United States or Monaco ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
At noon on the day following the dinner at Hill Street, Walter Fetherston known at Idsworth as Mr. Maltwood alighted from the station fly, and was met at the cottage gate by the smiling, pleasant-faced woman in a clean apron who acted as caretaker.
But I am getting old, and, moreover, I'm a confirmed bachelor, therefore you cannot, I think, accuse me of such ulterior motives. No, I only point out this peril for your family's sake and your own." "Is Mr. Fetherston such an evil genius, then?" she asked. "The world knows him as a writer of strictly moral, if exciting, books." "The books are one thing the man himself another.
"I got it early this morning," was her reply, her cheeks flushing with pleasure; "but I was unable to get away before my father and Blanche went out. They pressed me to go with them, so I had to plead a headache." "I am so glad we've met," Fetherston said. "I have been here in the vicinity for days, yet I feared to come near you lest your father should recognise me."
Time after time the range was increased, until, at last, the shells were dropped just at the spot intended. As each left the gun it shrieked overhead, while the flash could be seen long before the report reached the ear. "We'll see in a few moments how quickly they can get away," the general said, as he approached Fetherston. Then the order was given to cease fire.
That man was Walter Fetherston! Walter alone knew the ghastly circumstances, and it was he who had been working to save the old soldier from himself. He did so for two reasons first, because he was fond of the bluff, fearless old fellow, and, secondly, because he had been attracted by Enid, and intended to rescue her from the evil thraldom of Weirmarsh.
We knew that he maintained but few keepers, and that those were not very vigilant. He also, we believed, was away from the country, so that we had no fears of being detected. I said that my father had few enemies. For some reason or other, however, Lord Fetherston was one.
Those inquiries, instituted by Scotland Yard, had resulted in exactly the same theory as his own independent efforts that Harry Bellairs had been secretly done to death by the woman, who, upon her own admission to him, had been summoned to the young officer's side. IT was news to Fetherston that Bellairs had dined at his club on that fateful night. He had believed that Enid had dined with him.
He put that question to himself a thousand times. And for the thousandth time was he compelled to answer in the affirmative. "By which route do you intend travelling to Italy to-morrow?" he asked. "By Paris and Modane. We go first for a week to Nervi, on the coast beyond Genoa," was her reply. Fetherston paused.
Surely Bellairs had not died by Enid's hand! IT was in the early days of January damp and foggy in England. Walter Fetherston sat idling on the terrasse of the Café de Paris in Monte Carlo sipping a "mazagran," basking in the afternoon sunshine, and listening to the music of the Rumanian Orchestra.
In one of the bare bedrooms upstairs Fetherston had, in examining one of the well made hand-presses set up there, found beside it a number of one-pound Treasury notes. In curiosity he took one up, and found it to be in an unfinished state. It was printed in green, without the brown colouring. Yet it was perfect as regards the paper and printing even to its black serial number.
Word Of The Day