Evening Star Newspaper, September 29, 1935, Page 109

Magazine Section ho;)ed I might learn something of importance from the nurror and por- w = trait? It was rather a fantastic idea, but it tantalized me. and I went up- stairs to the bedroom and brought the mirror down. There was certainly a strange rc semblance between the ugly satyr mask carved on its frame and the face of the old man that looked down from the oil painting. Holding up the mirror, I looked into it and scanned the canvas. The face was almost life- like now; it was as if Felix Swinburn were alive, and leering down over my shoulder. The evil in those aged eyes made me shiver. Satyr Mask! A suitable name for one who had lived like Felix Swinburn. But so far as I could see, there was nothing to be learned from the portrait, and I took the mirror upstairs to its place on the bedroom wall. After drinking some tea, I paced the # dining room floor until it began to grow dark. I was a little worried about the non-appearance of Dunstan. His journey to the Inn and back should not have taken him much more than a couple of hours. Strolling to the kitchen where his wife had already begun to cook the evening meal, I found her at the window looking anxiously westward. “No signs of Dunstan yet?"’ I asked. “l hope nothing has happened to him, sir,"”” she faltered. 1 reassured her by explaining that one couldn’t make rapid progress in the snow. But as twilight slowly fell, I was more worried than I cared to admit. Behind Falcon Castle, the hillside rose steeply. On this slope the snow had not drifted, and I climbed quickly up to a knoll. I could follow the path with my eye to the point where it dipped into the hollow, but of Dun- stan's familiar figure there was no & sign. It did not take me many minutes to scramble down the slope to the house, and it was with a curious feeling of apprehension that I crossed the courtyard and opened the back door. “Can you see him coming, sir?"’ asked Dunstan’s wife as I went along the kitchen passage. “I'm afraid not,” I said, can’t be long now.” 1 spoke lightly, but my sense of fore- boding had deepened. I had not been out of the house more than five min- utes, and it was impossible that any- & thing could have happened during that time, yet somehow I felt uneasy. It was now almost dark indoors, and I was about to light the candles in the dining room when I heard something that made me jump. The voice of Dunstan’s wife was calling out in alarm, and she seemed to be beating | on the kitchen door. I hurried along the passage. The o knocking stopped. I was about to make for thekitchenwhenI imagined I heard a movement in the dining room. l Groping my way back, I peered around. The fire had burned low, and the red embers glowed upon the easy chairs at the hearth, but the rest of the room was in shadow. And then I heard a footstep behind me. Before 1 had time to swing around, something came down with a crash on my head, and the blow sent me to the floor. I fell forward heavily. With a fierce effort, I tried to scramble to my knees; but a man had flung himself upon me, and his weight bore me down again. 1 felt as if all the breath had been knocked from my body, and I was too dazed to offer much resistance. My hands were quickly tied behind my back, and another length of cord was slipped round my ankles. I felt myself being picked up and carried from the room. The man was immensely strong, for so far as | could make out he was P | @ ajone. The knocking had begun again, and 1 could hear Mrs. Dunstan’s voice; evidently she had been locked in the kitchen. I tried to struggle, but in my half-stunned condition I could put up very little fight. In a vague way, I realized I was being carried down the stone stairs into the cellar, and at last | was dumped on the floor. The next I knew was the sound of departing footsteps, and a key grated in a lock. With a groan, I turned over in the darkness. My assailant had been the man in the library the night before, [ tor it was a pair of gloved hands that had tied the cord on my wrists. In my despair, I told myself that I had been too confident of my ability to cope “but he o THIS WEEK Falcon Castle Continued from page eight with a rogue of Roger Barnett's type. And then I heard the cellar door being opened again. It was slammed shut almost at once, and there were slow footsteps on the stone stair. | managed to struggle up into a sitting posture, and called out to ask who had come. The voice that answered me was Lucille Paradene’s! She spoke in a hushed tone, and began to make her way towards me. I quickly told her I could not move; after she had reached my side, 1 directed her to take the matches from " my pocket. There was a little spurt of flame, and in the yellow light I could see her wide dark eyes looking down at me. Presently she found a candle on a shelf; placing it on the floor, she got my knife out of my pocket and cut the cords. I rose unsteadily to my feet. My head was still spinning, and the pain in my wrists and ankles made me writhe. The man who had tied me up had done his work with brutal effi- ciency. Things to Come Continued from preceding page rately avoids the dead man, and puts a rag over his mouth to protect him- self from infection. Harding says: “And so our sanita- tion goes back to the cordon and killing! This is how they dealt with. pestilence in the Dark Ages.” He makes a gesture of desperate impo- tence, shrugging his shoulders and throwing up his hands; then turns back to his work bench. The room of Richard Gordon, a former air mechanic. It is like all the rooms of this period — shabby, with improvised or worn-out furniture. There is no proper tableware, only a sort of tramp’s outfit of gallipots and tins. Richard's sister Janet is at a wood stove cooking a meal. Her move- ments are slow and spiritless. Richard Gordon, seated in front of an old table, is obviously waiting for the meal. He is deep in thought. Instead of serving the meal, Janet turns from the stove, walks a few steps and then stares into space. Richard, roused from his thoughts, looks at her with growing terror and rises hur- riedly. “What is it, Janet? Your heart?”” He takes her pulse. “‘I'll put you to bed, sister.” Janet sullenly silent. She shakes her head. Richard very tenderly trics to induce her to go to bed. Return to Harding's laboratory. Harding at his microscope. Mary near him. Harding examines some preparation, and without looking back says: ‘‘Iodine, please.” Mary takes a step towards him, a glass or container in her hand. She looks at it and tilts it to ascertain its contents. She is unable to speak be- cause she knows the portent of her answer. Harding: ‘“Mary! lIodine, please.” Mary: ‘““There is no more, father.” ““No more iodine?"’ Mary replies with a shake of her head. Harding sits down. He buries his head in his hands. His voice almost a sob: “What is the good of trying to save a mad world from its punish- ment?"’ Mary: “‘Oh, father, if you could only sleep for a time.” ‘““How can 1 sleep? See how they wander out to die.” He rises and looks at his daughter, deeply meved: “And to think that I brought you into this world.” ““Even now | am glad to be alive, father.” Harding pats her shoulder, a quick affectionate gesture. Then he walks up and down in deep mental distress. ““This is the last torment of this endless warfare. To know what life could do and be — and to be helpless.” Mary makes a futile movement to console him. A step on the staircase outside. They both look towards the door. Mary: “Richard!” Gordon enters. Harding stares at him, fearing his news., Gordon: “My sister ., .” Harding: ‘““How do you — know?”’ Gordon: **Her heart beats fast. She feels faint. And — and — she won't answer.”” Harding says nothing. ““What can I do for her?"” Harding, pained, silent and beaten. Gordon: *I thought — something — might be known.” Harding does not move. Mary cries: “Oh Janet! — and you, poor dear.” She approaches Gordon, and Gor- don makes a movement as if to warn her that he too may be infected. She does not care. “Richard,” she whis- pers, close to his face. Harding rises and goes without a word. It is the doctor's instinct to try and help where everything seems hopeless. Gordon’s living room. Janet turns to and fro on her bed. Enter Harding, followed by Richard and Mary. Har- ding approaches the bed. He pulls back the sheets, listens to Janet’s breathing. Then he replaces the sheets and shakes his head. Harding: “No doubt of it. And it need not be. Oh, to think of it! There is just one point still obscure. But I can- not even get iodine now — not even iodine! There is no more trade, nothing to be got. The war goes on. This pestilence goes on, worse than the wars that released it."” Gordon: “Is there nothing to make her comfortable?"” Harding: “Nothing. There is noth- ing to make anyone comfortable any more. War is the art of spreading wretchedness and misery. I remember when I was still a medical student, talking to a man named Cabal about preventing war. And about the re- searches I would make and the ills T would cure. My God!” Gordon’s living room. Mary and Gordon sitting. Atmosphere of hope- lessness. Both stare towards the bed. Janet rises. Her face is ghastly white, - and her eyes are glassy. She comes towards the two, and Mary and Gordon stare at her; horror-stricken, as she passes them. She leaves the room. After a second’s hesitation, Gordon rises and hufries after his sister. Mary takes a few steps and then sits down. The Square. Janet wandering. Gor- don reaches her and tries to take her arm, but she shakes him off. They go towards the crowd about the notice board in front of the Town Hall. The crowd disperses, panic-stricken. Janet and Gordon walking towards the sentry. The sentry lifts his rifle. Gordon protects Janet with his body. To sentry: “No! don't shoot. I will take her out of the town.” Sentry hesitates. Janet wandeys on. Gordon follows her. Sentry turns after them, still irresolute. Janet and Gordon wander through the ruins of Everytown. She goes on ahead fewverishly, aimlessly. He fol- lows her. It is a dead city. Rats flee before them — starveling dogs. They pass across a deserted railway station. Public gardens in neglect. Suburban road with villas empty and rwaous. Janet and Gordon pass the former home of Passworthy, recognizable by the shattered fence. Janet drops and lies still. Gordon kneels down beside her. At first he cannot believe she is dead. He picks her up in his arms and carries her off— into a mortuary. Mary waiting in Gordon’s room. Twilight. Her face is very sad. At last Gordon comes staggering in. He is the picture of misery. ““Oh Mary, dear Mary,” he cries. Mary holds out her arms to him. He clings to her like a child. (To Be Continued Next Week) In the candlelight, Lucille and I stared at each other. She was waiting for me to speak, but what was there for me to say? I had spoken so jaun- tily that afternoon — and now I had failed her. In my misery, I dropped down on the wooden bench and put my elbows on the long rough table. The white-washed walls of the cellar were thick with cobwebs, and there was a row of arched wine-bins with many dusty boitles. There was no way of escape for us except by the locked door at the head of the stairs, and I stifled a groan of disgust at the way I had allowed Roger Barnett to outwit me, In a few words I told Lucille what had happened to me. Her own ex- perience had been as brief as mine. A man had entered her darkened bed- room, and ordered her downstairs. He had threatened her with a re- volver. She was not sure whether it was Roger Barnett himself or the man he called his chauffeur. No doubt Dunstan would receive the same treatment on his return, and he would either join us in the cellar or be thrust into the kitchen beside his terrified wife. And meantime, the house lay open for Barnett to do what he chose. The same thought must have been in Lucille’s mind, for she was staring anxiously at me across the table. ‘“Is there nothing we can do?"” ‘““Nothing! That swine Barnett has got us beaten hands down. What an unholy fool I’ve been. ...”" I took the candle and went up the narrow stone steps to examine the door. Built of heavy oak, it was studded with iron nails, and the huge lock had been set into the thickness of the wood. Moreover, it had been | hinged to swing inward, so there was little chance of my breaking the thing down. All the same, I decided to have atry. Carrying up the bench on which I had sat, I used it as a battering-ram, and attacked the door. Again and again I let fly, until the bench itself began to split. Suddenly I heard the key crunch in the lock, and tue door began to open. Around the edge came a hand with a revolver. There was a quick burst of flame, and a bullet went past my head. The next moment the door had been slammedshut and locked. The warning was obvious. Roger Barnett was not running any risk of ouf escaping before he had completed his work. Slowly I descended the re- maining steps and joined Lucille on the cellar floor. “It's no good, I'm afraid,” I said dismally. “If only I'd known two days ago that Barnett was a crook! Why didn’t you tell me?”’ I read the answer in her face as she looked up at me —she had been afraid. I did not care to pursue the subject then, for her lip was trembling. I pulled over an old packing-case to the table, and she sat down. A sharp reaction seemed to have set in, and it left her limp and exhausted. After we had remained in silence for some time, her head went down upon her arms, and she seemed to fall into an uneasy stupor. Since the candle was burning low, I decided to extinguish it. I found that the battered bench would still bear my weight, and I stretched myself out upon it. I must have fallen into a doze myself, for I can remember sitting up with a start and putting a match to the stump of candle on the table. Lucille had risen to her feet, and she was looking up the narrow stair. “I thought I heard a noise,” she whispered. But although we several minutes, we could hear nothing further. “I thought it was footsteps — very slow footsteps, like those of an old man.” She sat down again at the table, casting an occasional glance towards the steps; then after a long silence, she covered her face with her hands, and began to sob quietly. “l must tell you something,”” she said presently. “You've asked me why I came to Falcon Castle. Will you listen, if I tell you now?” listened for _“Of course!’ 1 replied. “But if you'd rather not —" “I must,” she whispered. “But I warn you, the truth will not be pleasant.” (To Be Concluded Next Week) - Get all 3 essentials iN 1 compLETE UNIT NOW, modern heating comes to you in a new modern way —in one complete, scientific in- stallation that includes all three essentials of modern home com- fort. The new American Radiator Healmg Sylleml give you Radia. tor H lus Controlled Distri- buuon o heat plus inexpensive Domestic Hot Water. 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