Evening Star Newspaper, December 16, 1927, Page 50

The cAmazing Chance By Patricia Copyright. 1927, by Prothero married Jim Laydon in_the war. Her friends say that was in love with Jim's cousin, best man at the idn't_look any were reporied missing in the same r_engagement. Evelyn donned widow's ceds. but there was always the question whispered among her friends of which it wras she mourn er husband. Jim, or his cousin. Jack. ~ The two boys had grown up together and as lads were in- | separab’e and very much alike, Now. 10 wears later. with never a word from’the fime they iwere first missing. one of them durns up. - But which one? 7t came about like thix: Maj. Man- ning_an offiver who staved in the Brit- ik service after the war, driving along on a dark night. needs help (o remove a atorm-telled tree from the road and ob- | 1ains it from-aspeasant’s hut in the per son of Anton Blum, a derelict from the war. who has heen cared for by his aunt. Anwa Brum. - He is dumb. but exceeding: iy sirong physically and’ readily moves the obstruction. but in doing so is knocked senseless in the road., As he regains consciowsness his gage falls on ihe major's face, and he greets him sud- denly rwith a “Hullo. Monkey!" cailing aim by an old mickname known only 1o dis intimates. ' Startied inio wonderment. Maj i%an ‘Laydon. Found by Anna Blum wounded and with memory gone. he was vestored 1o physical healih. but it 100k the second accident to bring his mind k1o its ofd self—that is, ity old self in all but one respect. To all questions on “Which of the Laydons are you. Jim {7 o Jack?” e ansicers "onty I don't INSTALLMENT VIIL VELYN had no very clear idea of how she came into the hall. _(Continued from Yesterday's Star.) Her one overwhelming desire was to get away. She had neither part nor lot in what was happening in/ the library now. Neither the Abbotts’ indignant protest hor Sir Cotterell's triumphant relief concerned her at all. She wanted to get away. Manning found her already in her raincoat, cramming on a damp black “felt hat with shaking hands. He said, *Hullo, old girl—you off?"" She nodded, biting her lips. “Well, will you give me a lift? He'll stay here now; but I must get back | 1o town.” “I must get away—I'm through,” said Evelyn in a dry whisper. Manning gave her a little push to- ward the door. * “Got your car there? All right, g0 and get in. I won't be a moment.™ She turned, catching at him. “You won't let any one come. ‘What do you take me for? You go and get in. 1 must just let them know I'm off—that's all.” Evelyn went out to the car and put the hood down. She wanted to feel the rain and the wind. She had just buckled the last strap when Manning ran down the steps. “Shall I drive?” he said, coming round to her. “My dear girl, we'll et _sopped.” 1 don’t mind. Yes, you can drive.” “I simply hate getting wet,” said Monkey, He made his crossest face and took the wheel. The car was started. He took a Jook at Evelyn. - “Want to talk?” “No. After that they drove for 30 miles in a blessed silence while Evelyn let the tears come as they would and felt the rain drive cold against her burn- ing face. The rain had thinned to a drizzle and the gray day was dimming into dusk. when Manning said suddenly and : cheerfully: ! “There's a clean handkerchief in my : gont pocket on your side if you'd like He heard Eelyn's shaky laugh: | had closed down on them. a show! Wentworth J. B. Lippencott Co. A note of concern crossed the eager- fou're all right?” ot i “It ‘was boyish. ]"3\‘el,\'n hung up the receiver with a quick jerk. She could bear no more. ‘beastly for you this after- it belonged to her memories, and it played on them, calling up the hopes and joys and tender anticipations of ears ago. They were gone. they dead and buried, and the past It hurt most terribly to have them called into a mocking semblance of life again. When Laydon came into the flat next morning it seemed to him that he had stepped out of Winter into Spring. He shut the door on grayness and a tearing northeast wind, and stood looking into a room which sug- gested sunshine even when the sun was hidden. A small table had been pulled out into the middle of the floor, and stand- ing on it was a large wooden tray covered with bunches of Spring flow- ers—wood violets, primroses, Lent lilies and bright biue squills. ‘Evelyn stood just behind the table. She wore a green dress, and her hands were full of primroses. A< Laydon came forward she let the flowers fall, and gave him a pale smile and a cold, wet hand. It was rather lling—to look like Spring and be so cold to touch. we said Evelyn. *Aren’t these lovely She took up the primroses again and bent her face to them. ‘“Jessica sent me a great box of them this morning.” Laydon took the obvious opening: 'Who is Jessica?" Jessica Sunning. We share this flat. She's an artist; she has a studio just round the corner. We've been here six—no, seven years T think d like_Jessica. Sh visiting her people in Devonshire ju now, and when she’s there she always sends me heavenly flowe! Evelyn turned from him spoke, and went to the hearth. as she On the | white mantelshelf were half a dozen delicate china cups—turquoise blue, apple green, rose pink, primrose, blood red and lilac. She put primroses into the lilac_and violets into the turquoise cup. Then she came back to the table for more flowers. Laydon's eyes followed her. She picked up a bunch of squills, talking all the time: “Jessica has one real virtue—she al- ways ties up flowers as she picks the) I've cried over the flowers some people send one, mashed up and huddled together. Now Jessica never does that.” She put the squills into the apple- green cup and heard Laydon move be- hind her. “Won't you come and sit down?” he said. “I want to talk to you.” Evelyn settled the little blue flow- ers before she turned. She came slow- ly back to the table and stood there, looking down at the Lent lilies, but not touching them. “All right,” she said—*“talk.” “I don't know where to begin,” said Laydon, “except that I wanted to say how frightfully sorry 1 was about yesterday.” He came and sat down on the arm of the other.big chair, quite close to her. “My hat! What It was bad enough for me, but it must have been perfectly beast- 1y for you.” ‘With the most extraordinary sud- denness the relationship between them had changed. Constraint had gone. The need to save the situation was gone. Evelyn nodded and said: goodness it's over” “Thank “That's one thing—however beastly “Monkey, you are an angel!” *Yes, I know" am.” *You really are.” , “My dear, Lacy has me trained. If there’s & man in Europe, Asia, Africa or America who knows the exact mo- ment when a woman wants a clean t handkerchief better than I do Just you point. him out and I'll assas- sinate him quietly. As a matter of fact, I'm frightfully glad you didn’t bottle up and do the hard, stony wom- an all the way back to town.” “It's such a lovely large handker- chief,” said Evelyn. “I've got one—in fact, two, but—"" “No woman's handkerchief will stay the course of a real good cry. They're all right just to dab your eyes with ‘when you want to look pretty and pathetic, but when it comes to busi- neu"they‘re absolutely no earthly “‘Monkey, when do you go back?” said Evelyn presently. “Tomorrow, I expect; but I'm not absolutely sure. = Fact is—this is con- fidential, please—they're offering me a job at the war office. It's fixed up; but I'm going round there tomorrow, and then I'll be able to let you know for certain. T don't really expect I'll get away till next day,” “‘Monkey, who do you think he is?” His brow wrinkled sharply as he threw her a quick, upward glance. “Did you mean who, or which?” It was too dark for him to see her face, but her voice thrilled with im- patience. ““Monkey, don't fence! Tell me!” “I'm not fencing; I'm being cau- tious.” “Don’'t be cautious. 1 want the truth—what you really think.” “I think——" He paused for so Jong that her foot tapped on the pave- ment. “My dear girl, it's no good doing that. ‘I think—well, what is there to think?” “Do you think he's Jack or Jim?” “I think he’s one of them. And if you don’t know which one, well, how {n heaven's name do you expect me e ’ ““That's what you really think?"” “That’s what I really think.” Evelyn turned, went up the steps, and let herself into the house. It was about an hour later that the telephone bell. rang. Evelyn went into the dining room, shut the door, took up the receiver, and said, **Hullo! “Can 1 speak to Mrs. Laydon?” ‘The voice was a man’s voice, and Eve- lyn recognized it instantly. It was the voice which she had listened to in the library at Laydon Manor only that afternoon. It had sounded strangely to her there, without one kind, fa- miliar tone; but now some trick of the wires altered it, raising the pitch and bringing out a quality which set mem- ory_quivering. “Mrs. Laydon sneaking. Who is 1t?” She spoke with her hand pressed close against her cheek. There was a noticeable pause. Then the voice, the familiar voice, answer- ing her question with a single word: “Laydon.” Evelyn's hand pressed closer. Lay- don—yes, that what's he was, just a surname, just—Laydon. A grandson for Sir Cotterell, and an heir for Lay- don Manor—but for her, what? Hus- band—lover—friend—or nothing but an empty name? She held the re- ceiver to her ear and would not speak. ‘What had she got to say to a name? If there was anything behind the name, any one with a need that she could meet, the next move did not lie with her. She heard Laydon say anxiously “Are you there?” and she heard herself say “Yes" with a sort of mechanical case. Then Laydon: “1 want to come and see you.” She said “Yes" again. “I must see you. Tou'll let me? You went away so quickly.” ““When may I come?” “T don’t know.” She heard the voice rise a little, eagerly. “It's too late tonight, T suppose?” Yes.” You're sure?” “Yes.” *Tomorrow then?" Yo Y e R S — all glad when yesterda: things , you don’t have to go through them twice. I expect we were y was over. P him with a quick color bright in her face. Evelyn—but what are you? I mean, what am I to call you? ‘That's the first thing we have to set- tle. t am I to call you?” T thought”—his voice was ea and confidential—“I thought perhaps you'd call me Anthony. You. see, that's what I'm calling myself.” Evelyn said “Anthony” once or twice, frowning a little over it and hesitating, as if she did not find it easy to say. 'Why Anthony Laydon did not answer for a mo- ment. gestu ynthe re, “Yes, I'm Tone as well as words were The voice did not belong to Laydon; |k THE EVENING “You've talked to Monkey—I don't quite know how much you know.” He threw her a look that searched her face, and found it grave. “I've read Anna Blum's statement.” He looked away from her, down at the brown and orange of the carpet. It was like fallen leaves, like a drift of fallen leaves. He saw tl bare trees of a wintry forest, and the leuves that lay in drifts below. “‘Amazing, isn't it?" he said. He had forgotten that they were talking about his name, but she re- called him to it. “You were called Anton Blum. Is that why? Anton is Anthony, of e. 1 should have thought—" What? “Well, I shouldn't think yvou would want to be reminded—but I don't . T don't feel like that. There's no other name I can call myself, and somehow I seem used to it. After all, it you've been called by a name for 10 rs, I suppose you do get used yn leaned a little nearer and said rather breathlessly. “But do you remember at all? Don't talk about it if you'd rather not. Per- haps you'd better not talk about it.” “No, I don't mind. I think I'd like to—if you'll let me—if it dosn’t bore elyn shook her head “No, it doesn't bore me, in an odd, still volce. Then she smiled rather beautifully, and Laydon’s heart cried out in him. “I remember like one remembers a dream”—he wasn't looking at her now —*“You know how it is. You have a dream, and then you wake up and it's gone. You see all the everyday things and you get up, and there’s a fright. ful lot to do. And you don't think about the dream until something re- minds you. Perhaps it's some rotten little thing, and vou don't know why it reminds you: but it does, and all of a sudden you can look into your own mind and see the dream there, fright- fully clear and distinct.” His right hand opened and shut twice, sharply. “I'm making a most awful bungle of it; but I can’t put it any better.” “You mean when you first woke up—came to yourself—out there in Cologne, you didn't remember much about all the time you were Anton Blum: but now you do remember—is that what you mean?” “Yes, something like that. Not all the time. you know, but by fits and starts—if anything reminds me. Just now. for instance——" He paused, hesitated, and let the words come with a rush—"Just now I remembered the forest frightfully plainly. It was like seeing it—the leaves, you know— rather a jolly color. He broke off and looked at her. “You don’t think it sounds—mad?” Her eyes were very kind. “I think it sounds as if your mem- ory was coming back and—and steady- ing down. It will come back.” “I wonder,” said Anthony Laydon. The big chair slid back on its cas- he jumped up and went over STAR, WASHINGTON, to the window. He had known that it would be hard; but it was being harder than he had reckoned. It was bad enough to play the stranger, to watch her, pale and controlled, with a sheet of ice between them: but with the ice gone, and Evelyn just Evelyn, looking at him with lovely kindness, it wus unbearable. Thought, will and resolution melts in him and flowed out toward h He stood at the window, holding back a rush of words. If he could no longer hold his thought he could at least forbid it utterance. Only a fool would hazard everything now. Wait —wait as he had planned to wait. Give her time—give her time, you fool! Don't rush her. You've got 10 years to bridge somehow. He heard Evelyn's voice: “What is Anna Blum like? I won- dered =0 much when I read her state- ment, and 1 thought perhaps you could tell me. You remember her, 1 suppose?” He turned, leaning against the win- dow frame. “Anna—yes, I remember, of course.” He frowned. “It's pretty well all Anna, you know—just a long dream going on, and on, and Tante Anna al- ways there. She was frightfully good to me. That's a thing I've got to see about, you know. I've asked Monkey to find out. I mean, what she did for me must have leaked out by now, and I've got to make sure that she’s not suffering for it in any way. Monkey can find out quietly. She—it rather appals me to feel under such a terrific obligation. I don’t quite know what to do.” “You'll ind a way.” “Yes, 1 must.” There was a pause. Laydon didn't want a pause; the moment there was silence all those things he must not say clamored in him again. He spoke quickly, brusquely: “Don’t you want to know what hap- sened after you went away yester- Ay o es, of course. I had to go.” Her voice dropped a little, and her color changed. “What did happen?” “Oh, a scene with the Abbotts. My grandfather didn’t let 'em down any too gently, I'm afraid; and, after all, I bar Cotty; and my coming back like this is a bit rough on him, I must say. 1 think my grandfather'll have to do something about it—and I think he will, too. But just at present’—he laughed—*"just at present, I'm not at all sure that the feeling that he's scored off Cotty isn't stronger than the feeling that he's got one of us back.” “I can't stand the Abbotts,” said Evelyn, frankly. “But I'm sorry for them. If Sophy wasn't a cat, I'd be sorrier still,” “I thought she was an absolutely poisonous female. Where did Cotty pick her up?” Evelyn broke into a gurgle of ln!{:hter. he a h‘(,‘endipflolllmon o Your Winter Vacation will be more care-free if you make sure that your investments and other property interests are adequately safeguarded dur- ing your absence. Our Trust Department makes it easy. Our officers will be you the possibilities glad to discuss with of a temporary ar- rangement of this nature. 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Her eyes in her cheek. you! a Mendip-ffollinton. a title in the family.’ Laydon laughted too—laughed with his eyes as well as with his lips. “Are they proud of that?” “Frightfully. the Mendip-flollintons. Some day, you and Sophy are ever on speaking terms, she’ll explain to you just how I'm be- yond the pale altogether because I wear short skirts and shingle my hair. All the female Men- little vulgar it is to be a baronet. She wears a net. dipffollintons wear nets, and waists and bushy skirts—it's part the family tradition.” Laydon had stopped laughing. abruptly: “Wh: he met in her | o SOV ol O LA SOV EN OV 2ON UV O OV the STORE OPEN FROM 9 AM. TO 5.30 P.M. 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If he hesitated, it was only for a moment. “I had a long talk with him and Uncle Henry last night. I want to study up-to-date farming and estate ma ement. Jim was going to, you know; and I'm quite sure it's the only way to keep things going. Uncle Henry is awfully keen about it, but my grandfather—well, you know what he is—what most of the men of his generation are. There's a good deal of the ‘What was good enough for me and my father and all my great-grand- |(;|lhprs' ought to be good enough for His tone was so harshly bitter » Evelyn's heart contracted, And tht * 15 all at once, he was -ylns ll*htly “Have you got a tape-map? There's an address T want to 100k out—some one I've got to go and see.” When she had brought him the map he spread it on the floor, shifted the table, and bent over it, saying the two numbers over once or twice just under his breath. Evelyn watched the rough, clumsy hands with the broken nafls.” s she watched them, her heart full of pity and trouble, he looked up unexpectedly and broke intg a schoolboy grin: “Beastly, aren't they? he mjq cheerfully. Then he folded up the map and stood up. “Thanks awtujly —and thanks for letting me come, | must get along now."” e Evelyn put her hand in his, anq felt a dreadfully strong grip whicn suddenly relaxed. As he went out of it think he was quite right to do it at|this generation. Then they once.” She put the jug on the top of |off thelr cheats abmat Hrat o and the piano, and turning, leaned on the |the country going to the dogs. We keyboard. | talked him round, and he doesn’t real- | ‘*He's been awfully generous in|ly mind. I thought 1'd take a fort- |every way. T thought I'd like to tell | night or so to look round, and then He's opening an account for me | start in. I'm most horribly at sea er my present name, and, in fact, | vou know, about everything. 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