"SECOND CHANCE"

Wairarapa Times-Age, 7 September 1940, Page 10

"SECOND CHANCE"

BY

HOLLOWAY HORN

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

CHAPTER VII

J (Continued!. “I believe he's told you about those i emeralds,” he said, and a cunning look ■ made the expression of his face even ■ more rat-like. “Then believe it.” she retorted. He crossed to her and grasped her wrist. “Did he?” he snarled. ; “Let go! You brute!” she cried. , “Did he tell you?” he insisted. “No. I told you he didn't. He does- • n't know!" “He does . . blast him!" he said as he turned away from her. “He made me feel . . oh . . contempi tible!” she cried. “What d’you mean?-” “Mean, horrible! He’s worth a hun- ' dred of you!” "This is a different story,” he said. . and once again that cunning lock was > in his eyes. “Clear out!" she said. “If you want Ime to go on at all tonight.” / “Course I want you to go on,” he said, in a different tone. "Anyway, I'm through with you.” she retorted. “We’ve heard that tale before,” he said with a grin. “This time I mean it," she said, quietly. "At the end of the run we go different ways." “Look here; what's been happening tonight? You were okay when you went away from here,” he asked ani xiously. “No. I wasn’t. But lam now.” “Something's happened tonight,” he said, and his bead-like eyes were on hers. "Yes. Something did,” she said. “But you wouldn't understand it if I told you. So I shan't tell you." “You’re double-crossing me? Like you did him?” “No. But you leave him alone or I will.” There was an ugly look on his face. “There are two who can play that game,” he said. “If you don’t leave him alone.’’ she said calmly, “I’ll go to the Yard and tell everything I know.” "Who wants to touch him? I don’t,” i he said. "And you’d better not!” She turned to the mirror in front of her and in silence '-e left her dressing room. Eut it was perhaps as well for her peace of mind that she could not see the look of his face as he went along the corridor to his own room. CHAPTER IX. Rats are difficult animals to cope with. Cornered even a rat will show fight, but they like to work in the darkness; it is equally true of human rats. Teddy Wilson was in a coiner. He was convinced that Ferguson had the secret cf the emeralds that would put him in Easy Street, but he also felt that Ferguson and the secret were alike escaping him. He knew that it would be exceedingly unwise to attempt to approach Ferguson again in Mossford —Garrod had made that clear and he dare not risk an open break with the police. But rats are cunning animals. Since his wife had seen Ferguson her attitude to him had been uncompromisingly hostile, and for this he naturally blamed Ferguson. He thought out his plan carefully. In the neighbourhood of Trevowe's office and stores there are various establishments into which a man may slip for a “quick one" during the lunch hour, or even, particularly on Friday evenings, on the way home. One has not a word to say against these hostelries, nor against a man slipping into them for a quick one if he wishes to. But they provided Teddy Wilson with just the opportunity he wanted. He was adept at getting into conversation with people he met in such places, and his job was easy; he wasn’t selling anything but giving it away. "So you’re at Trevowes'?” he said to two of the men he had met. “That’s very interesting. Have another?" They would. • “I know a fellow who has joined the firm—a month or so ago. Goes under the name of Ferguson.” Ears were pricked up. "Not a bad sort of chap," the rat went on. "And many a good man has seen the inside of a gaol besides him.” ' “Do you mean he’s been in prison?” they asked incredulously. “Three years. Emezzlement. His name’s Ferguson Hallett, as a matter • of fact. Don't let it go any further, of course. 'Wouldn’t do him any good and 1 he’s probably running straight now. Well. I must be getting on. Cheerio!” ' And with that he sauntered out to another house of refreshment and scattered further evil seed. “I wonder if it’s true?” one of the men asked in almost a.i awed tone. ' when he had gone. 1 "He seemed to know all about it. Come to speak of it. I remember May- 1 nard talking about this chap Ferguson. He came down from London. A pal of ' William Trevowe's.” ' “I did hear that Wiliam Trevowe ! sent him. Just fancy! A gaol-bird. And in Trevowe’s too! Hallett, he said , his real name was," Poison, subtle and deadly. • ' Half-a-dozen seeds dropped almost at random and no one could hazard what 1 the crop would be. “Heard a queer yarn from a chap ' I met in the Three Pigeons,” someone would say that evening where two or three were gathered together. "About ' that chap Ferguson in the Sales Department. He always seemed a queer sort of bird to me.” “And so on. With many "Would you ' believe it’s." and just as many “Better not say anything' about it's," the news’ 1 spread in a widening circle, and, natur- 1 ally, did not lose in the telling. • But on the Sunday Ferguson was mercifully unconscious of the sublet'- ' ranean influences at work. He walked

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through the wood to the Mill and beyond the church at the end of the valley to the main road. Half a mile along this was a field path which led to another small village and thence, completing a wide detour, he could return to Moss ford. It was a lovely walk and he reached Number Five pleasantly tired. Mrs Gaddesden went to the chapel of her choice in the evening and Ferguson was alone in the silent house. He had an excellent book but the printed page, that evening, failed to hold him. His thoughts wandered, although it was a good book. Lucia Desmund. Had she been serious as she talked to him hr that room? He doubted it. knowing her. She wasn’t consciously lying, but she was one of those people who can adopt a pose, give it every semblance of reality. She probably believed in it herself for the time being—but it remained a pose. In any case she belonged to the past to the past that was dead. He looked round the little room. There were a hundred personal ■ things which made it his own —his home. Again he had the feeling that lit was an anchorage—that, outside, the , sea was rough, perhaps dangerously | rough. ; j There were the books he was gradually gathering, his pipes, a tobacco jar which Mrs Gaddesden had given to him. A humble place, but he was grateful that it was a home. A smile touched hs lips for a moment as he remembered the tumultous I ambitions of other days. All he asked of life, now. was to be allowed to live in peace. That of course, is what the great majority of humanity really want, whatever their religion—or race. Sunday evening. Teddy Wilson came into.his thoughts. It was curious, he realised, how the emeralds had disappeared. He recalled Wilson’s argument, which certainly seemed to prove that he must have had them and vainly sought to find the flaw in it. Flaw there must be, since he had not taken them that night—or any night. Berkhamstead Common and Watford, where. Slim Bailey had fallen foul of the police, were nine or ten miles apart. Twenty minutes in Slim’s car, perhaps. He gave it up and to banish Wilson from his consciousness thought of Mary Donovan. She had revived his faith in mankind. Supposing she knew, what would her attitude be?” She would understand, he felt certain. But would she? Would anyone? Was it-fair to expect her to? A smile, this time tinged with bitterness, touched his lips. He was a gaolbird! An ex-convict. A ticket-of-leavc man. Should he tell her? it would be the decent loyal thing to do. Garod, of course, knew, but the police were careful to respect a man’s secret. Their instructions were strict; they dare not, even if they wished, give him away. But he realised that sooner or later it might come out, that it would be better for it to come from his lips than a possibly garbled version from another’s. Wilson had probably left the town—they travelled on Sunday—out Ferguson had known hundreds of people in the old days and was bound to run across some of them. It was far better to tell her himself than to let her hear it from another. He could tell her the whole truth and not merely the bald fact that he had been in prison. So his thoughts ran on until he heard Mrs Gaddesden’s key in the outer door. He was glad; the utter loneliness of the house was getting on his nerves I that evening; it was not good, always, to be alone. She chatted of the sermon and the young pastor who had preached it as she trotted in and out with his supper. On the Monday morning, he walked to his work with a cheerful feeling of freedom. Sternberg must have left the town. He passed Inspector Garrod. who glanced at him and nodded in quite a friendly manner. A good fellow. Garrod. As he went up the stairs to the office, he passed a group of men at the top who were laughing as if at some joke among themselves. He had come into contact with most of them at one time or another. "Good-morning," he said, and passed on. They looked at each other, no longer laughing, and a little shame-facedly went on to their different rooms. Ferguson noticed several odd thing's during the day. but he attached no importance to them. After all. Monday morning is never the most cheerful day of the working week, but Maynard, for example, seemed very short in his manner and of late, he had been one of the friendliest men in the office. And several times during the morning Ferguson surprised people watching him. He would look up from the book 1 he was working only to meet waiting eyes. It was the same in the afternoon, but he put it down to imagination. Eut. it was a very unsatisfactory day’s work. Things did not go with their usual smoothness; people with whom he had to. work had apparently developed sharp corners over the weekend. Particularly Maynard. ■ During the afternoon, Ferguson came 1 on an error in a matter of commission j due to one of the travellers, and drew ] the head clerk's attention to it. It was, in origin. Maynard’s own mistake, and normal conditions lie would have been ' grateful to Ferguson for spoiling it. “Yes,” he said shortly. “It’s a mistake.” (To be Continued).