"BEYOND DOVER"

Wairarapa Times-Age, 11 May 1939, Page 12

"BEYOND DOVER"

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.

COPYRIGHT.

By

VAL GIELGUD.

(Author of “Death at Broadcasting House,” etc.)

CHAPTER X. (Continued). “That’s nothing,” he said gently, “mere reaction —cry it out, my dear. Do you good.” ‘l'm sorry,” she gulped. “You’re being very kind to me. Why?” “I find you —sympathetic,” was his rather quaint answer. "By the way, I’ve a name you know. Would you care to use it?” Sally wiped her eyes, laughed weakly,, and felt much better. ' “But it’s not your name,” she protested. “I do not know that much about you anyway.” “It’s not my only name—agreed,” said Brandon. "Would you prefer, Rudolph, Ottokar, Maximillian, Chrysostom. or Ferdinand? Personally 1 still think Hugo is the easiest to remember and pronounce.” Sally had been leaning against his shoulder in the taxi, but riow she. sat up straight, and looked hard at his profile against the light of the street lamps as they flashed past one by one. “Who are you—really?” "You mean that Flanescu didn’t tell you?" “No.” “I think he'll wish ho had before I've finished with him!” "Hugo!” “Thank you. Sally! That’s nice of you. But you should have been told.” “Why? I had no real alternative to coming with yon. You explained that yourself, and that paper tonight proved it On, poor daddy!” She ended with a genuine cry of dismay. Not until that instant had she realised how infinitely distant and unreal haa become that villa on the North Circular Road, compared with the strange uncharted waters on which she was now voyaging with Hugo Brandon.

“I don’t think you’ll need worry too much about your father," said Brandon. “Flanescu did that part of his job—and you can trust his considerable diplomatic experience to have done it pretty well. At worst, your father would have been more distressed by your arrest than .by your flight, wouldn’t he?"

“Yes,” admitted Sully. “So long as he doesn't think I —l did it.” “No one but a fool or a policeman would believe that for a second,” said Brandon.

And the taxi drew up at the Meurice. At the entrance to the lift Sally paused and turned to him shyly. “I know I shan’t sleep just yet,” she said. ‘‘Could we talk for a little?” “Of course,” said Brandon. "There’s Casimir’s sitting-room. And there's nothing like China tea with lemon as a drink for the very small hours.” And he gave the necessary order. ‘‘Well, Sally?” he asked, about a quarter of an hopr later. “No, I’m going to pour out. You keep your legs firmly tucked up oh that sofa. What do you want to know?” “What it all means,” said Sally. "You don't think I’m stupid to be a bit bewildered by—everything?” "Not in the least.” Brandon was frowning, and lie went on slowly, evidently picking his words: “You see, Sally, though I’m the principal in this business, it’s not all my secret. And it concerns lives —and the future of a nation, perhaps even of nations.” He stopped. The big overdecorated room was very quiet, but from the street outside sounded faintly the occasional noises of Paris traffic that never wholly stilled. They seemed infinitely far away. Hugo Brandon’s face, in the light from the shaded lamp at his elbow, appeared suddenly hardened and older. His eyes seemed to widen and glow, his lips to tighten. He jerked up his chin. “Sally,” he continued, "you're in this with me, for good or bad, I’m afraid. In a way I blame myself—but that’s never any good. The milk’s spilled. I'll do my best to look after you ” “I know. Go on, Hugo.” “It comes to this in as few words as possible, my dear. As soon as we’ve got those jewels back from your Mr Felix Bastin, an attempt is to be made to re-establish the monarchy in Styria." “You mean ?” cried Sally, sitting 'up. "Yes,” said Brandon, speaking slowly and deliberately. "I'm to be the cause of all the trouble: tile Pretender to the Throne. I'm the exiled ArchDuke Ottokar Ferdinand Maximillian, and all the rest of them, last of my line. Let’s face it!’ he ended with a wry smile. "But it's impossible—l don’t understand. If you’re the Arch-Duke, what’s Casimir Konski doing?” "I often wish I knew,” said Brandon grimly. "He's like Job's Satan, I always think: going to and fro upon the face of the earth, and walking up and down in it. He’s the professional fisher in troubled waters, my dear. I'm just the harmless necessary figurehead. He has made the plans, seduced the right people from their republican allegiance, achieved the required contacts.'’ “And Flanescu?” "And old friend of my mother's —a devoted servant of the dynasty. He brought me word that things were ready." Sally lifted her hands to tier forehead. "But why should yon let them drag you into their schemes?" siie said. “I suppose because I am —what 1 am. Sally. ] can 1 help myself. It’s not particularly that .1 want to rule Styria. But my lino ruled there for eight hundred years. It seems a queer way of putting it. but it’s my job. I can't just thrown it down, and say I’d rather not play. Besides, there are all the people who are ready to risk their lives for me, and what I stand for. I’m committed —in honour. It’s an oldfashioned word, Sally, and one you English fight, shy of using—but it still means quite a good deal to some people.” He got out of In's chair, and moved restlessly about the room, fiddling with this and that upon the tables. "If I could only be sure that Casimir Konski was not up to some private devilry of his own!” he burst out suddenly. “I don't trust him and his infernal cats!” He lighted a cigarette. Even across the breadth of the room Sally could see his fingers shaking. She felt the wildest, most ludicrous longing to go and put her arms round him and comfort him. He looked so desperately young and slim and lonely: the very type for the upholding of a cause foredoomed. And then she. remembered that he belonged to one of the oldest 1

and proudest royal families in the world, and that she was Mr Felix BasLin’s confidential stenograper! It might have been all right in a story by Hans Andersen, but nowadays . . . She stood up in her turn. “I’d like to wish you luck,” she said, feeling very small and insignificant indeed. Irn afraid I’ve newer been taught how to curtsey ” “If you ever treat me as anyone other than Hugo Brandon,” said the Pretender to the Crown of Styria and it: “I shall be very cross with you indeed.” He faced her smiling and held out his hand. "We’ll make plans for you tomorrow,” he said. “I’m-still too much in the dark myself, and it’s getting very late——” Behind him the palest grey of early dawn was edging the window curtains. Sally became conscious of an ifnmense weariness. She took his hand, and he bent over it and kissed her fingers. “You’ll stand by me and help me, Sally?” "Yes, Hugo, if you want me.” He looked her straight in the eyes. For the moment she half dreaded, half longed that he would kiss Her lips. His face looked strained and haggard, almost beseeching. Then he stepped back and straightened his shoulders. “Sleep well, Sally dear.” He walked past her and opened the •door. Sally went into her own room and ■sat down on the bed. She was uncertain whether she was not living an unusually vivid and intolerably fantastic dream. Through- the door she had left half-open she saw a huge contorted shadow glide noiselessly along the passage and stop beside the entrance to the sitting room of the suite. She heard a discreet knock. “You will forgive mo, Hugo, but some things won’t wait.” It was Casimir Konski’s voice. And what might have been a dream darkened swiftly and certainly to nightmare. CHAPTER XI. Nigel Craven woke up the next morning with a bad headache, a foul taste in his mouth, and a thoroughly bad conscience. He was lying on a comfortable divan bed. wearing a strangers pyjamas—rather exotic white pyjamas'of Chinese silk with a thin black edging. He rubbed his eyelids, which felt unpleasantly sticky, and blinked about him in some bewilderment. He remembered following Sally to the “Chat Gris”; he had a vague recollection of having been involved there in some kind of unpleasant scene; he had also dim memories of having had too much to drink, of Hugo Brandon’s maddeningly impassive face, of walking in the rain, and of being accosted by a stranger who spoke English—but where the devil was he now? He got out of the bed, found slippers and a kimono and put them on, and sat down with his head in his hands. Thelprevailing tone of the room was French grey. The walls were marked out in panels with a gilt beading. Immediately opposite Nigel, as he sat-on the edge of the divan, was a long mirror, in which he saw and disliked his own image: dishevelled, unshaven, in pyjamas, whose legs were too short. For the rest, the decoration was entirely oriental —good Japanese prints; rather less good Japanese vases; a douple of crossed' Samuria swords; black and gilt statuettes of Indo-Chin-ese gods; an opium pipe and a cigarette case of hammered Japanese metalwork lying on a table of some dark I Indian wood. The flimsy double doors ' common to the average room of the i average Parision flat stood ajar, and through them came the first whiff of reality to Nigel's nostrils in a most agreeable and recognisable odour of ba-con-and-eggs, and coffee. Nigel went over to the window and drew the curtains .back. Outside sunlight was blazing down into a narrow street out of a very blue sky, giving promise of a day of great heat. The street might nave been one of a thousand Paris streets. From his window Nigel could see neither the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, Notre Dame, nor the Dome of the Invalides. He was therefore, like more of his compatriots, as lost as if he had been in the heart of an African jungle. “Good morning,” said someone behind him. “My name is Lutyens. 1 hope you slept tolerably well.” Nigel turned. He saw a middle-aged man with a grizzled moustache, thin hair, parted carefully in the middle, grey eyes, a cleft chin, and a considerable nose. He was wearing a camelhair dressing-gown and bedroom slippers. Nigel flushed. , “I say,” he began stammeringly, “I suppose 1 more or less billeted myself on you last night. I’m awfully grateful —and awfully sorry. My name’s Craven. I —” “Suppose we let the rest wait till we’ve had some breakfast,” said Lutyens, smiling. And when he smiled his whole face changed, lightened, seemed years younger. “I’ll lead the way. shall I?” They breakfasted in a small dining room, decorated with more Japanese prints. Siamese good-carvings, and a great brass-bound chest from Korea. “All junk," said Lutyens apologetically, pouring out more coffee, “but one's bound to pick up a few things when one spends years in the East. I live alone so I've only my own lasle to worry about. People have made rude remarks about bazaars —but £ survive.” No wonder, thought Nigel, if there was anything in the idea of the survival of the- fittest. Lutyens gave the impression of a physique entirely composed of wire and leather; of a selfcontainment positively ferocious. “I know I oughtn’t to ask questions,” he said, “but I'm afraid I’m horribly curious. Why did you bother to look after me last night? I was just beastly tight.” Lutyens put down his coffee cup. “I don’t much like seeing an Englishman quite so much at the mercy of wind and weather in a Paris street,” he said. "He may get, robbed. He may simply get laughed at. Either seems a pity.” “You mean —you’d do it for anyone?” Lutyens grinned. “Not quite. I’m afraid. I can’t claim to be the lineal descendant of the Good Samaritan.” "Then why me?” / “In the first place I rather liked the look of you. In the second I heard \ovi talking rather loudly in English. In the third •” (To be Continued.)'