Evening Star Newspaper, September 29, 1935, Page 104

o] Magazine Section aren't charged with it yourself.” He spoke in a tone of friendly warning, and his air of un- concern was perfect. “Do you deny,” I asked harshly, “that you were in the library at Falcon Castle last night 2" “Certainly!" “And you've never seen this before?" | pulled the little bunch of keys from my pocket. “One of them happens to fit my grand- father's desk." “Very interesting,”” murmured Mr. Barnett, “but of course I know nothing about it." I got to my feet with a gasp of rage. **You're a liar, Mr. Barnett - and a scoundrel!"” “Scoundrel? A strong word, my dear Irvine.” The man's smiling indifference was mad- dening. “I know what your filthy game is!"” I burst out impetuously, beating on the table with my fist. “It’s money you're after — money! You know where Felix Swinburn's income came from. It's connected with Falcon Castle in some way, and you mean to tap the same vile source -— that's why you're so keen to rent the place!” “You've morgbrains than I gave you credit for," said Mr. Barnett admiringly. “And what's more,” 1 continued, ‘‘you used to be hand-in-glove with old Swinburn himself. You quarrelled, and he kicked you out. Dunstan was right when he said you've never set foot in Falcon Castle in the last twelve months -— and you'll never set foot in it again if I can stop you.” Mr. Barnett had risen carelessly, and he stood with the cigarette between his lips. In his eyes I could see an ironical smile, and 1 took a couple of strides nearer to him with my fists clenched. “I'd put my hands in my pockets if I were you.” he remarked genially. “My chauffeur’s a powerful fellow, and he's within call. He knows how to deal with hot-headed fools.” It was all I could do to restrain myself. “If you come near Falcon Castle again,” I almost shouted, ‘I promise you a damned hot reception.” Mr. Barnett flicked the ash of his cigarette into the fireplace. “I assure you, Mr. Irvine, I shan't trouble you again. I know a detter method than that. The charming Miss Para- dene will do everything I require. It may be against her will — but there!” He strolled towards the door and opened it. ‘‘Please tell her 1'd like to see her this afternoon. If she comes at three o'clock, it will suit me ad- mirably. I rather fancy she won't refuse.” On his lips there was a faint sneer. “‘Good- day, Mr. Alan Irvine. I thank you for so delightful a visit!" As I trudged slowly back through the snow to Falcon Castle, I wondered how much of Mr. Barnett's talk had been truth and how much falsehood. I had half a mind to continue along the hillside and go down to see my new friend Roxburgh at the Inn, but I decided to have a few quiet words with Lucille Paradene first. She did not appear at lunch, and Dunstan told me she had asked for a tray to be taken up to her room. It looked as if she were deliberately avoiding me; and after I had finished my solitary meal, I sent a message asking her to come down to the dining room. Roger Barnett’s insolent challenge had put a new complexion on the whole affair, and I re- proached myself bitterly for my hostile attitude towards her the day before. Indeed. I was ready to believe that Barnett’s remarks about her integrity were nothing more than a pack of lies. When she came downstairs, her cheeks were pale and her big dark eyes were shadowed. “Please sit down, Miss Paradene.’ I pushed an armchair towards the fire. ‘‘I want to talk to you about Mr. Barnett.” <'‘I'd rather stand if you don’t mind,” she replied coldly. ‘“What have you to say?” “I went over to see him this morning," I informed her. “I'm now quite satisfied that the man is a rogue — and a dangerous one. He practically admitted he’s here on some underhand affair connected with my late grandfather. Not to mince matters, he said you were here on the same game.”’ Lucille Paradene drew herself up. “And you believe him?" “I don't know what to believe,” I said dismally. “I told Roger Barnett I knew about your visit to him two nights ago.” “You knew!”” she cried. “Yes, and he swore you went to his house again last night.” The girl covered her face with her hands and dropped into a chair. “He said there was a good reason why THIS WEEK Etching by S. M. Litten Courtesy Kennedy & Co. Venice—No one can perfectly describe its charm "The Blind Man by ANDRE MAUROIS FEW weeks ago in a little English village a man, blind from birth, underwent an operation performed upon his eves. It proved suc- cessful. A newspaperman was sent to ask what his first impressions were. The man described his disappointment. “The world as I imagined it to be,’ he said, “was so much more beautiful than the one I have come to know. When they told me a woman was lovely, a man noble, I saw in my mind’s eve admirable human beings. Now I know that the loveliest faces have ugly, unkind moments. . . . Even nature herself has disappointed me.” At this very moment I am looking out upon a blue sky, swallows darting, chestnut trees in bloom. And I find that once-blind man veryv difhcult to please. For my own part, rarely have I been disappointed in sights to which I had looked forward with great pleasure. Before going to visit Venice, 1 had read innumerable books about it. Once there, I found the real city one hundred times more beautiful than the Venice of the poets and the artists. Neither Guardi nor Canaletto had caught her soft Italian coloring. Neither Byron nor Barres had perfectly described her charm. " Moreover, what is true of places is true also of works of art. We say: “Michelangelo . . . Donatello. I really know them very well already . . . I have seen so many reproductions of their paintings and their statues that even though 1 were to stand before the real work I doubt if 1 should have any shock of pleasure. . .."” Later we come upon the real David, the real St. George, and the shock is greater than we ever could have hoped for. I have often been told of the perfection of the performances which Bruno Walther directs at the Salzburg Festival. Recently I heard for the first time an opera of Mozart interpreted by an orchestra and choruses he had trained and inspired. The feeling of delight — even of intoxication — I experienced exceeded every happiness which the descriptions of my friends had promised. And if from the world of Art we pass to the world of Life, I feel myself in still greater disagreement with the blind man who was given his sight. By the time we have reached the age of sixteen we have heard love much discussed. We have read novels and sonnets. But if, at twenty-five or later, we have the good fortune to experience real love, we discover “that a beautiful face is the most beautiful of all sights, and the sweetest harmony the sound of the voice of her whom we love.” The truth is that reality is always different from what we expected; and that, just as the real Venice is more mysterious than that of the painters, real love is more complex than that described by Stendhal and by Proust. For the most accurate painting and the most precise analyst cannot even outline the infinite variety of the Real. Yet surprise is not deception — quite the contrary. The blind man was mistaken. Copyright, 1935, by Jacques Chambrun September 29, 1935 / vou didn't dare refuse,” 1 continued. “Is that true?” ™ “Yes," she whispered. ““Oh, he's an un- speakable brute. . I took a step forward. “Did he try to molest you in any way?" I asked quickly. My gorge was rising at the very thought, and to my reliel she shook her head. “For heaven's sake,” I burst out, “can’t you tell me the whole storv! Why did vou and Mr. Paul come to this place?” When she spoke. her voice was trembling. “To prevent Mr. Barnett from getting money as vour grandfather did. There - now you know! If you knew the whole truth, you'd be horrified. I daren't tell you - [ daren't!” I had a sudden flash of insight. “Had my grandfather any cause to be afraid of Roger Barnett?” ““They had a quarrel last year," replied Lucille. “Roger Barnett threatened to kill him. They've been enemies ever since.” o “Is that why old Mr. Swinburn lived here * like a hermit - scared to leave the house?" “I believe so," she assented. “‘And their quarrel was about money - - the money they'd been sharing! Am [ correct ? I know there's some mighty good reason why Roger Barnett wants to occupy Falcon, Castle!"” She drew in a long breath, and I saw I had _ come very near the truth. More than that, 1 dimly realized that my grandfather's intrigues and iniquities had been of a darker hue than I had imagined. But I was now convinced that it was not of her own free will that Lucille had been involved in them, and the thought that she was in the grip of a man like Barnett made me boil with anger. Indeed, I felt sure that it was largely her fear of him which pre- vented her from taking me fully into her con- fidence. Acting on a sudden impulse, 1 went over to the writing table and scribbled a note. After 1 had sealed it up in an envelope, l,..' rang the bell for Dunstan. “Please take this over to Falcon Lodge," I said to the servant when he appeared. “Don’t wait for an answer. As soon as you get back. I'd like you to do something else for me. Do you think you could find your way round the hillside to the Inn?" “I'll do my best, sir,”” said Dunstan. But [ could see he was doubtful, and I reminded him that there was a clear path through the SNOW. “You can't go wrong.” I said confidently, “Ask them at the Inn if there's any word ¥ the snowplow. I'm anxious for news about the roads.” “Very good, sir.”” Dunstan took the letter. and departed, and I turned to Lucille Para- dene with a smile. “1 wonder what our friend Barnett will reply,” I remarked. "He had the impertinence to say you were to go to his house at three o'clock this afternoon. He said you wouldn't.. dare disobey." I could not fail to see that Lucille's eyes had clouded with fear. *‘And what have vou replied?” 1 “I've told him to go to the devil,” I said cheerfully. “I've also assured him that vou intend to tell the police everything. That should make him sit up.” Lucille’s lips had gone white. and her fingers were tightly interlaced. “It's — it’s, almost like a challenge to him," she said slowly. “You shouldn’t have taken the risk.” “Of course it's a challenge! I meant it to be. Let him do what he likes. I'm ready for him. * That's why I sent Dunstan to the Inn. I'd have gone myself, but I don't want to leave vou here."” Lucille lay back with her eyes closed. She looked utterly tired out, and I felt desperately sorry for her. I knew she had come through hell those last few days. “You're going upstairs to lie down now," I said gently. “You must get some sleep." .. “Sleep — I wish I could.” Her voice was dull and lifeless. ‘I didn't sleep all last night." In the end, she went to her room. As I sat smoking before the fire, my thoughts went back to my grandfather. I took from my pocket his letter which the London lawyer had handed to me, and read it care- fully once more. I could not help smiling anew | at hisrequest that I should keep as a memento ' the oil painting of him on the wall and the little mirror that hung upstairs in his bed- room. I would not require that portrait or an old mirror to remind me of the trail of trouble he had left behind him! And then I began to wonder if there had been method in the apparent madness of his request. Had he (Continued on page 13) | . |