THE SILENT WIFE!

Digger (Invercargill RSA), Issue 36, 19 November 1920, Page 2

THE SILENT WIFE!

By MARK ENGLISH.

A

THE FIRST PART. Doris Thobury, the sister of the childrens's ward, was telling the little ones stories, when the door opened and the matron and Dr Weston came in. Doris s cheekg took a deep tint, for she loved the kindly, grave-faced young doctor deeply As the doctor went his rounds, she held each little patient's hand, for the pain never seemed so bad when Sister Doris was near, and when all the patients nad been examined her duty for the day was As she was going out of the Cottage Hospital gate, Paul Weston overtook her. "May I accompany you?" he asked, and she smiled and nodded. They spoke of many things, and at last when they liad reached a inore gecluded spot the doctor seized her hand. "Miss Thobury," he said, "I love you — I love you with all my heart and soui. Will you be my wife?" She looked at nim steadfastly as she answered "Yes.' It was some time Hater when they parted, and when they did so Doris was the happiest girl in the world. The next morning she received a telegram : "Come home ijnmediately," it ran. "You are wanted at once." And a little . later she was speeding towards hef home. At the very moment she was answering Paul Weston on the previous night, an interview was going on which was to alter her whole life. "Those are my terms; take them or leave them. Accept them and I pull you through; refuse and you are ruined!" The speaker, Roger, Armer, was a strong, hard man ; he was Walter Thobury's manager, and the man he faced as he uttered those wcrds was Walter Thobury himself, Doris's father was a failure ; he was weak and lazy, and as he faced his manager he loolced frightened. His uncle had died and left him the huge business of i Thobury and Co. But he did not trouble himself about the business; he left it all in the hands of Roger Armer. And now he found that he was on the brink of ruin, and only Armer could pull him through, and that he would only do so on one eondition, and that was that he should marry Doris. And in his weakness and fear of ruin the- crushed man agreed — actually agreed to sacrffice his daughter to save himself. When he told Doris she was horrified. "Father," she cried, "you are not in earnest. Marry Mr Armer? I couldn't. You can't mean it." At last she cast aside all her hopes for the future and promised. That evening she wrote a short note to Paul Weston teTing him she had changed her mind and could never be his wife. Her engagement to Armer was announced, and eventually Doris Thobury becarne Doris Armer. She found hpr husband domineeHng, and determined to break her proud spirit. She discovered, too, that she had been won by a trick, for her father's business had never been anythin.g but perfectly solvent. Doris invites Paul Weston, the young doctor to whom she had been engaged, to dinner When he comes, Roger insults him in front of the other guests, and orders him from the house. In sudden anger, Doris tells him she will never open her Tipa to him again. At last finding his threats of no avail, and that she nas become a "silent wife," he takes her to a house in the middle of a lonely wood, and leaves her there in the charge of a nurse, whom he tells she is mad. When Doris is thinking over her terriBle situation in her room a sliding panel opena and a man appears, who helps her to escape from her prison and conductg her to a waiting car. Then he gives her a drink, which causes Doris to fall asleep.

A DEN OF THIEVES. "Where am I? What has haippened?^ These were Doris Armer* s first conscious thoughts on waking from her drugged sleep. For a few moments she gave herself up to the delicious sensation warmth and drowsinesg induces. Everything was very silent. The room in which she lay was. in darkness, except for a smouldering fire in the grate. By this dim light Doris got an idea of tne room she was in. Presently she discovered she was not lying in a bed, as she had at first believed herself to be. She reclined upon an enormous divan heaped with silken cushions. She was fully dressed, and over her was.spread a gumpptuous coverlet of softest down. It was all very comfortable, the girl thought, as she watched the firelight flickering on pale-tinted walls, on which a few good pictures were hung. Gradually Doris's mind became normal. Her last recollection, of being driven through the night in a car, came before her with startling foree. It was certainly strange that she had fallen 'asleep as soundly as she must have done, seeing she remembered nothing since the stranger beside her had made her drink from his flask. What extraordinarily strohg brandy it must have been ! The unknown had told her it was tne very best, but she had only taken a sip or two And then, swiftly, came a sensation that set her heart beating, and sent her leaping from her couch. A strange dizziness over. came her. Her head swam, the iloor seemed to be rising up to meet her. "The stuff must have been urugged!" she thought, a pang of fear uarting through her every nerve. "I must discover in whose house I am." She listened intently. To her ears there came an occasional rumble. She must be in some town ; the soundg she heard were not those of the couirtry. She crawled over to the fireplace, and stirred the emoers into a blaze, The watch on her Wrist was still going. Tlie hands pointed * to tliree. She ran her hand round the walls, in search of an electric switch. Presently she touched one. She turned it, but with no result. The' electric burrent must have been cut off ! By the light of the dancing flame she was able to grope her way to the door, softly she turned the handle, but it would not open, Somehow, Doris was not in the least surprised to find the door locked. She bven smiled a little. It seemed to be her luck to exchange one prison for another! The .faint, dizzy sensation had nearly gone. She gat down on the edge of the divan to consider what she had better do. Only three o'clock ! It would be hours before anypne in the" house would be , stirring. She peered into the shauows. A pair of heavy curtains' hung acrors what was probably the window. How foolish of her not to think of the window. Shevrose, stumbled over a footstool, but at length reached the curtains. Very cautiously she drew them back. Some instinct warned. her to make no noise. Whoever had placed her on the divan no doubt thought she was still sleeping. The window was a casement, opening out on each side. Doris raised the latch. To her intense delight it gave instantly to her tonch. Noiselessly she flung it open, and inhaled a. draught of pure night air. vn, what worlds of good it did the girl, whose brain had heen numbed hy one of the most powerful narcotics known t6 science. She leaned out over the narrow balcony, breathing her fill, and soon the "last mist had cleared from her brain. Doris Armer was extraordinarily strong and healthy. She had an enviable capacity for throwing off ailments, mental or pnysical, quicker than most people.

Looking down, she saw she was in a street, one of those ordinary respectablelooking streets of which there are miles and miles in London. ^ From the distance there came the rumble of a train ; the hoot of a motor broke the stillness that falls upon the great city in the early hours. "I'U g0 out on the balcony, and see if I can discover any familiar landiharks," Doris decided. It was an easy though some what risay matter to step on to tke balcony, which was only protected by a very low iron parapet. Peering over this, Doris saw below ner a narrow stretch of leads. No oalcony ran along the lower floor of the honse. This struck Doris as being rather peculiar. "I believe this must be the back of the house," she thought, "although it's odd. that the back looks out upon the street!" Doris, had yet to discover many . odd i | things about the house to which the my1 sterious stranger had brought her in the dead of night. Suddenly, to her amazement, a streak of light shone across the strip of leads below. She heard a window open ; voices came distinctly to her ears. Breathless with excitement, the girl leaned as far over the parapet as she dared. • A man's voice was speaking. The words he uttered reached Doris distinctly. I "Are you sure she's safe? Oughtn't some one "to go up and have a look at her?" | A woman laughed. "No need at all. Philip knows what he's about. One sip of his eordial is enough to send anyone to sleep for twelve hours right away." "Well, I hope you're right," the man rejomed. "We can't afford to run any risks What do you say, Armer?" Doi'is's hand went to her heart. Armer ! Her husband here in this house, the very name of which she did not know. Her husband within hail of her ! Roger, from whom she had fled, had followed her here ! And then into her head .there came a swift resolution. They believed her to be upstairs, sleeping off the effects of the arug they had aaministered to her, So far, so good. She looked down, and measured the height from the balcony to the leads below, She was strong and athletie for a woman. As a child they had called ner a "tomboy." Climbing trees had been a favourite pastime. Catching firm hoid of the low iron para, pet, ghe swung herself over, and alighted safely on the leads beneath. She now saw : that from this an iron staircase woiind I down into a closed-in yard. I Crouching, she moved cautiously towards the window. The window was ajar, the two doors being fastened tcgether by a hook. . Doris wished she could have got a full view of the interior of the room ; but, as this was impossible, she had to be ccaitent with what she could see by peering round the open shutters. And what she saw might well have staggered a less dauntless woman than Doris Armer. The scene on which she gazed beggared description. The qcciipants of the room were three men and a woman, the iatter a haggard person who had once been beautiful, but on whose face the .signs of dissipation were all too clearly visible. In vone of the men, Doris at once recognised the stranger who had liberated her. The other two she knew only too well. Oue wag the ex-clerk, Henry. Barlow ; the other was her husband, Roger Armer ! Y es, though he sat with his back turned to her, she knew beyond doubt that it was her husband on whom she gazed. What wag he doing there ? What was the meaning of all the money they were busily counting, that heaped-up pile of jewels? This is worth more than a bit," she heard the man they called "Philip" say. To Doris's further amazement he held up her diamond tiara, Roger's birthday present to herself !

"You've got me to thank for ti , husband said. And then he t,, ' ' ^ round, and Doris got a good v^ profile. • oi bj ' How changed he was, she tho much older he looked ! How st ' ^ careworn his hxpression! that she was mistaken after al/ P°?sibl«l the man on whom she Wa, ' heart m her throat, was not ^ ■ She looked again at the handsT'' file. No ; she had made no misbT ^ i was Roger Armer! K Nearer to the window ghe ^ I j now every word reached her wittA',1®4- ' distinctness. Ul hldeons| In a few minutes shq realised wh . strange scene meant. The three the woman before her were crook^"3 was in a den of thieves ; and 0h t ^ of all horrors !-h?r husband, the ^ whom, she had respected in s'pite fv ' | sternness, was one of the leaders! Everything pointed to this Altho 1 they wrwgled and disputed cert,in | m the end they all b.wed t. decision. 1 1 | Presently Roger got up, stretched him. ' self, and yawned. The woman andJh, low began packing np the jewels in p^ej that might contain anything. * "These are old Blinkiron's wife's alds. There's a hall at the Mansioni House to-morrow night. Her hdyshij will have a fit when she discovers she's 1 been robbed!" They all laughed. Doris shrank with 1 horror. Lady Blinkiron ana her ha8. hand, a city magnate, had been their i guests on the night when she made her vow of silence. And all the tirne her husband had been ' leading a double life. Pussing in fhe city as a man of means, a financier of high \i repute, he had been all the time a thiei and a rogue! His deceit appalled her. 1 His treatment of ■ Henry Bsrlow hui > been. but a blind. He had pretended to hi/ -' disgusted with Barlow, while all the time he was working with himl Doris's one Thought wds to get avay-dB ge.t away and hide herself, so that never 4 in this world would Roger Armer find her^ again. L She decided that the myster/|| that surrounded the whole affair miirf » mhin one. She had neither the heart nor - the. desire to unravel it — at least, this wai what Doris thought iu her first hidwush^ awakenmg. Later on, it became the one end and J aim of her life to discover the secret ofi | Roger Armer's life. "I HAVE NO HOME NOF ANY- M WHEfih. Then Doris contempLted the immediate j future. It was impossible ior her to return- to the room above. Ihe drop : . down had been attended with difficnltyij to get back was out of the question, . | She wore no hat or coat ; but, forte J ately, at this early hour she was r.si i to meet anyone. Even the trains seenie 1 to have stopped running. . A movement inside the rt»m sen ^ crouching down into the shadows. , saw her husband ■standing besi e . woman, his arm flung f amihaidy her shoulder. His, voice reached her tinctIy*- , , n orda,"! "You'd better get off to ' he saicl. "We're going to break up J immediately." yj He dropped a careless kiss 0 hair. A stab of pain went through* ' silent watcher outside, ^ "False in every way!" aho hitterly. ' "False to me, worlu !• And to. think I am his J to a man like that!" ,J 1 However, this was no time to - | , her own sensations. She mn£ Se ^ before the gang of thieves m e a ment. The woman would P10 ® upstairs to see if she was sti a® _ ^ , finding her, she would natura y ^ j alarm. Doris shuddered at ® ^ j coming face to face with her huS ^ Down the twisted iron stairca

crept, and soon reached th© enclosed yard. A door opened out of it, but it was locked. The wall was rather high, but an lron hook aiforded foothold. Doris took advantage of this, and was soon on .the other side of the wall. Tha street was very quiet, Lvery house was close curtained. Doria Armer "stood a few seconds, taking stock of the house she liad left and lts surroundings ; and, as she looked, the light in the room upon-the leads went out. She flew, as one possessed, down the street, round the corner, nor did she pause until she had put a good mile hetween her. self and possihle pursuers. Once or twice in her mad career she fancied she heard ruttning footsteps, but this, possibly was imagination. At length her breath gave out, and she was forced to rest a while. She found herself in a dul] square, the name of which she could just decipher as Charlotte Square. What district of London she was in, Doris had not the faintest idea. Later on she iound the square was situated in Barnsbury, and was one of those old squares that have" seen better iays. The question she now had to decide was, where should she go? She had suffiei. ent money in her purse to keep her for a week or two. Opposite her was a house with a card in the window : "Bed-sitting room to let." She would walk about till the morning, and then become tenant of the apartment — that isa if the landlady would accept a lodger who brought neither luggage nor references. First, however, she must huy a hat. People were ast-ir early in this curiously dismal neighbourhood. Doris breakfastedat a coffee-stall, and bought herself a plain hlack hat at one of those odd shops that manage to exist no one knows how. Thus equipped, she returned to Charlotte Square, and rang the bell of No. 17. A frowsy-looking woman appeared, and in a marvellously short time Doris Armer found herself the tenant of the third floor front. / ■ : No questions were asked, so Doris was not obirged to invent a plausihle story. All tliat Mrs Dobbs required was a we.ek's rent in advance, and with this demand Doris instantly complied. Now, at any rate, she had. a roof over her head for a week, and during this time she could arrange her plans. The perils she had escaped had made lier cautious. As she sat gazing out into the dusty, sad-looking . square, with its stunted trees, beneath the branches of which gi'imy children played, her thoughts were very bitter. Should she go to her1 father, and tell him all that had happened? He had been mainly responsible for the havoc her marriage with Armer had made of her lii'e. She had no intention of returnmg to her old home. In fact, she was not. at | all certain that her father had not let it, I and was now living a bachelor's life at his cluh. All was chaos in her mind, and mystery. Why had the man called "Philip rescued her ? Was it sheer accident that had Drought him to the lonely house in the woods? Or was it all part of some deep plot, the meaning of which she could not even guess? After hours of thought, she at last oecided to see her father. Whether or not she Should tell him of her homble discovery, circumstances must decide. One point was clear. She must work for her living. Should she wrTle to Miss Dalty? She could go back to the quiet, little hospital any day. And tlien, suddenly, she recalled Paul Weston's offer of friendship. He would keep her secret. He would advise her what to do. He could get her work in a London hospital ; or, better still, he could ' procure private patients. And to this latter course the girl inclined, as being the better means of keeping her secret. For she could not give her husband away. Thief — despicable as he was in every way — he was still her husband. The wall of silenee that she had set up between them could now never he broken. Were she once to open her lips she did not know what the result might be. She could not trust herself. In this frame of mind, Doris arrived at her old home. How weli she remembered the day she left it for the last time! She saw herself a bride, her white robes and veil floating round her. She saw herself standing before the altar A sob-broke from her throat. She was still so young ! Long years of dreariness lay before her! Her hand was on the bell, when a voice she knew only too well struck upon her ears. The smoking-room window stood open. The voice that reached her was her husband's ! All thought of entering her old home vanished. She stood on the terrace, I'ooted to the spot. Her father's portly form resposed in the huge easy-

chair in which he spent so many idife hours. "No, my dear Armer, she isn't here. I think it was a bit ill-advised on your part to shut Doris up as a semi-lunatic. She's an extraordinarily high-spirited girl, anyhow. Of course, she couldn't stand the restraint, and bolted. She'll turn up, you may be certain. A silent wife, you say?" Walter Thobury laughed jovially. "By George, my boy, there's- many a feilow would be glad if his wife became silent! What do I advise you to do? Vvait and see!" He laughed again. "And if you won't do that, set a detective on. But I say, Armer, don't do anythiog to create a scandal! You see, I'm going to be married again; to the wealthy wmi nv — Alrs Storrington. It would annoy her terriby to haye any nasty gossip. You understand, I'm sure, Roger." "Oh, yes, I understand! You don't- tare what happens to your only'""chikl ,,so long as you live softly. But I carei I love my wife, and I shall never rest until siie is mine Once more. And, understa.tl, I shall take every ste-p possible to hnd out, without any regard for either your or Mrs Storrington's feelings. Good-aight!' Roger Armer stepped over the sill. He brushed past the shrubs hehini which Doris shrank. She had only to hokl out her hand, and she could toujh him But instead of doing this she clenched her hands firmly, and her 'niinc! uttered words her lips dared not speak. "Hypoerite! Cruel, mean hypocrite! To say you love me — that you want me! You shall never find me, Roger Armer!" Eor an hour she remained wheye sh,e was. Nor did she stir till a ear rolled up to the door, out of which stepped an over-dressed florid woman, accompanied by another of the same type. She saw her father advance, and. kiss the stouter. of the two. "Welcome, my. dear, to your future home," Walter Thobury said. Doris turned away. This was Mrs Storrington ! "Ther.e is no home any where for me!" Doris sobbed brokenly. "I'VE BURNED BY BOATS BEHIND ME." | Two days later, Doris Armer entered a tea-shop in the West End. It was a very quiet little place, where she was not likely to encounter any oi the smart folk.s she had entertained so lavishly in her old home. She had written to .Paul Weston, and asked him to mee-t her here at four o'clock. Punctually, on the. stroke of the hour, Paul " appeared. He held out his hand, his eyes fixed on the face of the girl he had loved so well. He was horrified at the change a few months had made in Doris Armer. "You sent for me. I am here." That was all he said, but Doris knew that at any rate one loyal friend was left to her. He sat down in a cosy corner, partially screened from the rest of the room, and ordered a dainty tea. Ths girl's face was white and pinched. She looked half starved, and, indeed, though not perhaps quite that, Doris had often gone short of food. Paul Weston's heart ached for this victim of an ill-assorted marriage. "Paul," Doris said presently, "I can't tell you all that has happened to me. You won't mind if I withhold some portions of a very sad and strange story?" He'shook his head. "I only want to hear anything you would ca-re to tell me," he said simply. "I heard — " He hesitated. "People will talk you know — that your husband had sent you away for your health." A bitter smile curved 'the perfect lips. "Is that what they say?" "Yes." Doris paused. How much should she tell this old friend? How much dare she tell without exposing her husbatnd'fS ' cruelty and hypocrisy. "He took me away because he said I was mad! He shut me up!" She shudder.. ed. Paul Weston's face grew dark. HTs lips set in a stern line. "He did that?" he muttered, below his breath. "He dared do that to you?" "Yes. But," Doris hurried on, "you see, I brought it on myself." "You. How?" "By keeping my vow of sile-nce. He swore that he would make me speak. I resolved that nothing should make m,e break my vow." There wa£ a low, passionate note in the sweet voice that made Weston look closely at her. Was it possible that she had grown to care for a man who had treated her so brutally? "I escaped," she said abruptly. "And 1 am here." "How did you escape? It is a difficult matter to escape from a prfvate asylum." (Continued on page 4.)

The Silerst Wife. ( Continued f rom page 3. ) His face flushed. "And you, sane ! You — you " Ho clenched his hands. Then Doris told him of the lonely hou.se in the woods — how it was not an asylum, how she was a prisoner there, attended by a mental nurse. "I am sure Nurse Merton believed me insane," she said ; and then, very gently, she laid her hand on Paul's. "Don't ask me how I escaped," she said. "That is one of the things I may not tell. Neither can I tell you what has happened to me sincel escaped. It would be harmful to Roger !" "You think kindly of him still ! In spite oi all, you care?" Never, to the end of his life, did Paul Weston forget the leok Doris Armer gave him. Grave and y-et full of pain was that exquisite face. "There are reasons," she said gently. "He is my husband. Nothing can alter that. There is one thing I think I may tell you. Roger Armer is not what he seeins. He may one day be in danger; and if that day should come it would be my duty to warn him. On that day my lips would be unsealed. and I shall break my vow of silence." All that she said deepened, as far as Dr. Weston was concerned, the mysteiy surrounding Doris Armer's wedded life. He could not forget — never forget — that he had been the innocent cause of widening the breacii between the unhappy couple. Had he not appeared on that fateful night at Westways court, Doris's vow would never have been uttered. 'And now," said Doris, in brighter tone, "I want you to help me. Will you?" "You know I will." "You see," the girl went on, "I have no money. I cannot afford to stay, even in the cheap room I am now in. Can you get me some niirsing to do?" "In a hospital? Of course I can." Doris shook her head. "Too public. I don't want to be found. I am never going back to — to Westways. I have burned my boats behind me. Doris Armer disappears. Couldn't Nurse Angela take her place?" The ghost of her old smile played on the girlish face. She looked once more like the sunny-faced young nurse of the Cottage Ilospital days. "A private case," she said. "Can't you think of one for me?" Paul Weston thought a moment, then he said : "I believe I have one that would just suit you. The only drawback is that the house you would nurse in is situated not 10 miles from Westways Court." "Would that matter?" There was a curious expression in Doris'g voice, not lost on Dr. Weston. "I need not leave the grounds. Ten miles is as good as a hundred." "True," agreed Weston. "Tell me of the case." "It is a young girl, the daughter of a millionaire. From her babyhood Helen Farr has been spoilt. The result is that she is full of hysteria." "Then," smiled Doris, her old professional interest aroused, "there is nothing really the matter with Miss Farr?" "I won't say that," Said Dr. Weston. "There is spinal trouble, out of which she will probably grow in time. Vv7ould you care to take the case on? You will hnd Miss Helena an extremely trying patient." "All the better," replied Doris. "It will keep me from dwelling on my own troubles." "Then that's settled," Paul Weston said. "Can you go down to Fairwell Manor to-morrow? Mr Farr is a widower. He has left everything in my hands. A new house -keep er is going down to-day. Miss Helena did not like the last one." "Certainly I can go to-morrow," said Doris. "Paul, how can I ever thank you?" He looked at her. "There is no need for thauks hetween you and me, Doris," he said simply. They settled all details, and Paul looked up the trains. Doris would reach Fairwell Manor about eight o'cloek on the following evening. As .soon as sh.e had parted from Paul, Doris took her engagement ring to a pawnbroker's establishment. It was the first time she had ever entered such a place, and it required a great deal of moral courage to do so. When she came out she had a substantial sum in hand. "I will remove my wedding ring," she decided. "Some day " She broke oit, and sighed. "But, no — that's impossible now !" She hastened to a store famous for nurse's uAiforms, and soon she was equipped as of old. She looked at herself in the mottled glass in her squalid room in Charlotte Square, and smiled. "The old life is done with. The new life has begun!"

But she was wrong. There was one more scene to be enacted before the old liie, as Doris, was completely closed. Fate was going to play into her hands in a most unexpected way. Doris had decided to spetid the last night in London at an hotel. There was something depressing in Charlotte Square, and she sighed for something livelier. On the doorstep she encountered a girl— a miserable, unhappy-looking creature, who was tired of trying to live. "She turned me out!" the girl soDhed. "And 1've not the price o' a doss down. I'm hungry and I'm cold!" "Take these clothes. And here's five shillings. Get a room, and don't despair.' Doris had made her discarded garments into a bundle. She had intended giving them to the first beggar she met. She was glad this girl should have them. She was about her own age. "Heaven bless you!" the girl sobbed. "If you only knew!" And then, before Doris could question her further, she disappeared into the darkness, the bundle in her hand. Little did Doris guess how this incident linked her life with that of this girl, whose very name she did not know. As she sat in the quiet coffee-room of a small hotel, eating the first substantial meal she had had for over a week, the waiter brought her an 'Evening News. "Care to see this, inadam?" "Thank you very much, I should." Idly she opened the pages. A heavy head-line attracted her attention at once. FIVE HUNDRED POUNDS nliWARD. MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEA RAN C H OF GREAT FINANCIER'S WIFE. Tue Beautiful Mrs Roger Armer Missing ! Below was a garbled account of Doris's so-called "disappearance." "Mrs Armer had been in indifferent health for some time, and her medical man reeommended a rest cure. Mr Armer had himselx conweyed his wife to the nurSing home. Two days later Mrs' Armer disappeared, nor has she been heard of since." This, in brief, was the report published in the paper. But this was not all. Doris found herself -gazing at her own portranl "Portrait of ihe missing Mrs Armer." "How could he? How dare he? " she choked Feverishly she scanned the paper. Again the name of Armer met her horrified eys. "MR ARMER'S MANSION ROBBED ! "DIAM0ND TIARA STOLEN, T0GETHER WITH SEVERAL OTHER VALUABLE PIECES OF JEWELLERY. "The gang of thieves for which the police are seeking have been busy again. In addition to the robbery at Westways Court, the town residence of Sir Joshua Blinkiron was entered whilst the family were at dinner. "Lady Blinkiron's famous emeralds have all been stolen." Doris sat like a statute, the paper elutched in her hand. She looked up, and saw the ey,es of the waiter; who had handed her the "Evening News," ftxed furtively upon her. Does the waiter connect Doris with "the beautiful missing Mrs Armer?" Has he recognised her by the published photograph? If so, what will happen to Doris? Next week these questions will be answered in another thrilling instalment.