"SECOND CHANCE"

Wairarapa Times-Age, 28 August 1940, Page 10

"SECOND CHANCE"

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT. COPYRIGHT.

BY

HOLLOWAY HORN

(Author of “George,” “Two Men and Mary,” etc.

CHAPTER 11. (Continued). It might, he realised, have been another girl. Actually, it was a very well set-up man in a blue serge suit. They were setting in the second row of the Circle at the Royal. During the interval, when the lights were up, the manager of the cinema—a gentleman in resplendent evening dress —came to them and whispered to Mary’s companion. ‘■Right!” he said, and turning to Mary added, ‘‘Shan’t be a minute; they’re on the phone from the office, confound them!”

Many eyes followed his taut figure as he walked up the gangway, for Inspector Garrod was a well-known figure in Mossford. He had achieved record promotion in the Force and at thirty-two occupied a position usually reserved for men at least ten years older. Mary Donovan, indeed, was regarded as a lucky girl by most of the people who knew her, and few of them had any doubt as to what the outcome of the friendship would be. It was obvious to all that the young Inspector was very much in love. He came back just as the lights were dimmed for the big feature. “Okay!” he whispered. “Pearson had the wind-up over something. 1 ticked him off for worrying me when I was off duty." The big feature was an American film and the story on which, it was based was a singularly inept one. This may or may not have been the reason, but it failed completely to grip Mary Donovan’s attention, which wandered out of the theatre to a bank in front of a mill-stream—actually a far more romantic setting that any of the elaborate studio sets on the screen.

Mentally she compared the man sitting at her side, absorbed in the unsubtle and hackneyed picture they were watching, and the one who had shared his tea with her that afternoon. Of Garrod she knew everything—his history, his ambitions and sometimes, she imagined, his very thoughts. She knew indeed, how he would react to any given situation. She had few romantic illusions, and appreciated his sterling qualities, realising that four girls out of five in Mossford were frankly envious of her chance.

But she knew with even greater clarity that she did not love him in the least. She had told him so and he had argued that love would come, that love as described in books and on the screen was a lot of poppy-cock, so much romantic nonsense. Nor was she certain that he was wrong, for, in her experience, not a few marriages which had apparently started as wild romances had ended in disillusion of one kind or another. She liked Garrod, as she had admitted to her mother when Mrs Donovan had been inclined to press his claims. But there was no thrill in the thought of him. She realised with grim insight that she would just as soon have been sitting in that cinema with a girl. Ferguson, on the other hand, interested her as no other man had done. Indeed, interest was hardly the word. He intrigued her, worried her so that she found herself thinking of him at the oddest moments. Only Mary Donovan knew that the meeting that afternoon at the deserted mill had not been such a coincidence as it appeared. Her aunt had mentioned casually that Ferguson had borrowed the rod and meant to try his hand at fishing on the Saturday. And. as Mary Donovan knew, the mill was the one place where fishing was possible within several miles of Mossford.

As they walked back to Mary’s home after the show, she said, "I met Mr Ferguson this afternoon.”

"Who?” "M rFerguson. He’s just come to Trevowe’s from London.”

"Ferguson?” said the Inspector, as if the name stirred some memory in him.

"Yes. I cycled to the Mill—out on the Ponders Road —and he was fishing there. We had a very interesting chat.” "Do you know anything about him?" Garrod asked.

"Nothing whatever. I wish I did.” "Why?” "I don’t know. He seems a bit out of the ordinary.” "Meaning I'm not?” “But you are out of the ordinary, silly! You’ve told me so often enough, anyway. An Inspector at thirty-two," she mocked. "Go on, pull my leg!" "He seemed rather depressed. I thought," she went on. “Shouldn't wonder,” he said. “Did you like the film? You didn’t cay. ’ “It was all right. What do you mean by ’shouldn't wonder’?” "I think you’re enough to depress any man.”

"Oh? Do you know anything about him?"

For several seconds he considered his reply before he said: "If I were you I shouldn’t have much to do with him.” "Why not?" "I’d rather not say." "But you say that about every man in whom I’m interested!” "I know I do.”

"Tell me, George,’ ’she said quietly, “whether you do know anything about Mr Ferguson.” "I'd rather not talk about him. Mary, if you don’t mind. I’ve given you my advice,” "But is your objection to him just the usual one or is it particular?” "Both.” “You won't tell me?” "No.” "Why not?” “Oh, confound the fellow!” "I shan’t. And I think it’s unfair of you, George to warn me against him and then refuse to give me a reason.” “I didn’t ’warn’ you against him. And I wasn't speaking as an official but as a man who happens to be in love with you.”

They had reached her home. “Coming in?” she asked. “Sure! I like your mother very much.”

‘And she likes you.” T wish you did, Mary.” “But I do. I’ve told you so. And I think it's jolly mean of you to refuse to tell me what you know about Ferguson.” . “I never said I knew anything about him,” he replied, almost as he would have spoken if he had been under cross-examination in court. “You didn’t actually say it. But I can see that you do.” “In any case, my dear, you will remember that I didn’t say I knew him, won’t you?” CHAPTER IV. There was a curious incident at Trevowe’s a week or so after the meeting between Mary Donovan and Ferguson at the Mill. For some days Ferguson had been in the cashier’s department owing to the absence of several victims of a belated flu epidemic. It concerned a matter of a sum of seventeen pounds fifteen shillings which happened to be due to Messrs Trevowe’s Ltd from a seller of boots and shoes named Jacob Foskett in Mossford itself. Mr Foskett’s son had called at the office and paid the amount in cash. Apparently, through some oversight, the account was sent to him again, with the result that Mr Foskett himself came to the office the following morning in a very bad temper. He was ushered into Mr Mumford’s office.

Mr Mumford did his best to placate the angry customer and sent for Mr Rathbone, who was temporarily in charge of the cashier's office. Mary Donovan herself took the message. “It's old Jacob Foskett,” she explained to Rathbone. “He’s tearing mad. You’ve sent his account again for seventeen pounds fifteen shillings which he says he’s paid.”

Rathbone consulted the ledger. “He hasn’t,” he said. “Mr Mumford wants you, anyway,” she said. “He’s got the receipt with him.”

“Anyway, there’s the ledger opening.” ./ “Now, what’s all this about Rathbone?” Mr Mumford demanded. “Mr Foskett is naturally very annoyed.” “May I see the receipt? That seems in order . . .” he said doubtfully. “Mr Ferguson apparently received the money,' ’he added, looking at Mr Mumford meaningly. “There’s evidently some mistake,” Mr Mumford picked up the phone and rang though to the cashier’s department: “Do you mind stepping up here. Mr Ferguson?” And a minute later Ferguson came in. Many Donovan from her desk at the far side of the room was watching him. ■ She noticed the change that came over his face and he glanced at the receipt, and was greatly relieved to hear him say, “Yes, I remember it perfectly. A young man . . .” “That’s him,” said Jacob Foskett. “He came in during the lunch hour. I had stayed on.” “But it isn’t entered in the ledger,” Rathbone pointed out. “There’s evidently some mistake," admitted Ferguson. He was clearly nervous. “What . . what happened?” Mr Mumford asked. “The bill was handed over in the usual way to Mr Jones when he came in.” “I’m very sorry, Mr Foskett, that you should have been occasioned this annoyance.” said Mr Mumford. “Please accept my personal apology.” “I don’t want to cause any trouble.” Foskett began. “It's evidently some slip.” The momentary look of fear Mary Donovan had noticed in Ferguson had left him. He was quite calm and when Foskett had left the office he said: "It’s obvious what has happened. It appears in the receipt book and I’ve no doubt it was duly paid into the bank. But it wasn’t written off in the ledger.” This turned out to be the case, but the flash of fear Mary Donovan had noticed in him worried her. An ordinary clerk, conscious that the worst that could have happened was a mistake that could be rectified, would not have been nervous. Mr Mumford was in the cashier's department for some time and when he came back he said to Mary: “It’s not the first time it’s happened. Ferguson has suggested a way of avoiding it in future. Good chap, that." But Mary Donovan was thinking of the momentary fear she had seen in Ferguson’s face. She couldn’t understand it and she was a young woman who liked to understand things. As it fell out they met on the steps as they left the office that evening and walked along together to the corner of Market Street and London Road, where she usually caught a bus.

“That business of Foskett's account seemed to upset you." she said.

“For a moment. I remembered taking the money, but I didn’t remember anything else about it. I simply handed the whole thing over to Jones when he came in. But I don't like queries about money.” She nodded. "Isn't it a lovely evening?" she said. “Yes.” "I was going to the pictures this evening, although it seems a sin to be indoors," she said. "It's rather a wonderful film." “I've heard a 10l about it: I should rather like to see it. too." “It's on at eight-fifteen," she said casually. “Then I may be there.” he said. “Here's my bus!” she said. “Cheerio! I may see you this evening." (To be Continued).