. He wished her well. It'was curious, she pondered, that he had not mentioned his wife. “I heard from my solicitor this morning,” she told Mrs Westerton at lunch. “Oh? Nothing wrong, I hope? I don’t like lawyers.” ‘ “No. He’s a personal friend, too. Anthony McCarthy.” “A nice name,” the old lady said, non-committally. “Of all the men I’ve met, he’s the one I would trust.” “One should certainly be able to trust one’s lawyer, my dear.” “I mean rather more personally. He’s married.” “Nice men so often are, I notice,” the old lady said with a smile. “His wife’s in Davos.” “Separated?” “No. She’s in consumption. She lives in Davos. At a sanatorium.’ “Poor soul.” “I promised that I might look her up if I got as far as Davos.”

“It’s rather an idea. I’ve never been to Davos.”

“Will you really go?” “Yes. It’s quite near as the crow flies, but of course we’re not crows. We’ll drop in at Cook’s office and find out how to get them. This is rather the wrong time of the year, but we need not stay there long and some of the Swiss valleys in the summer are very attractive. You don’t know his wife, I suppose?” “No. But he told me she’d be delighted to see me.” “I, too, found a letter awaiting me here.” ’ . “Oh?” “From my nephew’s wife. Hoping I’m not tiring myself and wouldn’t I like a few weeks with them.” “That’s very nice of her.” The old lady solemnly smiled. “She’d be horribly sold if I accepted the invitation. She dislikes me even more than I dislike her.” “Are you sure you aren’t prejudiced against them?” “I’m sure that I am,” the old lady admitted cheerfully. The young man in the office of the Travel Agency proved to be singularly helpful and was apparently convinced that it was as simple to get to Davos from Innsbruck as to reach the Bank from Charing Cross.

“I think the people in these Travel Bureaus are marvellous,” Mary Rossitor said as they came out into the sunshine.

“They’re marvellously patient,” Mrs Westerton said. “Let’s start as soon as soon as you wish. I always feel that if I stay very long in Innsbruck I shall never leave it.”

A week later they were in Davos. It was very hot in the train during the latter part of the journey, and Mrs Westerton was rather overcome. It irritated her, but worried Mary.

“It’s nothing, my dear,” she said. “Just a passing giddiness. These trains are always too hot.”

At the hotel. Mary insisted on the old lady going to bed. And in the morning she was apparently quite well again. The Gunther Institute was some distance out of the little town, and Mary walked up before lunch. Several of the patients were in bed on the open balconies along the front of the house; others were strolling about in the grounds. A nurse came to her as she reached the top of the steps leading to the verandah. “I wonder if it would be possible for me to see Mrs McCarthy?” Mary asked.

The nurse glanced sharply at her. She had a dark, almost Italian type of face, although she spoke German, and Mary disliked her aloof attitude. “I’m afraid it is not,” she said. “I’m a . . a client of her husband’s. He asked me to call. I’ve come here from Innsbruck especially to see her.” “Mrs McCarthy is dead,’ the nurse said.

Mary was taken aback, and did not reply. “She died last Saturday. The case was hopeless from the start.” Mary gasped. “Mr McCarthy is still in Davos, I believe. His wife was buried three days ago.” “Thank you,” said Mary. “It’s . . . rather a shock. I didn’t know the poor soul.”

“Mr McCarthy is at the Phoenix Hotel, I understand. He was very distressed.”

“Of course. Thank you. Forgive my intrusion. ” “Not at all,” said the nurse, and turned back into the building. Mary walked slowly back to the hotel and at lunch told Mrs Westerton what had happened. “He’s a solicitor, isn’t he?” the old lady asked. “Yes.”

“Then I should like to see him. There are one or two little matters I want adjusting. Usually I avoid lawyers as I do the plague, but he seems, from what you say, to be a very pleasant kind of lawyer. “He is. You want to see him professionally?”

“Yes?” “He may not be here, of course. The nurse wasn’t very definite.” “Why not ring up the hotel —the Phoenix you said?—and see?”

“I will.” She returned a minute later. “He’s still there, but he’s gone out for an all-day tramp. He’s not expected in until the evening.” “Poor fellow,” Mrs Westerton said. “He’s probably upset.” “And he’s leaving for England in the morning, they told me.” “Then do get into touch with him, Mary, when he gets back. I really want to see him. You left your name?” “Oh, yes. He’ll ring up when he gets in.” Mrs Westerton decided not to go out that afternoon, but to settle down in the lounge with a book. “You go, my dear,” she said. “I shall be all right.” “I’m quite happy to stay in.” » “Then stay, my child. But I don’t want you. I’m going to read.” Mary smiled: “Then I shall go out. Shall be in at tea —or before.”

When Mary returned just after four she found Anthony McCarthy sitting with Mrs Westerton.

“I got here at half-past three,” he said. “I was rather tired —very stiff walking about here —and came back earlier than I anticipated and found your message. So I came across at once.” “And we’ve done our business. And we’re ready for tea, aren’t we, Mr McCarthy?” “We are,” he said. “I . . I called hoping to see your wife,” Mary said. “That was kind of you,” he said quietly. “It was very sudden at the end. She had gone before I got here.” “Would you care to dine with us, Mr McCarthy?” Mrs Westerton asked as she poured out tea. “Thank you. My hotel is full of Germans and I don’t speak the language. I shall be very happy.” “We don’t dress here.” “I’m glad. I came away at a moment’s notice and have no dress clothes with me."

“Tea is terrible here, isn’t it? It’s just . . tea. Now, I’m going to rest. Don’t worry, my dear,” she went on to Mary as she rose. “I like her,” said McCarthy when he and Mary were alone. “She’s a dear. She’s more like a mother than anyone I’ve ever known. And yet she’s no children. I was very sorry to hear about your wife.” “Yes. Poor darling. This place was her one chance, the doctor told me. She was a dancer when I met her. Dainty and fragile. There’s no doubt ’hat the strenuous training contributed to her breakdown. Three months after we were married I took her to. one of the big men. He wasn’t hopeful even then.”

“How long ago was that?” “Three years. She’s been out here ever since.”

“You have the knowledge that you did everything in your power for her.”

“I do feel that,” he said quietly. She noticed that he was thinner than when she had last seen him in London. He ws lean and taut at the best of times, but the last few days had evidently told on him. “You must go back tomorrow?” she asked. “You look as if a few days’ holiday would do you good.” “I must,” he said. “One of my partners is ill and away from the office.” “You’ve done nothing else about that farm of yours?” “No. Farming in England must be treated as a hobby rather than a business, as far as I can see.” “You’d rather live there —in the country, I mean?” “Yes,’ he said. “One is so terribly

lonely in London.” She thought over this before she saw what he meant. Then she nodded. “What did you think of my taking on this job?” she asked with a smile. “It all depended on Mrs Westerton, of course. It's obviously a more amusing job than being fastened down in a city office from ten to six. For a girl, I mean.” “I’ve had a wonderful time. It does not get me anywhere, but it's something to look back on. I’m rather worried about her," she went on. “In what way?” he asked, glancing at her. "The last week or so she seems to have been getting very old. I know that sounds odd but I can’t put it any other way. I've asked her to see a doctor, but she won't." (To be Continued).