Edgar Wallace

The Angel of Terror

The characters in this book are entirely imaginary, and have no relation to any

living person

To F.L.S.

A MAN OF LAW

First Printed, May, 1922

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Content

Chapter I 4

Chapter II 9

Chapter III .17

Chapter IV 25

Chapter V 30

Chapter VI 37

Chapter VII 41

Chapter VIII 50

Chapter IX ...56

Chapter X 62

Chapter XI ...69

Chapter XII 74

Chapter XIII 81

Chapter XIV 89

Chapter XV 93

Chapter XVI 98

Chapter XVII 102

Chapter XVIII 109

Chapter XIX 113

Chapter XX 119

Chapter XXI 126

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Chapter XXII 129

Chapter XXIII 135

Chapter XXIV 140

Chapter XXV 145

Chapter XXVI 149

Chapter XXVII .152

Chapter XXVIII 159

Chapter XXIX 169

Chapter XXX 179

Chapter XXXI 185

Chapter XXXII 192

Chapter XXXIII 198

Chapter XXXIV 205

Chapter XXXV ...212

Chapter XXXVI 218

Chapter XXXVII 221

Chapter XXXVIII 228

Chapter XXXIX 237

Chapter XL 243

Chapter XLI 248

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Chapter I

The hush of the court, which had been broken when the foreman

of the jury returned their verdict, was intensified as the Judge, with a

quick glance over his pince-nez at the tall prisoner, marshalled his

papers with the precision and method which old men display in

tense moments such as these. He gathered them together, white

paper and blue and buff and stacked them in a neat heap on a tiny

ledge to the left of his desk. Then he took his pen and wrote a few

words on a printed paper before him.

Another breathless pause and he groped beneath the desk and

brought out a small square of black silk and carefully laid it over his

white wig. Then he spoke:

"James Meredith, you have been convicted after a long and patient

trial of the awful crime of wilful murder. With the verdict of the

jury I am in complete agreement. There is little doubt, after hearing

the evidence of the unfortunate lady to whom you were engaged,

and whose evidence you attempted in the most brutal manner to

refute, that, instigated by your jealousy, you shot Ferdinand Bulford.

The evidence of Miss Briggerland that you had threatened this poor

young man, and that you left her presence in a temper, is unshaken.

By a terrible coincidence, Mr. Bulford was in the street outside your

fiancée′s door when you left, and maddened by your insane jealousy,

you shot him dead.

"To suggest, as you have through your counsel, that you called at

Miss Briggerland′s that night to break off your engagement and that

the interview was a mild one and unattended by recriminations is to

suggest that this lady has deliberately committed perjury in order to

swear away your life, and when to that disgraceful charge you

produce a motive, namely that by your death or imprisonment Miss

Briggerland, who is your cousin, would benefit to a considerable

extent, you merely add to your infamy. Nobody who saw the young

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girl in the box, a pathetic, and if I may say, a beautiful figure, could

accept for one moment your fantastic explanation.

"Who killed Ferdinand Bulford? A man without an enemy in the

world. That tragedy cannot be explained away. It now only remains

for me to pass the sentence which the law imposes. The jury′s

recommendation to mercy will be forwarded to the proper

quarter. . "

He then proceeded to pass sentence of death, and the tall man in

the dock listened without a muscle of his face moving.

So ended the great Berkeley Street Murder Trial, and when a few

days later it was announced that the sentence of death had been

commuted to one of penal servitude for life, there were newspapers

and people who hinted at mistaken leniency and suggested that

James Meredith would have been hanged if he were a poor man

instead of being, as he was, the master of vast wealth.

"That′s that," said Jack Glover between his teeth, as he came out of

court with the eminent King′s Counsel who had defended his friend

and client, "the little lady wins."

His companion looked sideways at him and smiled.

"Honestly, Glover, do you believe that poor girl could do so

dastardly a thing as lie about the man she loves?"

"She loves!" repeated Jack Glover witheringly.

"I think you are prejudiced," said the counsel, shaking his head.

"Personally, I believe that Meredith is a lunatic; I am satisfied that all

he told us about the interview he had with the girl was born of a

diseased imagination. I was terribly impressed when I saw Jean

Briggerland in the box. She--by Jove, there is the lady!"

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They had reached the entrance of the Court. A big car was standing

by the kerb and one of the attendants was holding open the door

for a girl dressed in black. They had a glimpse of a pale, sad face of

extraordinary beauty, and then she disappeared behind the drawn

blinds.

The counsel drew a long sigh.

"Mad!" he said huskily. "He must be mad! If ever I saw a pure soul

in a woman′s face, it is in hers!"

"You′ve been in the sun, Sir John--you′re getting sentimental," said

Jack Glover brutally, and the eminent lawyer choked indignantly.

Jack Glover had a trick of saying rude things to his friends, even

when those friends were twenty years his senior, and by every rule

of professional etiquette entitled to respectful treatment.

"Really!" said the outraged Sir John. "There are times, Glover, when

you are insufferable!"

But by this time Jack Glover was swinging along the Old Bailey, his

hands in his pockets, his silk hat on the back of his head.

He found the grey-haired senior member of the firm of Rennett,

Glover and Simpson (there had been no Simpson in the firm for ten

years) on the point of going home.

Mr. Rennett sat down at the sight of his junior.

"I heard the news by ′phone," he said. "Ellbery says there is no

ground for appeal, but I think the recommendation to mercy will

save his life--besides it is a

crime passionel e

, and they don′t hang for

homicidal jealousy. I suppose it was the girl′s evidence that turned

the trick?"

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Jack nodded.

"And she looked like an angel just out of the refrigerator," he said

despairingly. "Ellbery did his poor best to shake her, but the old fool

is half in love with her--I left him raving about her pure soul and

her other celestial etceteras."

Mr. Rennett stroked his iron grey beard.

"She′s won," he said, but the other turned on him with a snarl.

"Not yet!" he said almost harshly. "She hasn′t won till Jimmy

Meredith is dead or----"

"Or----?" repeated his partner significantly. "That ′or′ won′t come

off, Jack. He′ll get a life sentence as sure as ′eggs is eggs.′ I′d go a

long way to help Jimmy; I′d risk my practice and my name."

Jack Glover looked at his partner in astonishment.

"You old sportsman!" he said admiringly. "I didn′t know you were so

fond of Jimmy?"

Mr. Rennett got up and began pulling on his gloves. He seemed a

little uncomfortable at the sensation he had created.

"His father was my first client," he said apologetically. "One of the

best fellows that ever lived. He married late in life, that was why he

was such a crank over the question of marriage. You might say that

old Meredith founded our firm. Your father and Simpson and I

were nearly at our last gasp when Meredith gave us his business.

That was our turning point. Your father--God rest him--was never

tired of talking about it. I wonder he never told you."

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"I think he did," said Jack thoughtfully. "And you really would go a

long way--Rennett--I mean, to help Jim Meredith?"

"All the way," said old Rennett shortly.

Jack Glover began whistling a long lugubrious tune.

"I′m seeing the old boy to-morrow," he said. "By the way, Rennett,

did you see that a fellow had been released from prison to a nursing

home for a minor operation the other day? There was a question

asked in Parliament about it. Is it usual?"

"It can be arranged," said Rennett. "Why?"

"Do you think in a few months′ time we could get Jim Meredith into

a nursing home for--say an appendix operation?"

"Has he appendicitis?" asked the other in surprise.

"He can fake it," said Jack calmly. "It′s the easiest thing in the world

to fake."

Rennett looked at the other under his heavy eyebrows.

"You′re thinking of the ′or′?" he challenged, and Jack nodded.

"It can be done--if he′s alive," said Rennett after a pause.

"He′ll be alive," prophesied his partner, "now the only thing is--

where shall I find the girl?"

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Chapter II

Lydia Beale gathered up the scraps of paper that littered her table,

rolled them into a ball and tossed them into the fire.

There was a knock at the door, and she half turned in her chair to

meet with a smile her stout landlady who came in carrying a tray on

which stood a large cup of tea and two thick and wholesome slices

of bread and jam.

"Finished, Miss Beale?" asked the landlady anxiously.

"For the day, yes," said the girl with a nod, and stood up stretching

herself stiffly.

She was slender, a head taller than the dumpy Mrs. Morgan. The

dark violet eyes and the delicate spiritual face she owed to her Celtic

ancestors, the grace of her movements, no less than the perfect

hands that rested on the drawing board, spoke eloquently of breed.

"I′d like to see it, miss, if I may," said Mrs. Morgan, wiping her

hands on her apron in anticipation.

Lydia pulled open a drawer of the table and took out a large sheet

of Windsor board. She had completed her pencil sketch and Mrs.

Morgan gasped appreciatively. It was a picture of a masked man

holding a villainous crowd at bay at the point of a pistol.

"That′s wonderful, miss," she said in awe. "I suppose those sort of

things happen too?"

The girl laughed as she put the drawing away.

"They happen in stories which I illustrate, Mrs. Morgan," she said

dryly. "The real brigands of life come in the shape of lawyers′ clerks

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with writs and summonses. It′s a relief from those mad fashion

plates I draw, anyway. Do you know, Mrs. Morgan, that the sight of

a dressmaker′s shop window makes me positively ill!"

Mrs. Morgan shook her head sympathetically and Lydia changed the

subject.

"Has anybody been this afternoon?" she asked.

"Only the young man from Spadd & Newton," replied the stout

woman with a sigh. "I told ′im you was out, but I′m a bad liar."

The girl groaned.

"I wonder if I shall ever get to the end of those debts," she said in

despair. "I′ve enough writs in the drawer to paper the house, Mrs.

Morgan."

Three years ago Lydia Beale′s father had died and she had lost the

best friend and companion that any girl ever had. She knew he was

in debt, but had no idea how extensively he was involved. A creditor

had seen her the day after the funeral and had made some uncouth

reference to the convenience of a death which had automatically

cancelled George Beale′s obligations. It needed only that to spur the

girl to an action which was as foolish as it was generous. She had

written to all the people to whom her father owed money and had

assumed full responsibility for debts amounting to hundreds of

pounds.

It was the Celt in her that drove her to shoulder the burden which

she was ill-equipped to carry, but she had never regretted her

impetuous act.

There were a few creditors who, realising what had happened, did

not bother her, and there were others. .

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She earned a fairly good salary on the staff of the

Daily Megaphone

,

which made a feature of fashion, but she would have had to have

been the recipient of a cabinet minister′s emoluments to have met

the demands which flowed in upon her a month after she had

accepted her father′s obligations.

"Are you going out to-night, miss?" asked the woman.

Lydia roused herself from her unpleasant thoughts.

"Yes. I′m making some drawings of the dresses in Curfew′s new

play. I′ll be home somewhere around twelve."

Mrs. Morgan was half-way across the room when she turned back.

"One of these days you′ll get out of all your troubles, miss, you see

if you don′t! I′ll bet you′ll marry a rich young gentleman."

Lydia, sitting on the edge of the table, laughed.

"You′d lose your money, Mrs. Morgan," she said, "rich young

gentlemen only marry poor working girls in the kind of stories I

illustrate. If I marry it will probably be a very poor young gentleman

who will become an incurable invalid and want nursing. And I shall

hate him so much that I can′t be happy with him, and pity him so

much that I can′t run away from him."

Mrs. Morgan sniffed her disagreement.

"There are things that happen----" she began.

"Not to me--not miracles, anyway," said Lydia, still smiling, "and I

don′t know that I want to get married. I′ve got to pay all these bills

first, and by the time they are settled I′ll be a grey-haired old lady in

a mob cap."

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Lydia had finished her tea and was standing somewhat scantily

attired in the middle of her bedroom, preparing for her theatre

engagement, when Mrs. Morgan returned.

"I forgot to tell you, miss," she said, "there was a gentleman and a

lady called."

"A gentleman and a lady? Who were they?"

"I don′t know, Miss Beale. I was lying down at the time, and the girl

answered the door. I gave her strict orders to say that you were out."

"Did they leave any name?"

"No, miss. They just asked if Miss Beale lived here, and could they

see her."

"H′m!" said Lydia with a frown. "I wonder what we owe them!"

She dismissed the matter from her mind, and thought no more of it

until she stopped on her way to the theatre to learn from the office

by telephone the number of drawings required.

The chief sub-editor answered her.

"And, by the way," he added, "there was an inquiry for you at the

office to-day--I found a note of it on my desk when I came in to-

night. Some old friends of yours who want to see you. Brand told

them you were going to do a show at the Erving Theatre to-night,

so you′ll probably see them."

"Who are they?" she asked, puzzled.

She had few friends, old or new.

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"I haven′t the foggiest idea," was the reply.

At the theatre she saw nobody she knew, though she looked round

interestedly, nor was she approached in any of the

entr′actes

.

In the row ahead of her, and a little to her right, were two people

who regarded her curiously as she entered. The man was about fifty,

very dark and bald--the skin of his head was almost copper-

coloured, though he was obviously a European, for the eyes which

beamed benevolently upon her through powerful spectacles were

blue, but so light a blue that by contrast with the mahogany skin of

his clean-shaven face, they seemed almost white.

The girl who sat with him was fair, and to Lydia′s artistic eye,

singularly lovely. Her hair was a mop of fine gold. The colour was

natural, Lydia was too sophisticated to make any mistake about that.

Her features were regular and flawless. The young artist thought she

had never seen so perfect a "cupid" mouth in her life. There was

something so freshly, fragrantly innocent about the girl that Lydia′s

heart went out to her, and she could hardly keep her eyes on the

stage. The unknown seemed to take almost as much interest in her,

for twice Lydia surprised her backward scrutiny. She found herself

wondering who she was. The girl was beautifully dressed, and about

her neck was a platinum chain that must have hung to her waist--a

chain which was broken every few inches by a big emerald.

It required something of an effort of concentration to bring her

mind back to the stage and her work. With a book on her knee she

sketched the somewhat bizarre costumes which had aroused a mild

public interest in the play, and for the moment forgot her entrancing

companion.

She came through the vestibule at the end of the performance, and

drew her worn cloak more closely about her slender shoulders, for

the night was raw, and a sou′westerly wind blew the big wet

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snowflakes under the protecting glass awning into the lobby itself.

The favoured playgoers minced daintily through the slush to their

waiting cars, then taxis came into the procession of waiting vehicles,

there was a banging of cab doors, a babble of orders to the

scurrying attendants, until something like order was evolved from

the chaos.

"Cab, miss?"

Lydia shook her head. An omnibus would take her to Fleet Street,

but two had passed, packed with passengers, and she was beginning

to despair, when a particularly handsome taxi pulled up at the kerb.

The driver leant over the shining apron which partially protected

him from the weather, and shouted:

"Is Miss Beale there?"

The girl started in surprise, taking a step toward the cab.

"I am Miss Beale," she said.

"Your editor has sent me for you," said the man briskly.

The editor of the

Megaphone

had been guilty of many eccentric acts.

He had expressed views on her drawing which she shivered to recall.

He had aroused her in the middle of the night to sketch dresses at a

fancy dress ball, but never before had he done anything so human as

to send a taxi for her. Nevertheless, she would not look at the gift

cab too closely, and she stepped into the warm interior.

The windows were veiled with the snow and the sleet which had

been falling all the time she had been in the theatre. She saw blurred

lights flash past, and realised that the taxi was going at a good pace.

She rubbed the windows and tried to look out after a while. Then

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she endeavoured to lower one, but without success. Suddenly she

jumped up and tapped furiously at the window to attract the driver′s

attention. There was no mistaking the fact that they were crossing a

bridge and it was not necessary to cross a bridge to reach Fleet

Street.

If the driver heard he took no notice. The speed of the car

increased. She tapped at the window again furiously. She was not

afraid, but she was angry. Presently fear came. It was when she tried

to open the door, and found that it was fastened from the outside,

that she struck a match to discover that the windows had been

screwed tight--the edge of the hole where the screw had gone in

was rawly new, and the screw′s head was bright and shining.

She had no umbrella--she never carried one to the theatre--and

nothing more substantial in the shape of a weapon than a fountain

pen. She could smash the windows with her foot. She sat back in the

seat, and discovered that it was not so easy an operation as she had

thought. She hesitated even to make the attempt; and then the panic

sense left her, and she was her own calm self again. She was not

being abducted. These things did not happen in the twentieth

century, except in sensational books. She frowned. She had said

almost the same thing to somebody that day--to Mrs. Morgan, who

had hinted at a romantic marriage. Of course, nothing was wrong.

The driver had called her by name. Probably the editor wanted to

see her at his home, he lived somewhere in South London, she

remembered. That would explain everything. And yet her instinct

told her that something unusual was happening, that some

unpleasant experience was imminent.

She tried to put the thought out of her mind, but it was too vivid,

too insistent.

Again she tried the door, and then, conscious of a faint reflected

glow on the cloth-lined roof of the cab, she looked backward

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through the peep-hole. She saw two great motor-car lamps within a

few yards of the cab. A car was following, she glimpsed the outline

of it as they ran past a street standard.

They were in one of the roads of the outer suburbs. Looking

through the window over the driver′s shoulder she saw trees on one

side of the road, and a long grey fence. It was while she was so

looking that the car behind shot suddenly past and ahead, and she

saw its tail lights moving away with a pang of hopelessness. Then,

before she realised what had happened, the big car ahead slowed

and swung sideways, blocking the road, and the cab came to a jerky

stop that flung her against the window. She saw two figures in the

dim light of the taxi′s head lamps, heard somebody speak, and the

door was jerked open.

"Will you step out, Miss Beale," said a pleasant voice, and though

her legs seemed queerly weak, she obliged. The second man was

standing by the side of the driver. He wore a long raincoat, the

collar of which was turned up to the tip of his nose.

"You may go back to your friends and tell them that Miss Beale is in

good hands," he was saying. "You may also burn a candle or two

before your favourite saint, in thanksgiving that you are alive."

"I don′t know what you′re talking about," said the driver sulkily. "I′m

taking this young lady to her office."

"Since when has the

Daily Megaphone

been published in the ghastly

suburbs?" asked the other politely.

He saw the girl, and raised his hat.

"Come along, Miss Beale," he said. "I promise you a more

comfortable ride--even if I cannot guarantee that the end will be

less startling."

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Chapter III

The man who had opened the door was a short, stoutly built person

of middle age. He took the girl′s arm gently, and without

questioning she accompanied him to the car ahead, the man in the

raincoat following. No word was spoken, and Lydia was too

bewildered to ask questions until the car was on its way. Then the

younger man chuckled.

"Clever, Rennett!" he said. "I tell you, those people are super-

humanly brilliant!"

"I′m not a great admirer of villainy," said the other gruffly, and the

younger man, who was sitting opposite the girl, laughed.

"You must take a detached interest, my dear chap. Personally, I

admire them. I admit they gave me a fright when I realised that Miss

Beale had not called the cab, but that it had been carefully planted

for her, but still I can admire them."

"What does it mean?" asked the puzzled girl. "I′m so confused--

where are we going now? To the office?"

"I fear you will not get to the office to-night," said the young man

calmly, "and it is impossible to explain to you just why you were

abducted."

"Abducted?" said the girl incredulously. "Do you mean to say that

man----"

"He was carrying you into the country," said the other calmly. "He

would probably have travelled all night and have left you stranded in

some un-get-at-able place. I don′t think he meant any harm--they

never take unnecessary risks, and all they wanted was to spirit you

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away for the night. How they came to know that we had chosen you

baffles me," he said. "Can you advance any theory, Rennett?"

"Chosen me?" repeated the startled girl. "Really, I feel I′m entitled to

some explanation, and if you don′t mind, I would like you to take

me back to my office. I have a job to keep," she added grimly.

"Six pounds ten a week, and a few guineas extra for your

illustrations," said the man in the raincoat. "Believe me, Miss Beale,

you′ll never pay off your debts on that salary, not if you live to be a

hundred."

She could only gasp.

"You seem to know a great deal about my private affairs," she said,

when she had recovered her breath.

"A great deal more than you can imagine."

She guessed he was smiling in the darkness, and his voice was so

gentle and apologetic that she could not take offence.

"In the past twelve months you have had thirty-nine judgments

recorded against you, and in the previous year, twenty-seven. You

are living on exactly thirty shillings a week, and all the rest is going

to your father′s creditors."

"You′re very impertinent!" she said hotly and, as she felt, foolishly.

"I′m very pertinent, really. By the way, my name is Glover--John

Glover, of the firm of Rennett, Glover and Simpson. The

gentleman at your side is Mr. Charles Rennett, my senior partner. We

are a firm of solicitors, but how long we shall remain a firm," he

added pointedly, "depends rather upon you."

18

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"Upon me?" said the girl in genuine astonishment. "Well, I can′t say

that I have so much love for lawyers----"

"That I can well understand," murmured Mr. Glover.

"But I certainly do not wish to dissolve your partnership," she went

on.

"It is rather more serious than that," said Mr. Rennett, who was

sitting by her side. "The fact is, Miss Beale, we are acting in a

perfectly illegal manner, and we are going to reveal to you the

particulars of an act we contemplate, which, if you pass on the

information to the police, will result in our professional ruin. So you

see this adventure is infinitely more important to us than at present

it is to you. And here we are!" he said, interrupting the girl′s

question.

The car turned into a narrow drive, and proceeded some distance

through an avenue of trees before it pulled up at the pillared porch

of a big house.

Rennett helped her to alight and ushered her through the door,

which opened almost as they stopped, into a large panelled hall.

"This is the way, let me show you," said the younger man.

He opened a door and she found herself in a big drawing-room,

exquisitely furnished and lit by two silver electroliers suspended

from the carved roof.

To her relief an elderly woman rose to greet her.

"This is my wife, Miss Beale," said Rennett. "I need hardly explain

that this is also my home."

19

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"So you found the young lady," said the elderly lady, smiling her

welcome, "and what does Miss Beale think of your proposition?"

The young man Glover came in at that moment, and divested of his

long raincoat and hat, he proved to be of a type that the Universities

turn out by the hundred. He was good-looking too, Lydia noticed

with feminine inconsequence, and there was something in his eyes

that inspired trust. He nodded with a smile to Mrs. Rennett, then

turned to the girl.

"Now Miss Beale, I don′t know whether I ought to explain or

whether my learned and distinguished friend prefers to save me the

trouble."

"Not me," said the elder man hastily. "My dear," he turned to his

wife, "I think we′ll leave Jack Glover to talk to this young lady."

"Doesn′t she know?" asked Mrs. Rennett in surprise, and Lydia

laughed, although she was feeling far from amused.

The possible loss of her employment, the disquieting adventure of

the evening, and now this further mystery all combined to set her

nerves on edge.

Glover waited until the door closed on his partner and his wife and

seemed inclined to wait a little longer, for he stood with his back to

the fire, biting his lips and looking down thoughtfully at the carpet.

"I don′t just know how to begin, Miss Beale," he said. "And having

seen you, my conscience is beginning to work overtime. But I might

as well start at the beginning. I suppose you have heard of the

Bulford murder?"

The girl stared at him.

20

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"The Bulford murder?" she said incredulously, and he nodded.

"Why, of course, everybody has heard of that."

"Then happily it is unnecessary to explain all the circumstances,"

said Jack Glover, with a little grimace of distaste.

"I only know," interrupted the girl, "that Mr. Bulford was killed by a

Mr. Meredith, who was jealous of him, and that Mr. Meredith, when

he went into the witness-box, behaved disgracefully to his fiancée."

"Exactly," nodded Glover with a twinkle in his eye. "In other words,

he repudiated the suggestion that he was jealous, swore that he had

already told Miss Briggerland that he could not marry her, and he

did not even know that Bulford was paying attention to the lady."

"He did that to save his life," said Lydia quietly. "Miss Briggerland

swore in the witness-box that no such interview had occurred."

Glover nodded.

"What you do not know, Miss Beale," he said gravely, "is that Jean

Briggerland was Meredith′s cousin, and unless certain things

happen, she will inherit the greater part of six hundred thousand

pounds from Meredith′s estate. Meredith, I might explain, is one of

my best friends, and the fact that he is now serving out a life

sentence does not make him any less a friend. I am as sure, as I am

sure of your sitting there, that he no more killed Bulford than I did.

I believe the whole thing was a plot to secure his death or

imprisonment. My partner thinks the same. The truth is that

Meredith was engaged to this girl; he discovered certain things about

her and her father which are not greatly to their credit. He was never

really in love with her, beautiful as she is, and he was trapped into

the proposal. When he found out how things were shaping and

heard some of the queer stories which were told about Briggerland

21

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and his daughter, he broke off the engagement and went that night

to tell her so."

The girl had listened in some bewilderment to this recital.

"I don′t exactly see what all this is to do with me," she said, and

again Jack Glover nodded.

"I can quite understand," he said, "but I will tell you yet another part

of the story which is not public property. Meredith′s father was an

eccentric man who believed in early marriages, and it was a

condition of his will that if Meredith was not married by his

thirtieth birthday, the money should go to his sister, her heirs and

successors. His sister was Mrs. Briggerland, who is now dead. Her

heirs are her husband and Jean Briggerland."

There was a silence. The girl stared thoughtfully into the fire.

"How old is Mr. Meredith?"

"He is thirty next Monday," said Glover quietly, "and it is necessary

that he should be married before next Monday."

"In prison?" she asked.

He shook his head.

"If such things are allowed that could have been arranged, but for

some reason the Home Secretary refuses to exercise his discretion in

this matter, and has resolutely refused to allow such a marriage to

take place. He objects on the ground of public policy, and I dare say

from his point of view he is right. Meredith has a twenty-years

sentence to serve."

"Then how----" began Lydia.

22

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"Let me tell this story more or less understandably," said Glover

with that little smile of his. "Believe me, Miss Beale, I′m not so keen

upon the scheme as I was. If by chance," he spoke deliberately, "we

could get James Meredith into this house to-morrow morning,

would you marry him?"

"Me?" she gasped. "Marry a man I′ve not seen--a murderer?"

"Not a murderer," he said gently.

"But it is preposterous, impossible!" she protested. "Why me?"

He was silent for a moment.

"When this scheme was mooted we looked round for some one to

whom such a marriage would be of advantage," he said, speaking

slowly. "It was Rennett′s idea that we should search the County

Court records of London to discover if there was a girl who was in

urgent need of money. There is no surer way of unearthing financial

skeletons than by searching County Court records. We found four,

only one of whom was eligible and that was you. Don′t interrupt me

for a moment, please," he said, raising his hand warningly as she was

about to speak. "We have made thorough inquiries about you, too

thorough in fact, because the Briggerlands have smelt a rat, and have

been on our trail for a week. We know that you are not engaged to

be married, we know that you have a fairly heavy burden of debts,

and we know, too, that you are unencumbered by relations or

friends. What we offer you, Miss Beale, and believe me I feel rather

a cad in being the medium through which the offer is made, is five

thousand pounds a year for the rest of your life, a sum of twenty

thousand pounds down, and the assurance that you will not be

troubled by your husband from the moment you are married."

Lydia listened like one in a dream. It did not seem real. She would

wake up presently and find Mrs. Morgan with a cup of tea in her

23

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hand and a plate of her indigestible cakes. Such things did not

happen, she told herself, and yet here was a young man, standing

with his back to the fire, explaining in the most commonplace

conversational tone, an offer which belonged strictly to the realm of

romance, and not too convincing romance at that.

"You′ve rather taken my breath away," she said after a while. "All

this wants thinking about, and if Mr. Meredith is in prison----"

"Mr. Meredith is not in prison," said Glover quietly. "He was

released two days ago to go to a nursing home for a slight operation.

He escaped from the nursing home last night and at this particular

moment is in this house."

She could only stare at him open-mouthed, and he went on.

"The Briggerlands know he has escaped; they probably thought he

was here, because we have had a police visitation this afternoon, and

the interior of the house and grounds have been searched. They

know, of course, that Mr. Rennett and I were his legal advisers, and

we expected them to come. How he escaped their observation is

neither here nor there. Now, Miss Beale, what do you say?"

"I don′t know what to say," she said, shaking her head helplessly. "I

know I′m dreaming, and if I had the moral courage to pinch myself

hard, I should wake up. Somehow I don′t want to wake, it is so

fascinatingly impossible."

He smiled.

"Can I see Mr. Meredith?"

"Not till to-morrow. I might say that we′ve made every arrangement

for your wedding, the licence has been secured and at eight o′clock

to-morrow morning--marriages before eight or after three are not

24

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legal in this country, by the way--a clergyman will attend and the

ceremony will be performed."

There was a long silence.

Lydia sat on the edge of her chair, her elbows on her knees, her face

in her hands.

Glover looked down at her seriously, pityingly, cursing himself that

he was the exponent of his own grotesque scheme. Presently she

looked up.

"I think I will," she said a little wearily. "And you were wrong about

the number of judgment summonses, there were seventy-five in two

years--and I′m so tired of lawyers."

"Thank you," said Jack Glover politely.

Chapter IV

All night long she had sat in the little bedroom to which Mrs.

Rennett had led her, thinking and thinking and thinking. She could

not sleep, although she had tried hard, and most of the night she

spent pacing up and down from window to door turning over the

amazing situation in which she found herself. She had never thought

of marriage seriously, and really a marriage such as this presented no

terrors and might, had the prelude been a little less exciting, been

accepted by her with relief. The prospect of being a wife in name

only, even the thought that her husband would be, for the next

twenty years, behind prison walls, neither distressed nor horrified

her. Somehow she accepted Glover′s statement that Meredith was

innocent, without reservation.

25

---

She wondered what Mrs. Morgan would say and what explanation

she would give at the office. She was not particularly in love with her

work, and it would be no wrench for her to drop it and give herself

up to the serious study of art. Five thousand pounds a year! She

could live in Italy, study under the best masters, have a car of her

own--the possibilities seemed illimitable--and the disadvantages?

She shrugged her shoulders as she answered the question for the

twentieth time. What disadvantages were there? She could not

marry, but then she did not want to marry. She was not the kind to

fall in love, she told herself, she was too independent, too

sophisticated, and understood men and their weaknesses only too

well.

"The Lord designed me for an old maid," she said to herself.

At seven o′clock in the morning--a grey, cheerless morning it was,

thought Lydia, looking out of the window--Mrs. Rennett came in

with some tea.

"I′m afraid you haven′t slept, my dear," she said with a glance at the

bed. "It′s very trying for you."

She laid her hand upon the girl′s arm and squeezed it gently.

"And it′s very trying for all of us," she said with a whimsical smile.

"I expect we shall all get into fearful trouble."

That had occurred to the girl too, remembering the gloomy picture

which Glover had painted in the car.

"Won′t this be very serious for you, if the authorities find that you

have connived at the escape?" she asked.

26

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"Escape, my dear?" Mrs. Rennett′s face became a mask. "I have not

heard anything of an escape. All that we know is that poor Mr.

Meredith, anticipating that the Home Office would allow him to get

married, had made arrangements for the marriage at this house.

How Mr. Meredith comes here is quite a matter outside our

knowledge," said the diplomatic lady, and Lydia laughed in spite of

herself.

She spent half an hour making herself presentable for the

forthcoming ordeal.

As a church clock struck eight, there came another tap on the door.

It was Mrs. Rennett again.

"They are waiting," she said. Her face was a little pale and her lips

trembled.

Lydia, however, was calmness itself, as she walked into the drawing-

room ahead of her hostess.

There were four men. Glover and Rennett she knew. A third man

wearing a clerical collar she guessed was the officiating priest, and all

her attention was concentrated upon the fourth. He was a gaunt,

unshaven man, his hair cut short, his face and figure wasted, so that

the clothes he wore hung on him. Her first feeling was one of

revulsion. Her second was an impulse of pity. James Meredith, for

she guessed it was he, appeared wretchedly ill. He swung round as

she came in, and looked at her intently, then, walking quickly

towards her, he held out his thin hand.

"Miss Beale, isn′t it?" he said. "I′m sorry to meet you under such

unpleasant circumstances. Glover has explained everything, has he

not?"

She nodded.

27

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His deep-set eyes had a magnetic quality that fascinated her.

"You understand the terms? Glover has told you just why this

marriage must take place?" he said, lowering his voice. "Believe me, I

am deeply grateful to you for falling in with my wishes."

Without preliminary he walked over to where the parson stood.

"We will begin now," he said simply.

The ceremony seemed so unreal to the girl that she did not realise

what it portended, not even when a ring (a loosely-fitting ring, for

Jack Glover had made the wildest guess at the size) was slipped over

her finger. She knelt to receive the solemn benediction and then got

slowly to her feet and looked at her husband strangely.

"I think I′m going to faint," she said.

It was Jack Glover who caught her and carried her to the sofa. She

woke with a confused idea that somebody was trying to hypnotise

her, and she opened her eyes to look upon the sombre face of

James Meredith.

"Better?" he asked anxiously. "I′m afraid you′ve had a trying time,

and no sleep you said, Mrs. Rennett?"

Mrs. Rennett shook her head.

"Well, you′ll sleep to-night better than I shall," he smiled, and then

he turned to Rennett, a grave and anxious man, who stood

nervously stroking his little beard, watching the bridegroom. "Mr.

Rennett," he said, "I must tell you in the presence of witnesses, that

I have escaped from a nursing home to which I had been sent by the

clemency of the Secretary of State. When I informed you that I had

28

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received permission to come to your house this morning to get

married, I told you that which was not true."

"I′m sorry to hear that," said Rennett politely. "And, of course, it is

my duty to hand you over to the police, Mr. Meredith." It was all

part of the game. The girl watched the play, knowing that this scene

was carefully rehearsed, in order to absolve Rennett and his partner

from complicity in the escape.

Rennett had hardly spoken when there was a loud rat-tat at the front

door, and Jack Glover hastened into the hall to answer. But it was

not the policeman he had expected. It was a girl in a big sable coat,

muffled up to her eyes. She pushed past Jack, crossed the hall, and

walked straight into the drawing-room.

Lydia, standing shakily by Mrs. Rennett′s side, saw the visitor come

in, and then, as she unfastened her coat, recognised her with a gasp.

It was the beautiful girl she had seen in the stalls of the theatre the

night before!

"And what can we do for you?" It was Glover′s voice again, bland

and bantering.

"I want Meredith," said the girl shortly, and Glover chuckled.

"You have wanted Meredith for a long time, Miss Briggerland," he

said, "and you′re likely to want. You have arrived just a little too

late."

The girl′s eyes fell upon the parson.

"Too late," she said slowly, "then he is married?"

She bit her red lips and nodded, then she looked at Lydia, and the

blue eyes were expressionless.

29

---

Meredith had disappeared. Lydia looked round for him in her

distress, but he had gone. She wondered if he had gone out to the

police, to make his surrender, and she was still wondering when

there came the sound of a shot.

It was from the outside of the house, and at the sound Glover ran

through the doorway, crossed the hall and flew into the open. It was

still snowing, and there was no sign of any human being. He raced

along a path which ran parallel with the house, turned the corner

and dived into a shrubbery. Here the snow had not laid, and he

followed the garden path that twisted and turned through the thick

laurel bushes and ended at a roughly-built tool house. As he came in

sight of the shed he stopped.

A man lay on the ground, his arm extended, his head in a pool of

blood, his grey hand clutching a revolver.

Jack uttered an exclamation of horror and ran to the side of the

fallen man.

It was James Meredith, and he was dead.

Chapter V

Jack Glover heard footsteps coming down the path, and turned to

meet a man who had "detective" written largely all over him. Jack

turned and looked down again at the body as the man came up.

"Who is this?" asked the officer sharply.

"It is James Meredith," said Jack simply.

"Dead?" said the officer, startled. "He has committed suicide!"

30

---

Jack did not reply, and watched the inspector as he made his brief,

quick examination of the body. A bullet had entered just below the

left temple, and there was a mark of powder near the face.

"A very bad business, Mr. Glover," said the police officer seriously.

"Can you account for this man being here?"

"He came to get married," said Jack listlessly. "I dare say that startles

you, but it is the fact. He was married less than ten minutes ago. If

you will come up to the house I will explain his presence here."

The detective hesitated, but just then another of his comrades came

on the scene, and Jack led the way back to the house through a back

door into Rennett′s study.

The lawyer was waiting for them, and he was alone.

"If I′m not very much mistaken, you′re Inspector Colhead, of

Scotland Yard," said Glover.

"That is my name," nodded the officer. "Between ourselves, Mr.

Glover, I don′t think I should make any statement which you are not

prepared to verify publicly."

Jack noted the significance of the warning with a little smile, and

proceeded to tell the story of the wedding.

"I can only tell you," he said in answer to a further inquiry, "that Mr.

Meredith came into this house at a quarter to eight this morning,

and surrendered himself to my partner. At eight o′clock exactly, as

you are well aware, Mr. Rennett telephoned to Scotland Yard to say

that Mr. Meredith was here. During the period of his waiting he was

married."

31

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"Did a parson happen to be staying here, sir?" asked the police

officer sarcastically.

"He happened to be staying here," said Jack calmly, "because I had

arranged for him to be here. I knew that if it was humanly possible,

Mr. Meredith would come to this house, and that his desire was to

be married, for reasons which my partner will explain."

"Did you help him to escape? That is asking you a leading question,"

smiled the detective.

Jack shook his head.

"I can answer you with perfect truth that I did not, any more than

the Home Secretary helped him when he gave him permission to go

to a nursing home."

Soon after the detective returned to the shed, and Jack and his

partner were left alone.

"Well?" said Rennett, in a shaking voice, "what happened?"

"He′s dead," said Jack quietly.

"Suicide?"

Jack looked at him oddly.

"Did Bulford commit suicide?" he asked.

"Where is the angel?"

"I left her in the drawing-room with Mrs. Rennett and Miss Beale."

"Mrs. Meredith," corrected Jack quietly.

32

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"This complicates matters," said Rennett, "but I think we can get

out of our share of the trouble, though it is going to look a little

black."

They found the three women in the drawing-room. Lydia, looking

very white, came to meet them.

"What happened?" she asked, and then she guessed from his face.

"He′s not dead?" she gasped.

Jack nodded. All the time his eyes were on the other girl. Her

beautiful lips were drooped a little. There was a look of pain and

sorrow in her eyes that caught his breath.

"Did he shoot himself?" she asked in a low voice.

Jack regarded her coldly.

"The only thing that I am certain about," and Lydia winced at the

cruelty in his voice, "is that you did not shoot him, Miss

Briggerland."

"How dare you!" flamed Jean Briggerland. The quick flush that

came to her cheek was the only other evidence of emotion she

betrayed.

"I dare say a lot," said Jack curtly. "You asked me if it is a case of

suicide, and I tell you that it is not--it is a case of murder. James

Meredith was found with a revolver clutched in his right hand. He

was shot through the left temple, and if you′ll explain to me how

any man, holding a pistol in a normal way, can perform that feat, I

will accept your theory of suicide."

There was a dead silence.

33

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"Besides," Jack went on, with a little shrug, "poor Jimmy had no

pistol."

Jean Briggerland had dropped her eyes, and stood there with

downcast head and compressed lips. Presently she looked up.

"I know how you feel, Mr. Glover," she said gently. "I can well

understand, believing such dreadful things about me as you do, that

you must hate me."

Her mouth quivered and her voice grew husky with sorrow.

"I loved James Meredith," she said, "and he loved me."

"He loved you well enough to marry somebody else," said Jack

Glover, and Lydia was shocked.

"Mr. Glover," she said reproachfully, "do you think it is right to say

these things, with poor Mr. Meredith lying dead?"

He turned slowly toward her, and she saw in his humorous eyes a

hardness that she had not seen before.

"Miss Briggerland has told us that I hate her," he said in an even

voice, "and she spoke nothing but the truth. I hate her perhaps

beyond understanding--Mrs. Meredith." He emphasised the words,

and the girl winced. "And one day, if the Circumstantialists spare me

----"

"The Circumstantialists," said Jean Briggerland slowly. "I don′t quite

understand you."

Jack Glover laughed, and it was not a pleasant laugh.

34

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"Perhaps you will," he said shortly. "As to your loving poor Jim--

well, you know best. I am trying to be polite to you, Miss

Briggerland, and not to gloat over the fact that you arrived too late

to stop this wedding! And shall I tell you why you arrived too late?"

His eyes were laughing again. "It was because I had arranged with

the vicar of St. Peter′s to be here at nine o′clock this morning, well

knowing that you and your little army of spies would discover the

hour of the wedding, and would take care to be here before. And

then I secretly sent for an old Oxford friend of mine to be here at

eight--he was here last night."

Still she stood regarding him without visible evidence of the anger

which Lydia thought would have been justified.

"I had no desire to stop the wedding," said the girl, in a low, soft

voice. "If Jim preferred to be married in this way to somebody who

does not know him, I can only accept his choice." She turned to the

girl and held out her hand. "I am very sorry that this tragedy has

come to you, Mrs. Meredith," she said. "May I wish you a greater

happiness than any you have found?"

Lydia was touched by the sincerity, hurt a little by Glover′s

uncouthness, and could only warmly grip the little hand that was

held out to her.

"I′m sorry too," she said a little unsteadily. "For you more than for

--anything else."

The girl lowered her eyes and again her lips quivered, and then

without a word she walked out of the room, pulling her sable wrap

about her throat.

It was noon before Rennett′s car deposited Lydia Meredith at the

door of her lodging.

35

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She found Mrs. Morgan in a great state of anxiety, and the stout

little woman almost shed tears of joy at the sight of her.

"Oh, miss, you′ve no idea how worried I′ve been," she babbled, "and

they′ve been round here from your newspaper office asking where

you are. I thought you had been run over or something, and the

Daily Megaphone

have sent to all the hospitals----"

"I have been run over," said Lydia wearily. "My poor mind has been

under the wheels of a dozen motor-buses, and my soul has been in a

hundred collisions."

Mrs. Morgan gaped at her. She had no sense of metaphor.

"It′s all right, Mrs. Morgan," laughed her lodger over her shoulder as

she went up the stairs. "I haven′t really you know, only I′ve had a

worrying time--and by the way, my name is Meredith."

Mrs. Morgan collapsed on to a hall chair.

"Meredith, miss?" she said incredulously. "Why I knew your father

----"

"I′ve been married, that′s all," said Lydia grimly. "You told me

yesterday that I should be married romantically, but even in the

wildest flights of your imagination, Mrs. Morgan, you could never

have supposed that I should be married in such a violent, desperate

way. I′m going to bed." She paused on the landing and looked down

at the dumbfounded woman. "If anybody calls for me, I am not at

home. Oh, yes, you can tell the

Megaphone

that I came home very late

and that I′ve gone to bed, and I′ll call to-morrow to explain."

"But, miss," stammered the woman, "your husband----"

36

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"My husband is dead," said the girl calmly. She felt a brute, but

somehow she could not raise any note of sorrow. "And if that

lawyer man comes, will you please tell him that I shall have twenty

thousand pounds in the morning," and with that last staggering

statement, she went to her room, leaving her landlady speechless.

Chapter VI

The police search of the house and grounds at Dulwich Grange,

Mr. Rennett′s residence, occupied the whole of the morning, and

neither Rennett′s nor Jack′s assistance was invited or offered.

Before luncheon Inspector Colhead came to the study.

"We′ve had a good look round your place, Mr. Rennett," he said,

"and I think we know where the deceased hid himself."

"Indeed!" said Mr. Rennett.

"That hut of yours in the garden is used, I suppose, for a tool

house. There are no tools there now, and one of my men discovered

that you can pull up the whole of the floor, it works on a hinge and

is balanced with counter-weights."

Mr. Rennett nodded.

"I believe it was used as a wine cellar by a former tenant of the

house," he said coolly. "We have no cellars at the Grange, you know.

I do not drink wine, and I′ve never had occasion to use it."

"That′s where he was hidden. We found a blanket, and pillows,

down there, and, as you say, it has obviously been a wine cellar,

because there is a ventilating shaft leading up into the bushes. We

37

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should never have found the trap, but one of my men felt one of

the corners of the floor give under his feet."

The two men said nothing.

"Another thing," the detective went on slowly, "is that I′m inclined

to agree that Meredith did not commit suicide. We found footmarks,

quite fresh, leading round to the back of the hut."

"A big foot or a little foot?" asked Jack quickly.

"It is rather a big foot," said the detective, "and it has rubber heels.

We traced it to a gate at the back of your premises, and the gate has

been opened recently--probably by Mr. Meredith when he came to

the house. It′s a queer case, Mr. Rennett."

"What is the pistol?"

"That′s new too," said Colhead. "Belgian make and impossible to

trace, I should imagine. You can′t keep track of these Belgian

weapons. You can buy them in any shop in any town in Ostend or

Brussels, and I don′t think it is the practice for the sellers to keep

any record of the numbers."

"In fact," said Jack quietly, "it is the same kind of pistol that killed

Bulford."

Colhead raised his eyebrows.

"So it was, but wasn′t it established that that was Mr. Meredith′s own

weapon?"

Jack shook his head.

38

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"The only thing that was established was that he had seen the body

and he picked up the pistol which was lying near the dead man. The

shot was fired as he opened the door of Mr. Briggerland′s house.

Then he saw the figure on the pavement and picked up the pistol.

He was in that position when Miss Briggerland, who testified against

him, came out of the house and saw him."

The detective nodded.

"I had nothing to do with the case," he said, "but I remember seeing

the weapon, and it was identical with this. I′ll talk to the chief and

let you know what he says about the whole affair. You′ll have to give

evidence at the inquest of course."

When he had gone the two men looked at one another.

"Well, Rennett, do you think we′re going to get into hot water, or are

we going to perjure our way to safety?"

"There′s no need for perjury, not serious perjury," said the other

carefully. "By the way, Jack, where was Briggerland the night Bulford

was murdered?"

"When Miss Jean Briggerland had recovered from her horror, she

went upstairs and aroused her father, who, despite the early hour,

was in bed and asleep. When the police came, or rather, when the

detective in charge of the case arrived, which must have been some

time after the policeman on point duty put in an appearance, Mr.

Briggerland was discovered in a picturesque dressing gown and, I

presume, no less picturesque pyjamas."

"Horrified, too, I suppose," said Rennett dryly.

39

---

Jack was silent for a long time. Then: "Rennett," he said, "do you

know I am more rattled about this girl than I am about any

consequences to ourselves."

"Which girl are you talking about?"

"About Mrs. Meredith. Whilst poor Meredith was alive she was in

no particular danger. But do you realise that what were advantages

from our point of view, namely, the fact that she had no relations in

the world, are to-day a source of considerable peril to this

unfortunate lady?"

"I had forgotten that," said Rennett thoughtfully. "What makes

matters a little more complicated, is the will which Meredith made

this morning before he was married."

Jack whistled.

"Did he make a will?" he said in surprise.

His partner nodded.

"You remember he was here with me for half an hour. Well, he

insisted upon writing out a will and my wife and Bolton, the butler,

witnessed it."

"And he has left his money----?"

"To his wife absolutely," replied the other. "The poor old chap was

so frantically keen on keeping the money out of the Briggerland

exchequer, that he was prepared to entrust the whole of his money

to a girl he had not seen."

Jack was serious now.

40

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"And the Briggerlands are her heirs? Do you realise that, Rennett--

there′s going to be hell!"

Mr. Rennett nodded.

"I thought that too," he said quietly.

Jack sank down in a seat, his face screwed up into a hideous frown,

and the elder man did not interrupt his thoughts. Suddenly Jack′s

face cleared and he smiled.

"Jaggs!" he said softly.

"Jaggs?" repeated his puzzled partner.

"Jaggs," said Jack, nodding, "he′s the fellow. We′ve got to meet

strategy with strategy, Rennett, and Jaggs is the boy to do it."

Mr. Rennett looked at him helplessly.

"Could Jaggs get us out of our trouble too?" he asked sarcastically.

"He could even do that," replied Jack.

"Then bring him along, for I have an idea he′ll have the time of his

life."

Chapter VII

Miss Jean Briggerland reached her home in Berkeley Street soon

after nine o′clock. She did not ring, but let herself in with a key and

went straight to the dining-room, where her father sat eating his

breakfast, with a newspaper propped up before him.

41

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He was the dark-skinned man whom Lydia had seen at the theatre,

and he looked up over his gold-rimmed spectacles as the girl came

in.

"You have been out very early," he said.

She did not reply, but slowly divesting herself of her sable coat she

threw it on to a chair, took off the toque that graced her shapely

head, and flung it after the coat. Then she drew out a chair, and sat

down at the table, her chin on her palms, her blue eyes fixed upon

her parent.

Nature had so favoured her that her face needed no artificial

embellishment--the skin was clear and fine of texture, and the cold

morning had brought only a faint pink to the beautiful face.

"Well, my dear," Mr. Briggerland looked up and beamed through his

glasses, "so poor Meredith has committed suicide?"

She did not speak, keeping her eyes fixed on him.

"Very sad, very sad," Mr. Briggerland shook his head.

"How did it happen?" she asked quietly.

Mr. Briggerland shrugged his shoulders.

"I suppose at the sight of you he bolted back to his hiding place

where--er--had been located by--er--interested persons during

the night, then seeing me by the shed--he committed the rash and

fatal act. Somehow I thought he would run back to his dug-out."

"And you were prepared for him?" she said.

He smiled.

42

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"A clear case of suicide, my dear," he said.

"Shot through the left temple, and the pistol was found in his right

hand," said the girl.

Mr. Briggerland started.

"Damn it," he said. "Who noticed that?"

"That good-looking young lawyer, Glover."

"Did the police notice?"

"I suppose they did when Glover called their attention to the fact,"

said the girl.

Mr. Briggerland took off his glasses and wiped them.

"It was done in such a hurry--I had to get back through the garden

gate to join the police. When I got there, I found they′d been

attracted by the shot and had entered the house. Still, nobody would

know I was in the garden, and anyway my association with the

capture of an escaped convict would not get into the newspapers."

"But a case of suicide would," said the girl. "Though I don′t

suppose the police will give away the person who informed them

that James Meredith would be at Dulwich Grange."

Mr. Briggerland sat back in his chair, his thick lips pursed, and he

was not a beautiful sight.

"One can′t remember everything," he grumbled.

He rose from his chair, went to the door, and locked it. Then he

crossed to a bureau, pulled open a drawer and took out a small

43

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revolver. He threw out the cylinder, glanced along the barrel and the

chambers to make sure it was not loaded, then clicked it back in

position, and standing before a glass, he endeavoured, the pistol in

his right hand, to bring the muzzle to bear on his left temple. He

found this impossible, and signified his annoyance with a grunt.

Then he tried the pistol with his thumb on the trigger and his hand

clasping the back of the butt. Here he was more successful.

"That′s it," he said with satisfaction. "It could have been done that

way."

She did not shudder at the dreadful sight, but watched him with the

keenest interest, her chin still in the palm of her hand. He might

have been explaining a new way of serving a tennis ball, for all the

emotion he evoked.

Mr. Briggerland came back to the table, toyed with a piece of toast

and buttered it leisurely.

"Everybody is going to Cannes this year," he said, "but I think I

shall stick to Monte Carlo. There is a quiet about Monte Carlo which

is very restful, especially if one can get a villa on the hill away from

the railway. I told Morden yesterday to take the new car across and

meet us at Boulogne. He says that the new body is exquisite. There

is a micraphonic attachment for telephoning to the driver, the

electrical heating apparatus is splendid and----"

"Meredith was married."

If she had thrown a bomb at him she could not have produced a

more tremendous sensation. He gaped at her, and pushed himself

back from the table.

"Married?" His voice was a squeak.

44

---

She nodded.

"It′s a lie," he roared. All his suavity dropped away from him, his

face was distorted and puckered with anger and grew a shade darker.

"Married, you lying little beast! He couldn′t have been married! It

was only a few minutes after eight, and the parson didn′t come till

nine. I′ll break your neck if you try to scare me! I′ve told you about

that before. . "

He raved on, and she listened unmoved.

"He was married at eight o′clock by a man they brought down from

Oxford, and who stayed the night in the house," she repeated with

great calmness. "There′s no sense in lashing yourself into a rage. I′ve

seen the bride, and spoken to the clergyman."

From the bullying, raging madman, he became a whimpering,

pitiable thing. His chin trembled, the big hands he laid on the

tablecloth shook with a fever.

"What are we going to do?" he wailed. "My God, Jean, what are we

going to do?"

She rose and went to the sideboard, poured out a stiff dose of

brandy from a decanter and brought it across to him without a

word. She was used to these tantrums, and to their inevitable ending.

She was neither hurt, surprised, nor disgusted. This pale, ethereal

being was the dominant partner of the combination. Nerves she did

not possess, fears she did not know. She had acquired the precise

sense of a great surgeon in whom pity was a detached emotion, and

one which never intruded itself into the operating chamber. She was

no more phenomenal than they, save that she did not feel bound by

the conventions and laws which govern them as members of an

ordered society. It requires no greater nerve to slay than to cure. She

45

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had had that matter out with herself, and had settled it to her own

satisfaction.

"You will have to put off your trip to Monte Carlo," she said, as he

drank the brandy greedily.

"We′ve lost everything now," he stuttered, "everything."

"This girl has no relations," said the daughter steadily. "Her heirs-at-

law are ourselves."

He put down the glass, and looked at her, and became almost

immediately his old self.

"My dear," he said admiringly, "you are really wonderful. Of course,

it was childish of me. Now what do you suggest?"

"Unlock that door," she said in a low voice, "I want to call the

maid."

As he walked to the door, she pressed the footbell, and soon after

the faded woman who attended her came into the room.

"Hart," she said, "I want you to find my emerald ring, the small one,

the little pearl necklet, and the diamond scarf pin. Pack them

carefully in a box with cotton wool."

"Yes, madam," said the woman, and went out.

"Now what are you going to do, Jean?" asked her father.

"I am returning them to Mrs. Meredith," said the girl coolly. "They

were presents given to me by her husband, and I feel after this tragic

ending of my dream that I can no longer bear the sight of them."

46

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"He didn′t give you those things, he gave you the chain. Besides, you

are throwing away good money?"

"I know he never gave them to me, and I am not throwing away

good money," she said patiently. "Mrs. Meredith will return them,

and she will give me an opportunity of throwing a little light upon

James Meredith, an opportunity which I very much desire."

Later she went up to her pretty little sitting-room on the first floor,

and wrote a letter.

"Dear Mrs. Meredith.--I am sending you the few trinkets which James gave to
me in happier days. They are all that I have of his, and you, as a woman, wil
realise that whilst the possession of them brings me many unhappy memories, yet
they have been a certain comfort to me. I wish I could dispose of memory as
easily as I send these to you (for I feel they are really your property) but more do
I wish that I could recall and obliterate the occasion which has made Mr. Glover
so bitter an enemy of mine.

"Thinking over the past, I see that I was at fault, but I know that you wil
sympathise with me when the truth is revealed to you. A young girl, unused to
the ways of men, perhaps I attached too much importance to Mr. Glover′s
attentions, and resented them too crudely. In those days I thought it was
unpardonable that a man who professed to be poor James′s best friend, should
make love to his fiancée, though I suppose that such things happen, and are
endured by the modern girl. A man does not readily forgive a woman for
making him feel a fool--it is the one unpardonable offence that a girl can
commit. Therefore, I do not resent his enmity as much as you might think.
Believe me, I feel for you very much in these trying days. Let me say again that I
hope your future wil be bright."

She blotted the letter, put it in an envelope, and addressed it, and

taking down a book from one of the well-stocked shelves, drew her

chair to the fire, and began reading.

47

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Mr. Briggerland came in an hour after, looked over her shoulder at

the title, and made a sound of disapproval.

"I can′t understand your liking for that kind of book," he said.

The book was one of the two volumes of "Chronicles of Crime,"

and she looked up with a smile.

"Can′t you? It′s very easily explained. It is the most encouraging

work in my collection. Sit down for a minute."

"A record of vulgar criminals," he growled. "Their infernal last

dying speeches, their processions to Tyburn--phaugh!"

She smiled again, and looked down at the book. The wide margins

were covered with pencilled notes in her writing.

"They′re a splendid mental exercise," she said. "In every case I have

written down how the criminal might have escaped arrest, but they

were all so vulgar, and so stupid. Really the police of the time

deserve no credit for catching them. It is the same with modern

criminals. . "

She went to the shelf, and took down two large scrap-books, carried

them across to the fire, and opened one on her knees.

"Vulgar and stupid, every one of them," she repeated, as she turned

the leaves rapidly.

"The clever ones get caught at times," said Briggerland gloomily.

"Never," she said, and closed the book with a snap. "In England, in

France, in America, and in almost every civilised country, there are

murderers walking about to-day, respected by their fellow citizens.

Murderers, of whose crimes the police are ignorant. Look at these."

48

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She opened the book again. "Here is the case of Rell, who poisons a

troublesome creditor with weed-killer. Everybody in the town knew

he bought the weed-killer; everybody knew that he was in debt to

this man. What chance had he of escaping? Here′s Jewelville--he

kills his wife, buries her in the cellar, and then calls attention to

himself by running away. Here′s Morden, who kills his sister-in-law

for the sake of her insurance money, and who also buys the poison

in broad daylight, and is found with a bottle in his pocket. Such

people deserve hanging."

"I wish to heaven you wouldn′t talk about hanging," said

Briggerland tremulously, "you′re inhuman, Jean, by God--"

"I′m an angel," she smiled, "and I have press cuttings to prove it!

The

Daily Recorder

had half a column on my appearance in the box at

Jim′s trial."

He looked over toward the writing-table, saw the letter, and picked it

up.

"So you′ve written to the lady. Are you sending her the jewels?"

She nodded.

He looked at her quickly.

"You haven′t been up to any funny business with them, have you?"

he asked suspiciously, and she smiled.

"My dear parent," drawled Jean Briggerland, "after my lecture on the

stupidity of the average criminal, do you imagine I should do

anything so

gauche

?"

49

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Chapter VIII

"And now, Mrs. Meredith," said Jack Glover, "what are you going to

do?"

He had spent the greater part of the morning with the new heiress,

and Lydia had listened, speechless, as he recited a long and

meaningless list of securities, of estates, of ground rents, balances

and the like, which she had inherited.

"What am I going to do?" she said, shaking her head, hopelessly. "I

don′t know. I haven′t the slightest idea, Mr. Glover. It is so

bewildering. Do I understand that all this property is mine?"

"Not yet," said Jack with a smile, "but it is so much yours that on the

strength of the will we are willing to advance you money to almost

any extent. The will has to be proved, and probate must be taken,

but when these legal formalities are settled, and we have paid the

very heavy death duties, you will be entitled to dispose of your

fortune as you wish. As a matter of fact," he added, "you could do

that now. At any rate, you cannot live here in Brinksome Street, and

I have taken the liberty of hiring a furnished flat on your behalf.

One of our clients has gone away to the Continent and left the flat

for me to dispose of. The rent is very low, about twenty guineas a

week."

"Twenty guineas a week!" gasped the horrified girl, "why, I can′t

----"

And then she realised that she "could."

Twenty guineas a week was as nothing to her. This fact more than

anything else, brought her to an understanding of her fortune.

50

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"I suppose I had better move," she said dubiously. "Mrs. Morgan is

giving up this house, and she asked me whether I had any plans. I

think she′d be willing to come as my housekeeper."

"Excellent," nodded Jack. "You′ll want a maid as well and, of course,

you will have to put up Jaggs for the nights."

"Jaggs?" she said in astonishment.

"Jaggs," repeated Jack solemnly. "You see, Miss--I beg your pardon,

Mrs. Meredith, I′m rather concerned about you, and I want you to

have somebody on hand I can rely on, sleeping in your flat at night.

I dare say you think I am an old woman," he said as he saw her

smile, "and that my fears are groundless, but you will agree that your

own experience of last week will support the theory that anything

may happen in London."

"But really, Mr. Glover, you don′t mean that I am in any serious

danger--from whom?"

"From a lot of people," he said diplomatically.

"From poor Miss Briggerland?" she challenged, and his eyes

narrowed.

"Poor Miss Briggerland," he said softly. "She certainly is poorer than

she expected to be."

"Nonsense," scoffed the girl. She was irritated, which was unusual in

her. "My dear Mr. Glover, why do you pursue your vendetta against

her? Do you think it is playing the game, honestly now? Isn′t it a

case of wounded vanity on your part?"

He stared at her in astonishment.

51

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"Wounded vanity? Do you mean pique?"

She nodded.

"Why should I be piqued?" he asked slowly.

"You know best," replied Lydia, and then a light dawned on him.

"Have I been making love to Miss Briggerland by any chance?" he

asked.

"You know best," she repeated.

"Good Lord!" and then he began to laugh, and she thought he

would never stop.

"I suppose I made love to her, and she was angry because I dared to

commit such an act of treachery to her fiancé! Yes, that was it. I

made love to her behind poor Jim′s back, and she ′ticked me off,′

and that′s why I′m so annoyed with her?"

"You have a very good memory," said Lydia, with a scornful little

smile.

"My memory isn′t as good as Miss Briggerland′s power of

invention," said Jack. "Doesn′t it strike you, Mrs. Meredith, that if I

had made love to that young lady, I should not be seen here to-day?"

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"I mean," said Jack Glover soberly, "that it would not have been

Bulford, but I, who would have been lured from his club by a

telephone message, and told to wait outside the door in Berkeley

Street. It would have been I, who would have been shot dead by

Miss Briggerland′s father from the drawing-room window."

52

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The girl looked at him in amazement.

"What a preposterous charge to make!" she said at last indignantly.

"Do you suggest that this girl has connived at a murder?"

"I not only suggest that she connived at it, but I stake my life that

she planned it," said Jack carefully.

"But the pistol was found near Mr. Bulford′s body," said Lydia

almost triumphantly, as she conceived this unanswerable argument.

Jack nodded.

"From Bulford′s body to the drawing-room window was exactly

nine feet. It was possible to pitch the pistol so that it fell near him.

Bulford was waiting there by the instructions of Jean Briggerland.

We have traced the telephone call that came through to him from

the club--it came from the Briggerlands′ house in Berkeley Street,

and the attendant at the club was sure it was a woman′s voice. We

didn′t find that out till after the trial. Poor Meredith was in the hall

when the shot was fired. The signal was given when he turned the

handle to let himself out. He heard the shot, rushed down the steps

and saw the body. Whether he picked up the pistol or not, I do not

know. Jean Briggerland swears he had it in his hand, but, of course,

Jean Briggerland is a hopeless liar!"

"You can′t know what you′re saying," said Lydia in a low voice. "It is

a dreadful charge to make, dreadful, against a girl whose very face

refutes such an accusation."

"Her face is her fortune," snapped Jack, and then penitently, "I′m

sorry I′m rude, but somehow the very mention of Jean Briggerland

arouses all that is worst in me. Now, you will accept Jaggs, won′t

you?"

53

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"Who is he?" she asked.

"He is an old army pensioner. A weird bird, as shrewd as the

dickens, in spite of his age a pretty powerful old fellow."

"Oh, he′s old," she said with some relief.

"He′s old, and in some ways, incapacitated. He hasn′t the use of his

right arm, and he′s a bit groggy in one of his ankles as the result of

a Boer bullet."

She laughed in spite of herself.

"He doesn′t sound a very attractive kind of guardian. He′s a

perfectly clean old bird, though I confess he doesn′t look it, and he

won′t bother you or your servants. You can give him a room where

he can sit, and you can give him a bit of bread and cheese, and a

glass of beer, and he′ll not bother you."

Lydia was amused now. It was absurd that Jack Glover should

imagine she needed a guardian at all, but if he insisted, as he did, it

would be better to have somebody as harmless as the unattractive

Jaggs.

"What time will he come?"

"At about ten o′clock every night, and he′ll leave you at about seven

in the morning. Unless you wish, you need never see him," said Jack.

"How did you come to know him?" she asked curiously.

"I know everybody," said the boastful young man, "you mustn′t

forget that I am a lawyer and have to meet very queer people."

He gathered up his papers and put them into his little bag.

54

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"And now what are your plans for to-day?" he demanded.

She resented the self-imposed guardianship which he had

undertaken, yet she could not forget what she owed him.

By some extraordinary means he had kept her out of the Meredith

case and she had not been called as a witness at the inquest.

Incidentally, in as mysterious a way he had managed to whitewash

his partner and himself, although the Law Society were holding an

inquiry of their own (this the girl did not know) it seemed likely that

he would escape the consequence of an act which was a flagrant

breach of the law.

"I am going to Mrs. Cole-Mortimer′s to tea," she said.

"Mrs. Cole-Mortimer?" he said quickly. "How do you come to know

that lady?"

"Really, Mr. Glover, you are almost impertinent," she smiled in spite

of her annoyance. "She came to call on me two or three days after

that dreadful morning. She knew Mr. Meredith and was an old

friend of the family′s."

"As a matter of fact," said Jack icily, "she did not know Meredith,

except to say ′how-do-you-do′ to him, and she was certainly not a

friend of the family. She is, however, a friend of Jean Briggerland."

"Jean Briggerland!" said the exasperated girl. "Can′t you forget her?

You are like the man in Dickens′s books--she′s your King Charles′s

head! Really, for a respectable and a responsible lawyer, you′re

simply eaten up with prejudices. Of course, she was a friend of Mr.

Meredith′s. Why, she brought me a photograph of him taken when

he was at Eton."

55

---

"Supplied by Jean Briggerland," said the unperturbed Jack calmly,

"and if she′d brought you a pair of socks he wore when he was a

baby I suppose you would have accepted those too."

"Now you are being really abominable," said the girl, "and I′ve got a

lot to do."

He paused at the door.

"Don′t forget you can move into Cavendish Mansions to-morrow.

I′ll send the key round, and the day you move in, Jaggs will turn up

for duty, bright and smiling. He doesn′t talk a great deal----"

"I don′t suppose you ever give the poor man a chance," she said

cuttingly.

Chapter IX

Mrs. Cole-Mortimer was a representative of a numerous class of

women who live so close to the border-line which separates good

society from society which is not quite as good, that the members

of either set thought she was in the other. She had a small house

where she gave big parties, and nobody quite knew how this widow

of an Indian colonel made both ends meet. It was the fact that her

menage was an expensive one to maintain; she had a car, she

entertained in London in the season, and disappeared from the

metropolis when it was the correct thing to disappear, a season of

exile which comes between the Goodwood Race Meeting in the

south and the Doncaster Race Meeting in the north.

Lydia had been surprised to receive a visit from this elegant lady, and

had readily accepted the story of her friendship with James

Meredith. Mrs. Cole-Mortimer′s invitation she had welcomed. She

needed some distraction, something which would smooth out the

56

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ravelled threads of life which were now even more tangled than she

had ever expected they could be.

Mr. Rennett had handed to her a thousand pounds the day after the

wedding, and when she had recovered from the shock of possessing

such a large sum, she hired a taxicab and indulged herself in a wild

orgy of shopping.

The relief she experienced when he informed her he was taking

charge of her affairs and settling the debts which had worried her

for three years was so great that she felt as though a heavy weight

had been lifted from her heart.

It was in one of her new frocks that Lydia, feeling more confident

than usual, made her call. She had expected to find a crowd at the

house in Hyde Park Crescent, and she was surprised when she was

ushered into the drawing-room to find only four people present.

Mrs. Cole-Mortimer was a chirpy, pale little woman of forty-

something. It would be ungallant to say how much that "something"

represented. She came toward Lydia with outstretched hands.

"My dear," she said with extravagant pleasure, "I am glad you were

able to come. You know Miss Briggerland and Mr. Briggerland?"

Lydia looked up at the tall figure of the man she had seen in the

stalls the night before her wedding and recognised him instantly.

"Mr. Marcus Stepney, I don′t think you have met."

Lydia bowed to a smart looking man of thirty, immaculately attired.

He was very handsome, she thought, in a dark way, but he was just a

little too "new" to please her. She did not like fashion-plate men,

and although the most captious of critics could not have found fault

57

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with his correct attire, he gave her the impression of being over-

dressed.

Lydia had not expected to meet Miss Briggerland and her father,

although she had a dim recollection that Mrs. Cole-Mortimer had

mentioned her name. Then in a flash she recalled the suspicions of

Jack Glover, which she had covered with ridicule. The association

made her feel a little uncomfortable, and Jean Briggerland, whose

intuition was a little short of uncanny, must have read the doubt in

her face.

"Mrs. Meredith expected to see us, didn′t she, Margaret?" she said,

addressing the twittering hostess. "Surely you told her we were great

friends?"

"Of course I did, my dear. Knowing your dear cousin and his dear

father, it was not remarkable that I should know the whole of the

family," and she smiled wisely from one to the other.

Of course! How absurd she was, thought Lydia. She had almost

forgotten, and probably Jack Glover had forgotten too, that the

Briggerlands and the Merediths were related.

She found herself talking in a corner of the room with the girl, and

fell to studying her face anew. A closer inspection merely

consolidated her earlier judgment. She smiled inwardly as she

remembered Jack Glover′s ridiculous warning. It was like killing a

butterfly with a steam hammer, to loose so much vengeance against

this frail piece of china.

"And how do you feel now that you′re very rich?" asked Jean kindly.

"I haven′t realised it yet," smiled Lydia.

Jean nodded.

58

---

"I suppose you have yet to settle with the lawyers. Who are they? Oh

yes, of course Mr. Glover was poor Jim′s solicitor." She sighed. "I

dislike lawyers," she said with a shiver, "they are so heavily paternal!

They feel that they and they only are qualified to direct your life and

your actions. I suppose it is second nature with them. Then, of

course, they make an awful lot of money out of commissions and

fees, though I′m sure Jack Glover wouldn′t worry about that. He′s

really a nice boy," she said earnestly, "and I don′t think you could

have a better friend."

Lydia glowed at the generosity of this girl whom the man had so

maligned.

"He has been very good to me," she said, "although, of course, he is

a little fussy."

Jean′s lips twitched with amusement.

"Has he warned you against me?" she asked solemnly. "Has he told

you what a terrible ogre I am?" And then without waiting for a

reply: "I sometimes think poor Jack is just a little--well, I wouldn′t

say mad, but a little queer. His dislikes are so violent. He positively

loathes Margaret, though why I have never been able to

understand."

"He doesn′t hate me," laughed Lydia, and Jean looked at her

strangely.

"No, I suppose not," she said. "I can′t imagine anybody hating you,

Lydia. May I call you by your Christian name?"

"I wish you would," said Lydia warmly.

"I can′t imagine anybody hating you," repeated the girl thoughtfully.

"And, of course, Jack wouldn′t hate you because you′re his client--a

59

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very rich and attractive client too, my dear." She tapped the girl′s

cheek and Lydia, for some reason, felt foolish.

But as though unconscious of the embarrassment she had caused,

Jean went on.

"I don′t really blame him, either. I′ve a shrewd suspicion that all

these warnings against me and against other possible enemies will

furnish a very excellent excuse for seeing you every day and acting as

your personal bodyguard!"

Lydia shook her head.

"That part of it he has relegated already," she said, giving smile for

smile. "He has appointed Mr. Jaggs as my bodyguard."

"Mr. Jaggs?" The tone was even, the note of inquiry was not

strained.

"He′s an old gentleman in whom Mr. Glover is interested, an old

army pensioner. Beyond the fact that he hasn′t the use of his right

arm, and limps with his left leg, and that he likes beer and cheese, he

seems an admirable watch dog," said Lydia humorously.

"Jaggs?" repeated the girl. "I wonder where I′ve heard that name

before. Is he a detective?"

"No, I don′t think so. But Mr. Glover thinks I ought to have some

sort of man sleeping in my new flat and Jaggs was duly engaged."

Soon after this Mr. Marcus Stepney came over and Lydia found him

rather uninteresting. Less boring was Briggerland, for he had a fund

of stories and experiences to relate, and he had, too, one of those

soft soothing voices that are so rare in men.

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It was dark when she came out with Mr. and Miss Briggerland, and

she felt that the afternoon had not been unprofitably spent.

For she had a clearer conception of the girl′s character, and was

getting Jack Glover′s interest into better perspective. The mercenary

part of it made her just a little sick. There was something so

mysterious, so ugly in his outlook on life, and there might not be a

little self-interest in his care for her.

She stood on the step of the house talking to the girl, whilst Mr.

Briggerland lit a cigarette with a patent lighter. Hyde Park Crescent

was deserted save for a man who stood near the railings which

protected the area of Mrs. Cole-Mortimer′s house. He was

apparently tying his shoe laces.

They went down on the sidewalk, and Mr. Briggerland looked for

his car.

"I′d like to take you home. My chauffeur promised to be here at four

o′clock. These men are most untrustworthy."

From the other end of the Crescent appeared the lights of a car. At

first Lydia thought it might be Mr. Briggerland′s, and she was going

to make her excuses for she wanted to go home alone. The car was

coming too, at a tremendous pace. She watched it as it came

furiously toward her, and she did not notice that Mr. Briggerland

and his daughter had left her standing alone on the sidewalk and had

withdrawn a few paces.

Suddenly the car made a swerve, mounted the sidewalk and dashed

upon her. It seemed that nothing could save her, and she stood

fascinated with horror, waiting for death.

Then an arm gripped her waist, a powerful arm that lifted her from

her feet and flung her back against the railings, as the car flashed

61

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past, the mud-guard missing her by an inch. The machine pulled up

with a jerk, and the white-faced girl saw Briggerland and Jean

running toward her.

"I should never have forgiven myself if anything had happened. I

think my chauffeur must be drunk," said Briggerland in an agitated

voice.

She had no words. She could only nod, and then she remembered

her preserver, and she turned to meet the solemn eyes of a bent old

man, whose pointed, white beard and bristling white eyebrows gave

him a hawk-like appearance. His right hand was thrust into his

pocket. He was touching his battered hat with the other.

"Beg pardon, miss," he said raucously, "name of Jaggs! And I have

reported for dooty!"

Chapter X

Jack Glover listened gravely to the story which the girl told. He had

called at her lodgings on the following morning to secure her

signature to some documents, and breathlessly and a little

shamefacedly, she told him what had happened.

"Of course it was an accident," she insisted, "in fact, Mr. and Miss

Briggerland were almost knocked down by the car. But you don′t

know how thankful I am your Mr. Jaggs was on the spot."

"Where is he now?" asked Jack.

"I don′t know," replied the girl. "He just limped away without

another word and I did not see him again, though I thought I caught

a glimpse of him as I came into this house last night. How did he

come to be on the spot?" she asked curiously.

62

---

"That is easily explained," replied Jack. "I told the old boy not to let

you out of his sight from sundown to sun up."

"Then you think I′m safe during the day?" she rallied him.

He nodded.

"I don′t know whether to laugh at you or to be very angry," she said,

shaking her head reprovingly. "Of course it was an accident!"

"I disagree with you," said Jack. "Did you catch a glimpse of the

chauffeur?"

"No," she said in surprise. "I didn′t think of looking at him."

He nodded.

"If you had, you would probably have seen an old friend, namely,

the gentleman who carried you off from the Erving Theatre," he

said quietly.

It was difficult for Lydia to analyse her own feelings. She knew that

Jack Glover was wrong, monstrously wrong. She was perfectly

confident that his fantastic theory had no foundation, and yet she

could not get away from his sincerity. Remembering Jean′s

description of him as "a little queer" she tried to fit that description

into her knowledge of him, only to admit to herself that he had

been exceptionally normal as far as she was concerned. The

suggestion that his object was mercenary, and that he looked upon

her as a profitable match for himself, she dismissed without

consideration.

"Anyway, I like your Mr. Jaggs," she said.

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"Better than you like me, I gather from your tone," smiled Jack.

"He′s not a bad old boy."

"He is a very strong old boy," she said. "He lifted me as though I

were a feather--I don′t know now how I escaped. The steering gear

went wrong," she explained unnecessarily.

"Dear me," said Jack politely, "and it went right again in time to

enable the chauffeur to keep clear of Briggerland and his angel

daughter!"

She gave a gesture of despair.

"You′re hopeless," she said. "These things happened in the dark

ages; men and women do not assassinate one another in the

twentieth century."

"Who told you that?" he demanded. "Human nature hasn′t changed

for two thousand years. The instinct to kill is as strong as ever, or

wars would be impossible. If any man or woman could commit one

cold-blooded murder, there is no reason why he or she should not

commit a hundred. In England, America, and France fifty cold-

blooded murders are detected every year. Twice that number are

undetected. It does not make the crime more impossible because the

criminal is good looking."

"You′re hopeless," she said again, and Jack made no further attempt

to convince her.

On the Thursday of that week she exchanged her lodgings for a

handsome flat in Cavendish Place, and Mrs. Morgan had promised

to join her a week later, when she had settled up her own business

affairs.

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Lydia was fortunate enough to get two maids from one of the

agencies, one of whom was to sleep on the premises. The flat was

not illimitable, and she regretted that she had promised to place a

room at the disposal of the aged Mr. Jaggs. If he was awake all night

as she presumed he would be, and slept in the day, he might have

been accommodated in the kitchen, and she hinted as much to Jack.

To her surprise the lawyer had turned down that idea.

"You don′t want your servants to know that you have a watchman."

"What do you imagine they will think he is?" she asked scornfully.

"How can I have an old gentleman in the flat without explaining

why he is there?"

"Your explanation could be that he did the boots."

"It wouldn′t take him all night to do the boots. Of course, I′m too

grateful to him to want him to do anything."

Mr. Jaggs reported again for duty that night. He came at half-past

nine, a shabby-looking old man, and Lydia, who had not yet got

used to her new magnificence, came out into the hall to meet him.

He was certainly not a prepossessing object, and Lydia discovered

that, in addition to his other misfortunes, he had a slight squint.

"I hadn′t an opportunity of thanking you the other day, Mr. Jaggs,"

she said. "I think you saved my life."

"That′s all right, miss," he said, in his hoarse voice. "Dooty is

dooty!"

She thought he was looking past her, till she realised that his curious

slanting line of vision was part of his infirmity.

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"I′ll show you to your room," she said hastily.

She led the way down the corridor, opened the door of a small

room which had been prepared for him, and switched on the light.

"Too much light for me, miss," said the old man, shaking his head.

"I like to sit in the dark and listen, that′s what I like, to sit in the dark

and listen."

"But you can′t sit in the dark, you′ll want to read, won′t you?"

"Can′t read, miss," said Jaggs cheerfully. "Can′t write, either. I don′t

know that I′m any worse off."

Reluctantly she switched out the light.

"But you won′t be able to see your food."

"I can feel for that, miss," he said with a hoarse chuckle. "Don′t you

worry about me. I′ll just sit here and have a big think."

If she was uncomfortable before, she was really embarrassed now.

The very sight of the door behind which old Jaggs sat having his

"big think" was an irritation to her. She could not sleep for a long

time that night for thinking of him sitting in the darkness, and

"listening" as he put it, and had firmly resolved on ending a

condition of affairs which was particularly distasteful to her, when

she fell asleep.

She woke when the maid brought her tea, to learn that Jaggs had

gone.

The maid, too, had her views on the "old gentleman." She hadn′t

slept all night for the thought of him, she said, though probably this

was an exaggeration.

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The arrangement must end, thought Lydia, and she called at Jack

Glover′s office that afternoon to tell him so. Jack listened without

comment until she had finished.

"I′m sorry he is worrying you, but you′ll get used to him in time, and

I should be obliged if you kept him for a month. You would relieve

me of a lot of anxiety."

At first she was determined to have her way, but he was so

persistent, so pleading, that eventually she surrendered.

Lucy, the new maid, however, was not so easily convinced.

"I don′t like it, miss," she said, "he′s just like an old tramp, and I′m

sure we shall be murdered in our beds."

"How cheerful you are, Lucy," laughed Lydia. "Of course, there is

no danger from Mr. Jaggs, and he really was very useful to me."

The girl grumbled and assented a little sulkily, and Lydia had a

feeling that she was going to lose a good servant. In this she was not

mistaken.

Old Jaggs called at half-past nine that night, and was admitted by the

maid, who stalked in front of him and opened his door.

"There′s your room," she snapped, "and I′d rather have your room

than your company."

"Would you, miss?" wheezed Jaggs, and Lydia, attracted by the

sound of voices, came to the door and listened with some

amusement.

"Lord, bless me life, it ain′t a bad room, either. Put the light out, my

dear, I don′t like light. I like ′em dark, like them little cells in

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Holloway prison, where you were took two years ago for robbing

your missus."

Lydia′s smile left her face. She heard the girl gasp.

"You old liar!" she hissed.

"Lucy Jones you call yourself--you used to be Mary Welch in them

days," chuckled old Jaggs.

"I′m not going to be insulted," almost screamed Lucy, though there

was a note of fear in her strident voice. "I′m going to leave to-

night."

"No you ain′t, my dear," said old Jaggs complacently. "You′re going

to sleep here to-night, and you′re going to leave in the morning. If

you try to get out of that door before I let you, you′ll be pinched."

"They′ve got nothing against me," the girl was betrayed into saying.

"False characters, my dear. Pretending to come from the agency,

when you didn′t. That′s another crime. Lord bless your heart, I′ve

got enough against you to put you in jail for a year."

Lydia came forward.

"What is this you′re saying about my maid?"

"Good evening, ma′am."

The old man knuckled his forehead.

"I′m just having an argument with your young lady."

"Do you say she is a thief?"

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"Of course she is, miss," said Jaggs scornfully. "You ask her!"

But Lucy had gone into her room, slammed the door and locked it.

The next morning when Lydia woke, the flat was empty, save for

herself. But she had hardly finished dressing when there came a

knock at the door, and a trim, fresh-looking country girl, with an

expansive smile and a look of good cheer that warmed Lydia′s heart,

appeared.

"You′re the lady that wants a maid, ma′am, aren′t you?"

"Yes," said Lydia in surprise. "But who sent you?"

"I was telegraphed for yesterday, ma′am, from the country."

"Come in," said Lydia helplessly.

"Isn′t it right?" asked the girl a little disappointedly. "They sent me

my fare. I came up by the first train."

"It is quite all right," said Lydia, "only I′m wondering who is running

this flat, me or Mr. Jaggs?"

Chapter XI

Jean Briggerland had spent a very busy afternoon. There had been a

string of callers at the handsome house in Berkeley Street.

Mr. Briggerland was of a philanthropic bent, and had instituted a

club in the East End of London which was intended to raise the

moral tone of Limehouse, Wapping, Poplar and the adjacent

districts. It was started without ostentation with a man named Faire

as general manager. Mr. Faire had had in his lifetime several hectic

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contests with the police, in which he had been invariably the loser.

And it was in his role as a reformed character that he undertook the

management of this social uplift club.

Well-meaning police officials had warned Mr. Briggerland that Faire

had a bad character. Mr. Briggerland listened, was grateful for the

warning, but explained that Faire had come under the influence of

the new uplift movement, and from henceforward he would be an

exemplary citizen. Later, the police had occasion to extend their

warning to its founder. The club was being used by known criminal

characters; men who had already been in jail and were qualifying for

a return visit.

Again Mr. Briggerland pointed to the object of the institution which

was to bring bad men into the society of good men and women,

and to arouse in them a desire for better things. He quoted a famous

text with great effect. But still the police were unconvinced.

It was the practice of Miss Jean Briggerland to receive selected

members of the club and to entertain them at tea in Berkeley Street.

Her friends thought it was very "sweet" and very "daring," and

wondered whether she wasn′t afraid of catching some kind of

disease peculiar to the East End of London. But Jean did not worry

about such things. On this afternoon, after the last of her callers had

gone, she went down to the little morning-room where such

entertainments occurred and found two men, who rose awkwardly

as she entered.

The gentle influence of the club had not made them look anything

but what they were. "Jail-bird" was written all over them.

"I′m very glad you men have come," said Jean sweetly. "Mr. Hoggins

----"

"That′s me, miss," said one, with a grin.

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"And Mr. Talmot."

The second man showed his teeth.

"I′m always glad to see members of the club," said Jean busy with

the teapot, "especially men who have had so bad a time as you have.

You have only just come out of prison, haven′t you, Mr. Hoggins?"

she asked innocently.

Hoggins went red and coughed.

"Yes, miss," he said huskily and added inconsequently, "I didn′t do

it!"

"I′m sure you were innocent," she said with a smile of sympathy,

"and really if you were guilty I don′t think you men are so much to

blame. Look what a bad time you have! What disadvantages you

suffer, whilst here in the West End people are wasting money that

really ought to go to your wives and children."

"That′s right," said Mr. Hoggins.

"There′s a girl I know who is tremendously rich," Jean prattled on.

"She lives at 84, Cavendish Mansions, just on the top floor, and, of

course, she′s very foolish to sleep with her windows open, especially

as people could get down from the roof--there is a fire escape

there. She always has a lot of jewellery--keeps it under her pillow I

think, and there is generally a few hundred pounds scattered about

the bedroom. Now that is what I call putting temptation in the way

of the weak."

She lifted her blue eyes, saw the glitter in the man′s eyes and went

on.

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"I′ve told her lots of times that there is danger, but she only laughs.

There is an old man who sleeps in the house--quite a feeble old

man who has only the use of one arm. Of course, if she cried out, I

suppose he would come to her rescue, but then a real burglar

wouldn′t let her cry out, would he?" she asked.

The two men looked at one another.

"No," breathed one.

"Especially as they could get clean away if they were clever," said

Jean, "and it isn′t likely that they would leave her in a condition to

betray them, is it?"

Mr. Hoggins cleared his throat.

"It′s not very likely, miss," he said.

Jean shrugged her shoulders.

"Women do these things, and then they blame the poor man to

whom a thousand pounds would be a fortune because he comes and

takes it. Personally, I should not like to live at 84, Cavendish

Mansions."

"84, Cavendish Mansions," murmured Mr. Hoggins absent-

mindedly.

His last sentence had been one of ten years′ penal servitude. His

next sentence would be for life. Nobody knew this better than Jean

Briggerland as she went on to talk of the club and of the wonderful

work which it was doing.

She dismissed her visitors and went back to her sitting-room. As she

turned to go up the stairway her maid intercepted her.

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"Mary is in your room, miss," she said in a low voice.

Jean frowned but made no reply.

The woman who stood awkwardly in the centre of the room

awaiting the girl, greeted her with an apologetic smile.

"I′m sorry, miss," she said, "but I lost my job this morning. That old

man spotted me. He′s a split--a detective."

Jean Briggerland regarded her with an unmoved face save that her

beautiful mouth took on the pathetic little droop which had excited

the pity of a judge and an army of lawyers.

"When did this happen?" she asked.

"Last night, miss. He came and I got a bit cheeky to him, and he

turned on me, the old devil, and told me my real name and that I′d

got the job by forging recommendations."

Jean sat down slowly in the padded Venetian chair before her writing

table.

"Jaggs?" she asked.

"Yes, miss."

"And why didn′t you come here at once?"

"I thought I might be followed, miss."

The girl bit her lip and nodded.

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"You did quite right," she said, and then after a moment′s reflection,

"We shall be in Paris next week. You had better go by the night train

and wait for us at the flat."

She gave the maid some money and after she had gone, sat for an

hour before the fire looking into its red depths.

She rose at last a little stiffly, pulled the heavy silken curtain across

the windows and switched on the light, and there was a smile on her

face that was very beautiful to see. For in that hour came an

inspiration.

She sought her father in his study and told him her plan, and he

blanched and shivered with the very horror of it.

Chapter XII

Mr. Briggerland, it seemed, had some other object in life than the

regeneration of the criminal classes. He was a sociologist--a loose

title which covers a great deal of inquisitive investigation into other

people′s affairs. Moreover, he had published a book on the subject.

His name was on the title page and the book had been reviewed to

his credit; though in truth he did no more than suggest the title, the

work in question having been carried out by a writer on the subject

who, for a consideration, had allowed Mr. Briggerland to adopt the

child of his brain.

On a morning when pale yellow sunlight brightened his dining-

room, Mr. Briggerland put down his newspaper and looked across

the table at his daughter. He had a club in the East End of London

and his manager had telephoned that morning sending a somewhat

unhappy report.

"Do you remember that man Talmot, my dear?" he asked.

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She nodded, and looked up quickly.

"Yes, what about him?"

"He′s in hospital," said Mr. Briggerland. "I fear that he and Hoggins

were engaged in some nefarious plan and that in making an attempt

to enter--as, of course, they had no right to enter--a block of flats

in Cavendish Place, poor Talmot slipped and fell from the fourth

floor window-sill, breaking his leg. Hoggins had to carry him to

hospital."

The girl reached for bacon from the hot plate.

"He should have broken his neck," she said calmly. "I suppose now

the police are making tender inquiries?"

"No, no," Mr. Briggerland hastened to assure her. "Nobody knows

anything about it, not even the--er--fortunate occupant of the flat

they were evidently trying to burgle. I only learnt of it because the

manager of the club, who gets information of this character,

thought I would be interested."

"Anyway I′m glad they didn′t succeed," said Jean after a while. "The

possibility of their trying rather worried me. The Hoggins type is

such a bungler that it was almost certain they would fail."

It was a curious fact that whilst her father made the most guarded

references to all their exploits and clothed them with garments of

euphemism, his daughter never attempted any such disguise. The

psychologist would find in Mr. Briggerland′s reticence the embryo

of a once dominant rectitude, no trace of which remained in his

daughter′s moral equipment.

"I have been trying to place this man Jaggs," she went on with a

little puzzled frown, "and he completely baffles me. He arrives every

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night in a taxicab, sometimes from St. Pancras, sometimes from

Euston, sometimes from London Bridge Station."

"Do you think he is a detective?"

"I don′t know," she said thoughtfully. "If he is, he has been

imported from the provinces. He is not a Scotland Yard man. He

may, of course, be an old police pensioner, and I have been trying to

trace him from that source."

"It should not be difficult to find out all about him," said Mr.

Briggerland easily. "A man with his afflictions should be pretty well-

known."

He looked at his watch.

"My appointment at Norwood is at eleven o′clock," he said. He

made a little grimace of disgust.

"Would you rather I went?" asked the girl.

Mr. Briggerland would much rather that she had undertaken the

disagreeable experience which lay before him, but he dare not

confess as much.

"You, my dear? Of course not! I would not allow you to have such

an experience. No, no, I don′t mind it a bit."

Nevertheless, he tossed down two long glasses of brandy before he

left.

His car set him down before the iron gates of a squat and ugly

stucco building, surrounded by high walls, and the uniformed

attendant, having examined his credentials, admitted him. He had to

wait a little while before a second attendant arrived to conduct him

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to the medical superintendent, an elderly man who did not seem

overwhelmed with joy at the honour Mr. Briggerland was paying

him.

"I′m sorry I shan′t be able to show you round, Mr. Briggerland," he

said. "I have an engagement in town, but my assistant, Dr. Carew,

will conduct you over the asylum and give you all the information

you require. This, of course, as you know, is a private institution. I

should have thought you would have got more material for your

book in one of the big public asylums. The people who are sent to

Norwood, you know, are not the mild cases, and you will see some

rather terrible sights. You are prepared for that?"

Mr. Briggerland nodded. He was prepared to the extent of two full

noggins of brandy. Moreover, he was well aware that Norwood was

the asylum to which the more dangerous of lunatics were

transferred.

Dr. Carew proved to be a young and enthusiastic alienist whose

heart and soul was in his work.

"I suppose you are prepared to see jumpy things," he said with a

smile, as he conducted Mr. Briggerland along a stone-vaulted

corridor.

He opened a steel gate, the bars of which were encased with thick

layers of rubber, crossed a grassy plot (there were no stone-flagged

paths at Norwood) and entered one of the three buildings which

constituted the asylum proper.

It was a harrowing, heart-breaking, and to some extent, a

disappointing experience for Mr. Briggerland. True, his heart did not

break, because it was made of infrangible material, and his

disappointment was counter-balanced by a certain vague relief.

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At the end of two hours′ inspection they were standing out on the

big playing fields, watching the less violent of the patients

wandering aimlessly about. Except one, they were unattended by

keepers, but in the case of this one man, two stalwart uniformed

men walked on either side of him.

"Who is he?" asked Briggerland.

"That is rather a sad case," said the alienist cheerfully. He had

pointed out many "sad cases" in the same bright manner. "He′s a

doctor and a genuine homicide. Luckily they detected him before he

did any mischief or he would have been in Broadmoor."

"Aren′t you ever afraid of these men escaping?" asked Mr.

Briggerland.

"You asked that before," said the doctorin surprise. "No. You see, an

insane asylum is not like a prison; to make a good get-away from

prison you have to have outside assistance. Nobody wants to help a

lunatic escape, otherwise it would be easier than getting out of

prison, because we have no patrols in the grounds, the wards can be

opened from the outside without a key and the night patrol who

visits the wards every half-hour has no time for any other

observation. Would you like to talk to Dr. Thun?"

Mr. Briggerland hesitated only for a second.

"Yes," he said huskily.

There was nothing in the appearance of the patient to suggest that

he was in any way dangerous. A fair, bearded man, with pale blue

eyes, he held out his hand impulsively to the visitor, and after a

momentary hesitation, Mr. Briggerland took it and found his hand

in a grip like a vice. The two attendants exchanged glances with the

asylum doctor and strolled off.

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"I think you can talk to him without fear," said the doctor in a low

voice, not so low, however, that the patient did not hear it, for he

laughed.

"Without fear, favour or prejudice, eh? Yes, that was how they swore

the officers at my court martial."

"The doctor was the general who was responsible for the losses at

Caperetto," explained Dr. Carew. "That was where the Italians lost

so heavily."

Thun nodded.

"Of course, I was perfectly innocent," he explained to Briggerland

seriously, and taking the visitor′s arm he strolled across the field, the

doctor and the two attendants following at a distance. Mr.

Briggerland breathed a little more quickly as he felt the strength of

the patient′s biceps.

"My conviction," said Dr. Thun seriously, "was due to the fact that

women were sitting on the court martial, which is, of course, against

all regulations."

"Certainly," murmured Mr. Briggerland.

"Keeping me here," Thun went on, "is part of the plot of the Italian

government. Naturally, they do not wish me to get at my enemies,

who I have every reason to believe are in London."

Mr. Briggerland drew a long breath.

"They are in London," he said a little hoarsely. "I happen to know

where they are."

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"Really?" said the other easily, and then a cloud passed over his face

and he shook his head.

"They are safe from my vengeance," he said a little sadly. "As long as

they keep me in this place pretending that I am mad, there is no

possible chance for me."

The visitor looked round and saw that the three men who were

following were out of ear shot.

"Suppose I came to-morrow night," he said, lowering his voice, "and

helped you to get away? What is your ward?"

"No. 6," said the other in the same tone. His eyes were blazing.

"Do you think you will remember?" asked Briggerland.

Thun nodded.

"You will come to-morrow night--No. 6, the first cubicle on the

left," he whispered, "you will not fail me? If I thought you′d fail me

----" His eyes lit up again.

"I shall not fail you," said Mr. Briggerland hastily. "When the clock

strikes twelve you may expect me."

"You must be Marshal Foch," murmured Thun, and then with all a

madman′s cunning, changed the conversation as the doctor and

attendants, who had noticed his excitement, drew nearer. "Believe

me, Mr. Briggerland," he went on airily, "the strategy of the Allies

was at fault until I took up the command of the army. . "

Ten minutes later Mr. Briggerland was in his car driving homeward,

a little breathless, more than a little terrified at the unpleasant task

he had set himself; jubilant, too, at his amazing success.

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Jean had said he might have to visit a dozen asylums before he

found his opportunity and the right man, and he had succeeded at

the first attempt. Yet--he shuddered at the picture he conjured--

that climb over the high wall (he had already located the ward, for

he had followed the General and the attendants and had seen him

safely put away), the midnight association with a madman. .

He burst in upon Jean with his news.

"At the first attempt, my dear, what do you think of that?" His dark

face glowed with almost childish pride, and she looked at him with a

half-smile.

"I thought you would," she said quietly. "That′s the rough work

done, at any rate."

"The rough work!" he said indignantly.

She nodded.

"Half the difficulty is going to be to cover up your visit to the

asylum, because this man is certain to mention your name, and it

will not all be dismissed as the imagination of a madman. Now I

think I will make my promised call upon Mrs. Meredith."

Chapter XIII

There was one thing which rather puzzled and almost piqued Lydia

Meredith, and that was the failure of Jean Briggerland′s prophecy to

materialise. Jean had said half jestingly that Jack Glover would be a

frequent visitor at the flat; in point of fact, he did not come at all.

Even when she visited the offices of Rennett, Glover and Simpson,

it was Mr. Rennett who attended to her, and Jack was invisible. Mr.

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Rennett sometimes explained that he was at the courts, for Jack did

all the court work, sometimes that he had gone home.

She caught a glimpse of him once as she was driving past the Law

Courts in the Strand. He was standing on the pavement talking to a

be-wigged counsel, so possibly Mr. Rennett had not stated more

than the truth when he said that the young man′s time was mostly

occupied by the processes of litigation.

She was curious enough to look through the telephone directory to

discover where he lived. There were about fifty Glovers, and ten of

these were John Glovers, and she was enough of a woman to call up

six of the most likely only to discover that her Mr. Glover was not

amongst them. She did not know till later that his full name was

Bertram John Glover, or she might have found his address without

difficulty.

Mrs. Morgan had now arrived, to Lydia′s infinite relief, and had

taken control of the household affairs. The new maid was as perfect

as a new maid could be, and but for the nightly intrusion of the

taciturn Jaggs, to whom, for some reason, Mrs. Morgan took a

liking, the current of her domestic life ran smoothly.

She was already becoming accustomed to the possession of wealth.

The habit of being rich is one of the easiest acquired, and she found

herself negotiating for a little house in Curzon Street and a more

pretentious establishment in Somerset, with a sangfroid which

astonished and frightened her.

The purchase and arrival of her first car, and the engagement of her

chauffeur had been a thrilling experience. It was incredible, too, that

her new bankers should, without hesitation, deliver to her enormous

sums of money at the mere affixing of her signature to an oblong

slip of paper.

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She had even got over the panic feeling which came to her on her

first few visits to the bank. On these earlier occasions she had felt

rather like an inexpert forger, who was endeavouring to get money

by false pretence, and it was both a relief and a wonder to her when

the nonchalant cashier thrust thick wads of bank-notes under the

grille, without so much as sending for a policeman.

"It′s a lovely flat," said Jean Briggerland, looking round the pink

drawing-room approvingly, "but of course, my dear, this is one that

was already furnished for you. I′m dying to see what you will make

of your own home when you get one."

She had telephoned that morning to Lydia saying that she was

paying a call, asking if it was convenient, and the two girls were

alone.

"It

is

a nice flat, and I shall be sorry to leave it," agreed Lydia. "It is

so extraordinarily quiet. I sleep like a top. There is no noise to

disturb one, except that there was rather an unpleasant happening

the other morning."

"What was that?" asked Jean, stirring her tea.

"I don′t know really what happened," said Lydia. "I heard an awful

groaning very early in the morning and I got up and looked out of

the window. There were two men in the courtyard. One, I think, had

hurt himself very badly. I never discovered what happened."

"They must have been workmen, I should think," said Jean, "or else

they were drunk. Personally, I have never liked taking furnished

flats," she went on. "One always breaks things, and there′s such a big

bill to pay at the end. And then I always lose the keys. One usually

has two or three. You should be very careful about that, my dear,

they make an enormous charge for lost keys," she prattled on.

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"I think the house agent gave me three," said Lydia. She walked to

her little secretaire, opened it and pulled out a drawer.

"Yes, three," she said, "there is one here, one I carry, and Mrs.

Morgan has one."

"Have you seen Jack Glover lately?"

Jean never pursued an enquiry too far, by so much as one syllable.

"No, I haven′t seen him," smiled Lydia, "You weren′t a good

prophet."

"I expect he is busy," said the girl carelessly. "I think I could like Jack

awfully--if he hadn′t such a passion for ordering people about.

How careless of me!" She had tipped over her teacup and its

contents were running across the little tea table. She pulled out her

handkerchief quickly and tried to stop the flow.

"Oh, please, please don′t spoil your beautiful handkerchief," said

Lydia, rising hurriedly, "I will get a duster."

She ran out of the room and was back almost immediately, to find

Jean standing with her back to the secretaire examining the ruins of

her late handkerchief with a smile.

"Let me put your handkerchief in water or it will be stained," said

Lydia, putting out her hand.

"I would rather do it myself," laughed Jean Briggerland, and pushed

the handkerchief into her bag.

There were many reasons why Lydia should not handle that flimsy

piece of cambric and lace, the most important of which was the key

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which Jean had taken from the secretaire in Lydia′s absence, and had

rolled inside the tea-stained handkerchief.

A few days later Mr. Bertram John Glover interviewed a high official

at Scotland Yard, and the interview was not a particularly

satisfactory one to the lawyer. It might have been worse, had not the

police commissioner been a friend of Jack′s partner.

The official listened patiently whilst the lawyer, with professional

skill, marshalled all his facts, attaching to them the suspicions which

had matured to convictions.

"I have sat in this chair for twenty-five years," said the head of the

C.I.D., "and I have heard stories which beat the best and the worst

of detective stories hollow. I have listened to cranks, amateur

detectives, crooks, parsons and expert fictionists, but never in my

experience have I ever heard anything quite so improbable as your

theory. It happens that I have met Briggerland and I′ve met his

daughter too, and a more beautiful girl I don′t think it has been my

pleasure to meet."

Jack groaned.

"Aren′t you feeling well?" asked the chief unpleasantly.

"I′m all right, sir," said Jack, "only I′m so tired of hearing about Jean

Briggerland′s beauty. It doesn′t seem a very good argument to

oppose to the facts--"

"Facts!" said the other scornfully. "What facts have you given us?"

"The fact of the Briggerlands′ history," said Jack desperately.

"Briggerland was broke when he married Miss Meredith under the

impression that he would get a fortune with his wife. He has lived

by his wits all his life, and until this girl was about fifteen, they were

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existing in a state of poverty. They lived in a tiny house in Ealing,

the rent of which was always in arrears, and then Briggerland

became acquainted with a rich Australian of middle age who was

crazy about his daughter. The rich Australian died suddenly."

"From an overdose of veronal," said the chief. "It was established at

the inquest--I got all the documents out after I received your letter

--that he was in the habit of taking veronal. You suggest he was

murdered. If he was, for what? He left the girl about six thousand

pounds."

"Briggerland thought she was going to get it all," said Jack.

"That is conjecture," interrupted the chief. "Go on."

"Briggerland moved up west," Jack went on, "and when the girl was

seventeen she made the acquaintance of a man named Gunnesbury,

who went just as mad about her. Gunnesbury was a midland

merchant with a wife and family. He was so infatuated with her that

he collected all the loose money he could lay his hands on--some

twenty-five thousand pounds--and bolted to the continent. The girl

was supposed to have gone on ahead, and he was to join her at

Calais. He never reached Calais. The theory was that he jumped

overboard. His body was found and brought in to Dover, but there

was none of the money in his possession that he had drawn from

the Midland Bank."

"That is a theory, too," said the chief, shaking his head. "The identity

of the girl was never established. It was known that she was a friend

of Gunnesbury′s, but there was proof that she was in London on

the night of his death. It was a clear case of suicide."

"A year later," Jack went on, "she forced a meeting with Meredith,

her cousin. His father had just died--Jim had come back from

Central Africa to put things in order. He was not a woman′s man,

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and was a grave, retiring sort of fellow, who had no other interest in

life than his shooting. The story of Meredith you know."

"And is that all?" asked the chief politely.

"All the facts I can gather. There must be other cases which are

beyond the power of the investigator to unearth."

"And what do you expect me to do?"

Jack smiled.

"I don′t expect you to do anything," he said frankly. "You are not

exactly supporting my views with enthusiasm."

The chief rose, a signal that the interview was at an end.

"I′d like to help you if you had any real need for help," he said. "But

when you come to me and tell me that Miss Briggerland, a girl

whose innocence shows in her face, is a heartless criminal and

murderess, and a conspirator--why, Mr. Glover, what do you expect

me to say?"

"I expect you to give adequate protection to Mrs. Meredith," said

Jack sharply. "I expect you, sir, to remember that I′ve warned you

that Mrs. Meredith may die one of those accidental deaths in which

Mr. and Miss Briggerland specialise. I′m going to put my warning in

black and white, and if anything happens to Lydia Meredith, there is

going to be serious trouble on the Thames Embankment."

The chief touched a bell, and a constable came in.

"Show Mr. Glover the way out," he said stiffly.

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Jack had calmed down considerably by the time he reached the

Thames Embankment, and was inclined to be annoyed with himself

for losing his temper.

He stopped a newsboy, took a paper from his hand, and, hailing a

cab, drove to his office.

There was little in the early edition save the sporting news, but on

the front page a paragraph arrested his eye.

"DANGEROUS LUNATIC AT LARGE."

"The Medical Superintendent at Norwood Asylum reports that Dr.

Algernon John Thun, an inmate of the asylum, escaped last night,

and is believed to be at large in the neighbourhood. Search parties

have been organised, but no trace of the man has been found. He is

known to have homicidal tendencies, a fact which renders his

immediate recapture a very urgent necessity."

There followed a description of the wanted man. Jack turned to

another part of the paper, and dismissed the paragraph from his

mind.

His partner, however, was to bring the matter up at lunch. Norwood

Asylum was near Dulwich, and Mr. Rennett was pardonably

concerned.

"The womenfolk at my house are scared to death," he said at lunch.

"They won′t go out at night, and they keep all the doors locked.

How did your interview with the commissioner go on?"

"We parted the worst of friends," said Jack, "and, Rennett, the next

man who talks to me about Jean Briggerland′s beautiful face is going

to be killed dead through it, even though I have to take a leaf from

her book and employ the grisly Jaggs to do it."

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Chapter XIV

That night the "grisly Jaggs" was later than usual. Lydia heard him

shuffling along the passage, and presently the door of his room

closed with a click. She was sitting at the piano, and had stopped

playing at the sound of his knock, and when Mrs. Morgan came in

to announce his arrival, she closed the piano and swung round on

the music stool, a look of determination on her delicate face.

"He′s come, miss."

"And for the last time," said Lydia ominously. "Mrs. Morgan, I can′t

stand that weird old gentleman any longer. He has got on my nerves

so that I could scream when I think of him."

"He′s not a bad old gentleman," excused Mrs. Morgan.

"I′m not so worried about his moral character, and I dare say that it

is perfectly blameless," said Lydia determinedly, "but I have written a

note to Mr. Glover to tell him that I really must dispense with his

services."

"What′s he here for, miss?" asked Mrs. Morgan.

Her curiosity had been aroused, but this was the first time she had

given it expression.

"He′s here because----" Lydia hesitated, "well, because Mr. Glover

thinks I ought to have a man in the house to look after me."

"Why, miss?" asked the startled woman.

"You′d better ask Mr. Glover that question," said Lydia grimly.

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She was beginning to chafe under the sense of restraint. She was

being "school-marmed" she thought. No girl likes the ostentatious

protection of the big brother or the head mistress. The soul of the

schoolgirl yearns to break from the "crocodile" in which she is

marched to church and to school, and this sensation of being

marshalled and ordered about, and of living her life according to a

third person′s programme, and that third person a man, irked her

horribly.

Old Jaggs was the outward and visible sign of Jack Glover′s

unwarranted authority, and slowly there was creeping into her mind

a suspicion that Jean Briggerland might not have been mistaken

when she spoke of Jack′s penchant for "ordering people about."

Life was growing bigger for her. She had broken down the barriers

which had confined her to a narrow promenade between office and

home. The hours which she had had to devote to work were now

entirely free, and she could sketch or paint whenever the fancy took

her--which was not very often, though she promised herself a

period of hard work when once she was settled down.

Toward the good-looking young lawyer her point of view had

shifted. She hardly knew herself how she regarded him. He irritated,

and yet in some indefinable way, pleased her. His sincerity--? She

did not doubt his sincerity. She admitted to herself that she wished

he would call a little more frequently than he did. He might have

persuaded her that Jaggs was a necessary evil, but he hadn′t even

taken the trouble to come. Therefore--but this she did not admit--

Jaggs must go.

"I don′t think the old gentleman′s quite right in his head, you know,

sometimes," said Mrs. Morgan.

"Why ever not, Mrs. Morgan?" asked the girl in surprise.

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"I often hear him sniggering to himself as I go past his door. I

suppose he stays in his room all night, miss?"

"He doesn′t," said the girl emphatically, "and that′s why he′s going. I

heard him in the passage at two o′clock this morning; I′m getting

into such a state of nerves that the slightest sound awakens me. He

had his boots off and was creeping about in his stockings, and when

I went out and switched the light on he bolted back to his room. I

can′t have that sort of thing going on, and I won′t! it′s altogether too

creepy!"

Mrs. Morgan agreed.

Lydia had not been out in the evening for several days, she

remembered, as she began to undress for the night. The weather

had been unpleasant, and to stay in the warm, comfortable flat was

no great hardship. Even if she had gone out, Jaggs would have

accompanied her, she thought ironically.

And then she had a little twinge of conscience, remembering that

Jaggs′s presence on a memorable afternoon had saved her from

destruction.

She wondered for the twentieth time what was old Jaggs′s history,

and where Jack had found him. Once she had been tempted to ask

Jaggs himself, but the old man had fenced with the question, and

had talked vaguely of having worked in the country, and she was as

wise as she had been before.

But she must get rid of old Jaggs, she thought, as she switched off

the light and kicked out the innumerable water-bottles, with which

Mrs. Morgan, in mistaken kindness, had encumbered the bed . . old

Jaggs must go .. he was a nuisance. .

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She woke with a start from a dreamless sleep. The clock in the hall

was striking three. She realised this subconsciously. Her eyes were

fixed on the window, which was open at the bottom. Mrs. Morgan

had pulled it down at the top, but now it was wide open, and her

heart began to thump, thump, rapidly. Jaggs! He was her first

thought. She would never have believed that she could have thought

of that old man with such a warm glow of thankfulness. There was

nothing to be seen. The storm of the early night had passed over,

and a faint light came into the room from the waning moon. And

then she saw the curtains move, and opened her mouth to scream,

but fear had paralysed her voice, and she lay staring at the hangings,

incapable of movement or sound. As she watched the curtain she

saw it move again, and a shape appeared faintly against the gloomy

background.

The spell was broken. She swung herself out of the opposite side

of the bed, and raced to the door, but the man was before her.

Before she could scream, a big hand gripped her throat and flung

her back against the rail of the bed.

Horrified she stared into the cruel face that leered down at her, and

felt the grip tighten. And then as she looked into the face she saw a

sudden grimace, and sensed the terror in his eyes. The hand relaxed;

he bubbled something thickly and fell sideways against the bed. And

now she saw. A man had come through the doorway, a tall man,

with a fair beard and eyes that danced with insane joy.

He came slowly toward her, wiping on his cuff the long-handled

knife that had sent her assailant to the floor.

He was mad. She knew it instinctively, and remembered in a hazy,

confused way, a paragraph she had read about an escaped lunatic.

She tried to dash past him to the open door, but he caught her in

the crook of his left arm, and pressed her to him, towering head and

shoulders over her.

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"You have no right to sit on a court martial, madam," he said with

uncanny politeness, and at that moment the light in the room was

switched on and Jaggs appeared in the doorway, his bearded lips

parted in an ugly grin, a long-barrelled pistol in his left hand.

"Drop your knife," he said, "or I′ll drop you."

The mad doctor turned his head slowly and frowned at the intruder.

"Good morning, General," he said calmly. "You came in time," and

he threw the knife on to the ground. "We will try her according to

regulations!"

Chapter XV

A TRAGIC AFFAIR IN THE WEST END.

Mad Doctor Wounds a Burglar in a Society Woman′s Bedroom.

"There was an extraordinary and tragic sequel to the escape of Dr.

Thun from Norwood Asylum, particulars of which appeared in our

early edition of yesterday. This morning at four o′clock, in answer to

a telephone call, Detective-Sergeant Miller, accompanied by another

officer, went to 84, Cavendish Mansions, a flat occupied by Mrs.

Meredith, and there found and took into custody Dr. Algernon

Thun, who had escaped from Norwood Asylum. In the room was

also found a man named Hoggins, a person well known to the

police. It appears that Hoggins had effected an entrance into Mrs.

Meredith′s flat, descending from the roof by means of a rope,

making his way into the premises through the window of Mrs.

Meredith′s bedroom. Whilst there he was detected by Mrs. Meredith,

who would undoubtedly have been murdered had not Dr. Thun,

who, in some mysterious manner, had gained admission to the flat,

intervened. In the struggle that followed the doctor, who is suffering

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from the delusion of persecution, severely wounded the man, who

is not expected to live. He then turned his attention to the lady.

Happily an old man who works at the flat, who was sleeping on the

premises at the time, was roused by the sound of the struggle, and

succeeded in releasing the lady from the maniacal grasp of the

intruder. The wounded burglar was removed to hospital and the

lunatic was taken to the police station and was afterwards sent under

a strong guard to the asylum from whence he had escaped. He made

a rambling statement to the police to the effect that General Foch

had assisted his escape and had directed him to the home of his

persecutors."

Jean Briggerland put down the paper and laughed.

"It is nothing to snigger about," growled Briggerland savagely.

"If I didn′t laugh I should do something more emotional," said the

girl coolly. "To think that that fool should go back and make the

attempt single-handed. I never imagined that."

"Faire tells me that he′s not expected to live," said Mr. Briggerland.

He rubbed his bald head irritably. "I wonder if that lunatic is going

to talk?"

"What does it matter if he does?" said the girl impatiently.

"You said the other day----" he began.

"The other day it mattered, my dear father. To-day nothing matters

very much. I think we have got well out of it. I ignored all the

lessons which my textbook teaches when I entrusted work to other

hands. Jaggs," she said softly.

"Eh?" said the father.

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"I′m repeating a well-beloved name," she smiled and rose, folding

her serviette. "I am going for a long run in the country. Would you

like to come? Mordon is very enthusiastic about the new car, the bill

for which, by the way, came in this morning. Have we any money?"

"A few thousands," said her father, rubbing his chin. "Jean, we shall

have to sell something unless things brighten."

Jean′s lips twitched, but she said nothing.

On her way to the open road she called at Cavendish Mansions, and

was neither surprised nor discomfited to discover that Jack Glover

was there.

"My dear," she said, warmly clasping both the girl′s hands in hers, "I

was so shocked when I read the news! How terrible it must have

been for you."

Lydia was looking pale, and there were dark shadows under her eyes,

but she treated the matter cheerfully.

"I′ve just been trying to explain to Mr. Glover what happened.

Unfortunately, the wonderful Jaggs is not here. He knows more

about it than I, for I collapsed in the most feminine way."

"How did he get in--I mean this madman?" asked the girl.

"Through the door."

It was Jack who answered.

"It is the last way in the world a lunatic would enter a flat, isn′t it?

He came in with a key, and he was brought here by somebody who

struck a match to make sure it was the right number."

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"He might have struck the match himself," said Jean, "but you′re so

clever that you would not say a thing like that unless you had proof."

"We found two matches in the hall outside," said Jack, "and when

Dr. Thun was searched no matches were found on him, and I have

since learnt that, like most homicidal lunatics, he had a horror of

fire in any form. The doctor to whom I have been talking is

absolutely sure that he would not have struck the match himself.

Oh, by the way, Miss Briggerland, your father met this unfortunate

man. I understand he paid a visit to the asylum a few days ago?"

"Yes, he did," she answered without hesitation. "He was talking

about him this morning. You see, father has been making a tour of

the asylums. He is writing a book about such things. Father was

horrified when he heard the man had escaped, because the doctor

told him that he was a particularly dangerous lunatic. But who

would have imagined he would have turned up here?"

Her big, sad eyes were fixed on Jack as she shook her head in

wonder.

"If one had read that in a book one would never have believed it,

would one?"

"And the man Hoggins," said Jack, who did not share her wonder.

"He was by way of being an acquaintance of yours, a member of

your father′s club, wasn′t he?"

She knit her brows.

"I don′t remember the name, but if he is a very bad character," she

said with a little smile, "I should say distinctly that he was a member

of father′s club! Poor daddy, I don′t think he will ever regenerate the

East End."

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"I don′t think he will," agreed Jack heartily. "The question is,

whether the East End will ever regenerate him."

A slow smile dawned on her face.

"How unkind!" she said, mockery in her eyes now. "I wonder why

you dislike him so. He is so very harmless, really. My dear," she

turned to the girl with a gesture of helplessness. "I am afraid that

even in this affair Mr. Glover is seeing my sinister influence!"

"You′re the most un-sinister person I have ever met, Jean," laughed

Lydia, "and Mr. Glover doesn′t really think all these horrid things."

"Doesn′t he?" said Jean softly, and Jack saw that she was shaking

with laughter.

There was a certain deadly humour in the situation which tickled

him too, and he grinned.

"I wish to heaven you′d get married and settle down, Miss

Briggerland," he said incautiously.

It was her chance. She shook her head, the lips drooped, the eyes

again grew moist with the pain she could call to them at will.

"I wish I could," she said in a tone a little above a whisper, "but,

Jack, I could never marry you, never!"

She left Jack Glover bereft of speech, totally incapable of arousing

so much as a moan.

Lydia, returning from escorting her visitor to the door, saw his

embarrassment and checked his impulsive explanation a little coldly.

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"I--I believed you when you said it wasn′t true, Mr. Glover," she

said, and there was a reproach in her tone for which she hated

herself afterwards.

Chapter XVI

Lydia had promised to go to the theatre that night with Mrs. Cole-

Mortimer, and she was glad of the excuse to leave her tragic home.

Mrs. Cole-Mortimer, who was not lavish in the matter of

entertainments that cost money, had a box, and although Lydia had

seen the piece before (it was in fact the very play she had attended

to sketch dresses on the night of her adventure) it was a relief to sit

in silence, which her hostess, with singular discretion, did not

attempt to disturb.

It was during the last act that Mrs. Cole-Mortimer gave her an

invitation which she accepted joyfully.

"I′ve got a house at Cap Martin," said Mrs. Cole-Mortimer. "It is

only a tiny place, but I think you would rather like it. I hate going to

the Riviera alone, so if you care to come as my guest, I shall be most

happy to chaperon you. They are bringing my yacht down to

Monaco, so we ought to have a really good time."

Lydia accepted the yacht and the house as she had accepted the

invitation--without question. That the yacht had been chartered

that morning and the house hired by telegram on the previous day,

she could not be expected to guess. For all she knew, Mrs. Cole-

Mortimer might be a very wealthy woman, and in her wildest

dreams she did not imagine that Jean Briggerland had provided the

money for both.

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It had not been a delicate negotiation, because Mrs. Cole-Mortimer

had the skin of a pachyderm.

Years later Lydia discovered that the woman lived on borrowed

money, money which never could and never would be repaid, and

which the borrower had no intention of refunding.

A hint dropped by Jean that there was somebody on the Riviera

whom she desired to meet, without her father′s knowledge,

accompanied by the plain statement that she would pay all expenses,

was quite sufficient for Mrs. Cole-Mortimer, and she had fallen in

with her patron′s views as readily as she had agreed to pose as a

friend of Meredith′s. To do her justice, she had the faculty of

believing in her own invention, and she was quite satisfied that

James Meredith had been a great personal friend of hers, just as she

would believe that the house on the Riviera and the little steam-

yacht had been procured out of her own purse.

It was harder for her, however, to explain the great system which

she was going to work in Monte Carlo and which was to make

everybody′s fortune.

Lydia, who was no gambler and only mildly interested in games of

chance, displayed so little evidence of interest in the scheme that

Mrs. Cole-Mortimer groaned her despair, not knowing that she was

expected to do no more than stir the soil for the crop which Jean

Briggerland would plant and reap.

They went on to supper at one of the clubs, and Lydia thought with

amusement of poor old Jaggs, who apparently took his job very

seriously indeed.

Again her angle of vision had shifted, and her respect for the old

man had overcome any annoyance his uncouth presence brought to

her.

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As she alighted at the door of the club she looked round, half

expecting to see him. The club entrance was up a side street off

Leicester Square, an ill-lit thoroughfare which favoured Mr. Jaggs′s

retiring methods, but there was no sign of him, and she did not wait

in the drizzling night to make any closer inspection.

Mrs. Cole-Mortimer had not disguised the possibility of Jean

Briggerland being at the club, and they found her with a gay party

of young people, sitting in one of the recesses. Jean made a place

for the girl by her side and introduced her to half a dozen people

whose names Lydia did not catch, and never afterwards

remembered.

Mr. Marcus Stepney, however, that sleek, dark man, who bowed over

her hand and seemed as though he were going to kiss it, she had

met before, and her second impression of him was even less

favourable than the first.

"Do you dance?" asked Jean.

A jazz band was playing an infectious two-step. At the girl′s nod

Jean beckoned one of her party, a tall, handsome boy who

throughout the subsequent dance babbled into Lydia′s ear an

incessant pæan in praise of Jean Briggerland.

Lydia was amused.

"Of course she is very beautiful," she said in answer to the

interminable repetition of his question. "I think she′s lovely."

"That′s what I say," said the young man, whom she discovered was

Lord Stoker. "The most amazingly beautiful creature on the earth, I

think."

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"Of course you′re awfully good-looking, too," he blundered, and

Lydia laughed aloud.

"But she′s got enemies," said the young man viciously, "and if ever I

meet that infernal cad, Glover, he′ll be sorry."

The smile left Lydia′s face.

"Mr. Glover is a friend of mine," she said a little quickly.

"Sorry," he mumbled, "but----"

"Does Miss Briggerland say he is so very bad?"

"Of course not. She never says a word against him really." His

lordship hastened to exonerate his idol. "She just says she doesn′t

know how long she′s going to stand his persecutions. It breaks one′s

heart to see how sad this--your friend makes her."

Lydia was a very thoughtful girl for the rest of the evening; she was

beginning in a hazy way to see things which she had not seen before.

Of course Jean never said anything against Jack Glover. And yet she

had succeeded in arousing this youth to fury against the lawyer, and

Lydia realised, with a sense of amazement, that Jean had also made

her feel bad about Jack. And yet she had said nothing but sweet

things.

When she got back to the flat that night she found that Mr. Jaggs

had not been there all the evening. He came in a few minutes after

her, wrapped up in an old army coat, and from his appearance she

gathered that he had been standing out in the rain and sleet the

whole of the evening.

"Why, Jaggs," she said impulsively, "wherever have you been?"

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"Just dodging round, miss," he grunted. "Having a look at the little

ducks in the pond."

"You′ve been outside the theatre, and you′ve been waiting outside

Niro′s Club," she said accusingly.

"Don′t know it, miss," he said. "One theayter is as much like another

one to me."

"You must take your things off and let Mrs. Morgan dry your

clothes," she insisted, but he would not hear of this, compromising

only with stripping his sodden great coat.

He disappeared into his dark room, there to ruminate upon such

matters as appeared of interest to him. A bed had been placed for

him, but only once had he slept on it.

After the flat grew still and the last click of the switch told that the

last light had been extinguished, he opened the door softly, and,

carrying a chair in his hand, he placed this gently with its back to the

front door, and there he sat and dozed throughout the night. When

Lydia woke the next morning he was gone as usual.

Chapter XVII

Lydia had plenty to occupy her days. The house in Curzon Street

had been bought and she had been a round of furnishers, paper-

hangers and fitters of all variety.

The trip to the Riviera came at the right moment. She could leave

Mrs. Morgan in charge and come back to her new home, which was

to be ready in two months.

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Amongst other things, the problem of the watchful Mr. Jaggs would

be settled automatically.

She spoke to him that night when he came.

"By the way, Mr. Jaggs, I am going to the South of France next

week."

"A pretty place by all accounts," volunteered Mr. Jaggs.

"A lovely place--by all accounts," repeated Lydia with a smile. "And

you′re going to have a holiday, Mr. Jaggs. By the way, what am I to

pay you?"

"The gentleman pays me, miss," said Mr. Jaggs with a sniff. "The

lawyer gentleman."

"Well, he must continue paying you whilst I am away," said the girl.

"I am very grateful to you and I want to give you a little present

before I go. Is there anything you would like, Mr. Jaggs?"

Mr. Jaggs rubbed his beard, scratched his head and thought he

would like a pipe.

"Though bless you, miss, I don′t want any present."

"You shall have the best pipe I can buy," said the girl. "It seems very

inadequate."

"I′d rather have a briar, miss," said old Jaggs mistakenly.

He was on duty until the morning she left, and although she rose

early he had gone. She was disappointed, for she had not given him

the handsome case of pipes she had bought, and she wanted to

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thank him. She felt she had acted rather meanly towards him. She

owed her life to him twice.

"Didn′t you see him go?" she asked Mrs. Morgan.

"No, miss," the stout housekeeper shook her head. "I was up at six

and he′d gone then, but he′d left his chair in the passage--I′ve got

an idea that′s where he slept, miss, if he slept at all."

"Poor old man," said the girl gently. "I haven′t been very kind to

him, have I? And I do owe him such a lot."

"Maybe he′ll turn up again," said Mrs. Morgan hopefully. She had

the mother feeling for the old, which is one of the beauties of her

class, and she regretted Lydia′s absence probably as much because it

would entail the disappearance of old Jaggs as for the loss of her

mistress. But old Jaggs did not turn up. Lydia hoped to see him at

the station, hovering on the outskirts of the crowd in his furtive

way, but she was disappointed.

She left by the eleven o′clock train, joining Mrs. Cole-Mortimer on

the station. That lady had arranged to spend a day in Paris, and the

girl was not sorry, after a somewhat bad crossing of the English

Channel, that she had not to continue her journey through the

night.

The South of France was to be a revelation to her. She had no

conception of the extraordinary change of climate and vegetation

that could be experienced in one country.

She passed from a drizzly, bedraggled Paris into a land of sunshine

and gentle breezes; from the bare sullen lands of the Champagne,

into a country where flowers grew by the side of the railway, and

that in February; to a semi-tropic land, fragrant with flowers, to

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white beaches by a blue, lazy sea and a sky over all unflecked by

clouds.

It took her breath away, the beauty of it; and the sense and genial

warmth of it. The trees laden with lemons, the wisteria on the walls,

the white dust on the road, and the glory of the golden mimosa that

scented the air with its rare and lovely perfume.

They left the train at Nice and drove along the Grande Corniche.

Mrs. Cole-Mortimer had a call to make in Monte Carlo and the girl

sat back in the car and drank in the beauty of this delicious spot,

whilst her hostess interviewed the house agent.

Surely the place must be kept under glass. It looked so fresh and

clean and free from stain.

The Casino disappointed her--it was a place of plaster and stucco,

and did not seem built for permanent use.

They drove back part of the way they had come, on to the peninsula

of Cap Martin and she had a glimpse of beautiful villas between the

pines and queer little roads that led into mysterious dells. Presently

the car drew up before a good looking house (even Mrs. Cole-

Mortimer was surprised into an expression of her satisfaction at the

sight of it).

Lydia, who thought that this was Mrs. Cole-Mortimer′s own

demesne, was delighted.

"You are lucky to have a beautiful home like this, Mrs. Cole-

Mortimer," she said, "it must be heavenly living here."

The habit of wealth had not been so well acquired that she could

realise that she also could have a beautiful house if she wished--she

thought of that later. Nor did she expect to find Jean Briggerland

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there, and Mr. Briggerland too, sitting on a big cane chair on the

veranda overlooking the sea and smoking a cigar of peace.

Mrs. Cole-Mortimer had been very careful to avoid all mention of

Jean on the journey.

"Didn′t I tell you they would be here?" she said in careless

amazement. "Why, of course, dear Jean left two days before we did.

It makes such a nice little party. Do you play bridge?"

Lydia did not play bridge, but was willing to be taught.

She spent the remaining hour of daylight exploring the grounds

which led down to the road which fringed the sea.

She could look across at the lights already beginning to twinkle at

Monte Carlo, to the white yachts lying off Monaco, and farther

along the coast to a little cluster of lights that stood for Beaulieu.

"It is glorious," she said, drawing a long breath.

Mrs. Cole-Mortimer, who had accompanied her in her stroll, purred

the purr of the pleased patron whose protégée has been thankful

for favours received.

Dinner was a gay meal, for Jean was in her brightest mood. She had

a keen sense of fun and her sly little sallies, sometimes aimed at her

father, sometimes at Lydia′s expense, but more often directed at

people in the social world, whose names were household words,

kept Lydia in a constant gurgle of laughter.

Mrs. Cole-Mortimer alone was nervous and ill at ease. She had learnt

unpleasant news and was not sure whether she should tell the

company or keep her secret to herself. In such dilemma, weak

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people take the most sensational course, and presently she dropped

her bombshell.

"Celeste says that the gardener′s little boy has malignant smallpox,"

she almost wailed.

Jean was telling a funny story to the girl who sat by her, and did not

pause for so much as a second in her narrative. The effect on Mr.

Briggerland was, however, wholly satisfactory to Mrs. Cole-

Mortimer. He pushed back his chair and blinked at his "hostess."

"Smallpox?" he said in horror, "here--in Cap Martin? Good God,

did you hear that, Jean?"

"Did I hear what?" she asked lazily, "about the gardener′s little boy?

Oh, yes. There has been quite an epidemic on the Italian Riviera, in

fact they closed the frontier last week."

"But--but here!" spluttered Briggerland.

Lydia could only look at him in open-eyed amazement. The big

man′s terror was pitiably apparent. The copper skin had turned a

dirty grey, his lower lip was trembling like a frightened child′s.

"Why not here?" said Jean coolly, "there is nothing to be scared

about. Have you been vaccinated recently?" she turned to the girl,

and Lydia shook her head.

"Not since I was a baby--and then I believe the operation was not a

success."

"Anyway, the child is isolated in the cottage and they are taking him

to Nice to-night," said Jean. "Poor little fellow! Even his own

mother has deserted him. Are you going to the Casino?" she asked.

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"I don′t know," replied Lydia. "I′m very tired but I should love to

go."

"Take her, father--and you go, Margaret. By the time you return the

infection will be removed."

"Won′t you come too?" asked Lydia.

"No, I′ll stay at home to-night. I turned my ankle to-day and it is

rather stiff. Father!"

This time her voice was sharp, menacing almost, thought Lydia, and

Mr. Briggerland made an heroic attempt to recover his self-

possession.

"Cer--certainly, my dear--I shall be delighted--er--delighted."

He saw her alone whilst Lydia was changing in her lovely big

dressing-room, overlooking the sea.

"Why didn′t you tell me there was smallpox in Cap Martin?" he

demanded fretfully.

"Because I didn′t know till Margaret relieved her mind at our

expense," said his daughter coolly. "I had to say something. Besides,

I′d heard one of the maids say that somebody′s mother had deserted

him--I fitted it in. What a funk you are, father!"

"I hate the very thought of disease," he growled. "Why aren′t you

coming with us--there is nothing the matter with your ankle?"

"Because I prefer to stay at home."

He looked at her suspiciously.

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"Jean," he said in a milder voice, "hadn′t we better let up on the girl

for a bit--until that lunatic doctor affair has blown over?"

She reached out and took a gold case from his waistcoat pocket,

extracted a cigarette and replaced the case before she spoke.

"We can′t afford to ′let up′ as you call it, for a single hour. Do you

realise that any day her lawyer may persuade her to make a will

leaving her money to a--a home for cats, or something equally

untouchable? If there was no Jack Glover we could afford to wait

months. And I′m less troubled about him than I am about the man

Jaggs. Father, you will be glad to learn that I am almost afraid of

that freakish old man."

"Neither of them are here--" he began.

"Exactly," said Jean, "neither are here--Lydia had a telegram from

him just before dinner asking if he could come to see her next

week."

At this moment Lydia returned and Jean Briggerland eyed her

critically.

"My dear, you look lovely," she said and kissed her.

Mr. Briggerland′s nose wrinkled, as it always did when his daughter

shocked him.

Chapter XVIII

Jean Briggerland waited until she heard the sound of the departing

car sink to a faint hum, then she went up to her room, opened the

bureau and took out a long and tightly fitting dust-coat that she

wore when she was motoring. She had seen a large bottle of

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peroxide in Mrs. Cole-Mortimer′s room. It probably contributed to

the dazzling glories of Mrs. Cole-Mortimer′s hair, but it was also a

powerful germicide. She soaked a big silk handkerchief in a basin of

water, to which she added a generous quantity of the drug, and

squeezing the handkerchief nearly dry, she knotted it loosely about

her neck. A rubber bathing cap she pulled down over her head, and

smiled at her queer reflection in the glass. Then she found a pair of

kid gloves and drew them on.

She turned out the light and went softly down the carpeted stairs.

The servants were at their dinner, and she opened the front door

and crossed the lawn into a belt of trees, beyond which she knew,

for she had been in the house two days, was the gardener′s cottage.

A dim light burnt in one of the two rooms and the window was

uncurtained. She saw the bed and its tiny occupant, but nobody else

was in the room. The maid had said that the mother had deserted

the little sufferer, but this was not quite true. The doctor had

ordered the mother into isolation, and had sent a nurse from the

infection hospital to take her place. That lady, at the moment, was

waiting at the end of the avenue for the ambulance to arrive.

Jean opened the door and stepped in, pulling up the saturated

handkerchief until it covered nose and mouth. The place was

deserted, and, without a moment′s hesitation, she lifted the child,

wrapped a blanket about it and crossed the lawn again. She went

quietly up the stairs straight to Lydia′s room. There was enough light

from the dressing-room to see the bed, and unwrapping the blanket

she pulled back the covers and laid him gently in the bed. The child

was unconscious. The hideous marks of the disease had developed

with remarkable rapidity and he made no sound.

She sat down in a chair, waiting. Her almost inhuman calm was not

ruffled by so much as a second′s apprehension. She had provided

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for every contingency and was ready with a complete explanation,

whatever happened.

Half an hour passed, and then rising, she wrapped the child in the

blanket and carried him back to the cottage. She heard the purr of

the motor and footsteps as she flitted back through the trees.

First she went to Lydia′s room and straightened the bed, spraying

the room with the faint perfume which she found on the dressing

table; then she went back again into the garden, stripped off the

dust coat, cap and handkerchief, rolling them into a bundle, which

she thrust through the bars of an open window which she knew

ventilated a cellar. Last of all she stripped her gloves and sent them

after the bundle.

She heard the voices of the nurse and attendant as they carried the

child to the ambulance.

"Poor little kid," she murmured, "I hope he gets better."

And, strangely enough, she meant it.

It had been a thrilling evening for Lydia, and she returned to the

house at Cap Martin very tired, but very happy. She was seeing a

new world, a world the like of which had never been revealed to her,

and though she could have slept, and her head did nod in the car,

she roused herself to talk it all over again with the sympathetic Jean.

Mrs. Cole-Mortimer retired early. Mr. Briggerland had gone up to

bed the moment he returned, and Lydia would have been glad to

have ended her conversation; since her head reeled with weariness,

but Jean was very talkative, until----

"My dear, if I don′t go to bed I shall sleep on the table," smiled

Lydia, rising and suppressing a yawn.

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"I′m so sorry," said the penitent Jean.

She accompanied the girl upstairs, her arm about her waist, and left

her at the door of her dressing-room.

A maid had laid out her night things on a big settee (a little to

Lydia′s surprise) and she undressed quickly.

She opened the door of her bedroom, her hand was on a switch,

when she was conscious of a faint and not unpleasant odour. It was

a clean, pungent smell. "Disinfectant," said her brain mechanically.

She turned on the light, wondering where it came from. And then as

she crossed the room she came in sight of her bed and stopped, for

it was saturated with water--water that dropped from the hanging

coverlet, and made little pools on the floor. From the head of the

bed to the foot there was not one dry place. Whosoever had done

the work was thorough. Blankets, sheets, pillows were soddened,

and from the soaked mass came a faint acrid aroma which she

recognised, even before she saw on the floor an empty bottle

labelled "Peroxide of Hydrogen."

She could only stand and stare. It was too late to arouse the

household, and she remembered that there was a very comfortable

settee in the dressing-room with a rug and a pillow, and she went

back.

A few minutes later she was fast asleep. Not so Miss Briggerland,

who was sitting up in bed, a cigarette between her lips, a heavy

volume on her knees, reading:

"Such malignant cases are almost without exception rapidly fatal,

sometimes so early that no sign of the characteristic symptoms

appear at all," she read and, dropping the book on the floor,

extinguished her cigarette on an alabaster tray, and settled herself to

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sleep. She was dozing when she remembered that she had forgotten

to say her prayers.

"Oh, damn!" said Jean, getting out reluctantly to kneel on the cold

floor by the side of the bed.

Chapter XIX

Her maid woke Jean Briggerland at eight o′clock the next morning.

"Oh, miss," she said, as she drew up the table for the chocolate,

"have you heard about Mrs. Meredith?"

Jean blinked open her eyes, slipped into her dressing jacket and sat

up with a yawn.

"Have I heard about Mrs. Meredith? Many times," she said.

"But what somebody did last night, miss?"

Jean was wide awake now.

"What has happened to Mrs. Meredith?" she asked.

"Why, miss, somebody played a practical joke on her. Her bed′s

sopping."

"Sopping?" frowned the girl.

"Yes, miss," the woman nodded. "They must have poured buckets

of water over it, and used up all Mrs. Cole-Mortimer′s peroxide,

what she uses for keeping her hands nice."

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Jean swung out of her bed and sat looking down at her tiny white

feet.

"Where did Mrs. Meredith sleep? Why didn′t she wake us up?"

"She slept in the dressing-room, miss. I don′t suppose the young

lady liked making a fuss."

"Who did it?"

"I don′t know who did it. It′s a silly kind of practical joke, and I

know none of the maids would have dared, not the French ones."

Jean put her feet into her slippers, exchanged her jacket for a gown,

and went on a tour of inspection.

Lydia was dressing in her room, and the sound of her fresh, young

voice, as she carolled out of sheer love of life, came to the girl

before she turned into the room.

One glance at the bed was sufficient. It was still wet, and the empty

peroxide bottle told its own story.

Jean glanced at it thoughtfully as she crossed into the dressing-room.

"Whatever happened last night, Lydia?"

Lydia turned at the voice.

"Oh, the bed you mean," she made a little face. "Heaven knows. It

occurred to me this morning that some person, out of mistaken

kindness, had started to disinfect the room--it was only this

morning that I recalled the little boy who was ill--and had overdone

it."

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"They′ve certainly overdone it," said Jean grimly. "I wonder what

poor Mrs. Cole-Mortimer will say. You haven′t the slightest idea

----"

"Not the slightest idea," said Lydia, answering the unspoken

question.

"I′ll see Mrs. Cole-Mortimer and get her to change your bed--

there′s another room you could have," suggested Jean.

She went back to her own apartment, bathed and dressed leisurely.

She found her father in the garden reading the

Nicoise

, under the

shade of a bush, for the sun was not warm, but at that hour,

blinding.

"I′ve changed my plans," she said without preliminary.

He looked up over his glasses.

"I didn′t know you had any," he said with heavy humour.

"I intended going back to London and taking you with me," she said

unexpectedly.

"Back to London?" he said incredulously. "I thought you were

staying on for a month."

"I probably shall now," she said, pulling up a basket-chair and sitting

by his side. "Give me a cigarette."

"You′re smoking a lot lately," he said as he handed his case to her.

"I know I am."

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"Have your nerves gone wrong?"

She looked at him out of the corner of her eye and her lips curled.

"It wouldn′t be remarkable if I inherited a little of your yellow

streak," she said coolly, and he growled something under his breath.

"No, my nerves are all right, but a cigarette helps me to think."

"A yellow streak, have I?" Mr. Briggerland was annoyed. "And I′ve

been out since five o′clock this morning----" he stopped.

"Doing--what?" she asked curiously.

"Never mind," he said with a lofty gesture.

Thus they sat, busy with their own thoughts, for a quarter of an

hour.

"Jean."

"Yes," she said without turning her head.

"Don′t you think we′d better give this up and get back to London?

Lord Stoker is pretty keen on you."

"I′m not pretty keen on him," she said decidedly. "He has his

regimental pay and £500 a year, two estates, mortgaged, no brains

and a title--what is the use of his title to me? As much use as a coat

of paint! Beside which, I am essentially democratic."

He chuckled, and there was another silence.

"Do you think the lawyer is keen on the girl?"

"Jack Glover?"

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Mr. Briggerland nodded.

"I imagine he is," said Jean thoughtfully. "I like Jack--he′s clever. He

has all the moral qualities which one admires so much in the

abstract. I could love Jack myself."

"Could he love you?" bantered her father.

"He couldn′t," she said shortly. "Jack would be a happy man if he

saw me stand in Jim Meredith′s place in the Old Bailey. No, I have

no illusion about Jack′s affections."

"He′s after Lydia′s money I suppose," said Mr. Briggerland, stroking

his bald head.

"Don′t be a fool," was the calm reply. "That kind of man doesn′t

worry about a girl′s money. I wish Lydia was dead," she added

without malice. "It would make things so easy and smooth."

Her father swallowed something.

"You shock me sometimes, Jean," he said, a statement which

amused her.

"You′re such a half-and-half man," she said with a note of

contempt in her voice. "You were quite willing to benefit by Jim

Meredith′s death; you killed him as cold-bloodedly as you killed

poor little Bulford, and yet you must whine and snivel whenever

your deeds are put into plain language. What does it matter if Lydia

dies now or in fifty years time?" she asked. "It would be different if

she were immortal. You people attach so much importance to

human life--the ancients, and the Japanese amongst the modern,

are the only people who have the matter in true perspective. It is no

more cruel to kill a human being than it is to cut the throat of a pig

to provide you with bacon. There′s hardly a dish at your table which

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doesn′t represent wilful murder, and yet you never think of it, but

because the man animal can talk and dresses himself or herself in

queer animal and vegetable fabrics, and decorates the body with bits

of metal and pieces of glittering quartz, you give its life a value

which you deny to the cattle within your gates! Killing is a matter of

expediency. Permissible if you call it war, terrible if you call it

murder. To me it is just killing. If you are caught in the act of killing

they kill you, and people say it is right to do so. The sacredness of

human life is a slogan invented by cowards who fear death--as you

do."

"Don′t you, Jean?" he asked in a hushed voice.

"I fear life without money," she said quietly. "I fear long days of

work for a callous, leering employer, and strap-hanging in a crowded

tube on my way home to one miserable room and the cold mutton

of yesterday. I fear getting up and making my own bed and washing

my own handkerchiefs and blouses, and renovating last year′s hats to

make them look like this year′s. I fear a poor husband and a

procession of children, and doing the housework with an

incompetent maid, or maybe without any at all. Those are the things

I fear, Mr. Briggerland."

She dusted the ash from her dress and got up.

"I haven′t forgotten the life we lived at Ealing," she said significantly.

She looked across the bay to Monte Carlo glittering in the morning

sunlight, to the green-capped head of Cap-d′Ail, to Beaulieu, a jewel

set in greystone and shook her head.

"′It is written′," she quoted sombrely and left him in the midst of

the question he was asking. She strolled back to the house and

joined Lydia who was looking radiantly beautiful in a new dress of

silver grey charmeuse.

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Chapter XX

"Have you solved the mystery of the submerged bed?" smiled Jean.

Lydia laughed.

"I′m not probing too deeply into the matter," she said. "Poor Mrs.

Cole-Mortimer was terribly upset."

"She would be," said Jean. "It was her own eiderdown!"

This was the first hint Lydia had received that the house was rented

furnished.

They drove into Nice that morning, and Lydia, remembering Jack

Glover′s remarks, looked closely at the chauffeur, and was startled to

see a resemblance between him and the man who had driven the

taxicab on the night she had been carried off from the theatre. It is

true that the taxi-driver had a moustache and that this man was

clean-shaven, and moreover, had tiny side whiskers, but there was a

resemblance.

"Have you had your driver long?" she asked as they were running

through Monte Carlo, along the sea road.

"Mordon? Yes, we have had him six or seven years," said Jean

carelessly. "He drives us when we are on the continent, you know.

He speaks French perfectly and is an excellent driver. Father has

tried to persuade him to come to England, but he hates London--

he was telling me the other day that he hadn′t been there for ten

years."

That disposed of the resemblance, thought Lydia, and yet--she

could remember his voice, she thought, and when they alighted on

the Promenade des Anglaise she spoke to him. He replied in French,

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and it is impossible to detect points of resemblance in a voice that

speaks one language and the same voice when it speaks another.

The promenade was crowded with saunterers. A band was playing

by the jetty and although the wind was colder than it had been at

Cap Martin the sun was warm enough to necessitate the opening of

a parasol.

It was a race week, and the two girls lunched at the Negrito. They

were in the midst of their meal when a man came toward them and

Lydia recognised Mr. Marcus Stepney. This dark, suave man was no

favourite of hers, though why she could not have explained. His

manners were always perfect and, towards her, deferential.

As usual, he was dressed with the precision of a fashion-plate. Mr.

Marcus Stepney was a man, a considerable portion of whose time

was taken up every morning by the choice of cravats and socks and

shirts. Though Lydia did not know this, his smartness, plus a certain

dexterity with cards, was his stock in trade. No breath of scandal

had touched him, he moved in a good set and was always at the

right place at the proper season.

When Aix was full he was certain to be found at the Palace, in the

Deauville week you would find him at the Casino punting mildly at

the baccarat table. And after the rooms were closed, and even the

Sports Club at Monte Carlo had shut its doors, there was always a

little game to be had in the hotels and in Marcus Stepney′s private

sitting-room.

And it cannot be denied that Mr. Stepney was lucky. He won

sufficient at these out-of-hour games to support him nobly through

the trials and vicissitudes which the public tables inflict upon their

votaries.

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"Going to the races," he said, "how very fortunate! Will you come

along with me? I can give you three good winners."

"I have no money to gamble," said Jean, "I am a poor woman.

Lydia, who is rolling in wealth, can afford to take your tips, Marcus."

Marcus looked at Lydia with a speculative eye.

"If you haven′t any money with you, don′t worry. I have plenty and

you can pay me afterwards. I could make you a million francs to-

day."

"Thank you," said Jean coolly, "but Mrs. Meredith does not bet so

heavily."

Her tone was a clear intimation to the man of wits that he was

impinging upon somebody else′s preserves and he grinned amiably.

Nevertheless, it was a profitable afternoon for Lydia. She came back

to Cap Martin twenty thousand francs richer than she had been

when she started off.

"Lydia′s had a lot of luck she tells me," said Mr. Briggerland.

"Yes. She won about five hundred pounds," said his daughter.

"Marcus was laying ground bait. She did not know what horses he

had backed until after the race was run, when he invariably appeared

with a few

mil e

notes and Lydia′s pleasure was pathetic. Of course

she didn′t win anything. The twenty thousand francs was a sprat--

he′s coming to-night to see how the whales are blowing!"

Mr. Marcus Stepney arrived punctually, and, to Mr. Briggerland′s

disgust, was dressed for dinner, a fact which necessitated the older

man′s hurried retreat and reappearance in conventional evening

wear.

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Marcus Stepney′s behaviour at dinner was faultless. He devoted

himself in the main to Mrs. Cole-Mortimer and Jean, who

apparently never looked at him and yet observed his every

movement, knew that he was merely waiting his opportunity.

It came when the dinner was over and the party adjourned to the

big stoep facing the sea. The night was chilly and Mr. Stepney found

wraps and furs for the ladies, and so manoeuvred the arrangement

of the chairs that Lydia and he were detached from the remainder

of the party, not by any great distance, but sufficient, as the

experienced Marcus knew, to remove a murmured conversation

from the sharpest eavesdropper.

Jean, who was carrying on a three-cornered conversation with her

father and Mrs. Cole-Mortimer, did not stir, until she saw, by the

light of a shaded lamp in the roof, the dark head of Mr. Marcus

Stepney droop more confidently towards his companion. Then she

rose and strolled across.

Marcus did not curse her because he did not express his inmost

thoughts aloud.

He gave her his chair and pulled another forward.

"Does Miss Briggerland know?" asked Lydia.

"No," said Mr. Stepney pleasantly.

"May I tell her?"

"Of course."

"Mr. Stepney has been telling me about a wonderful racing coup to

be made to-morrow. Isn′t it rather thrilling, Jean? He says it will be

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quite possible for me to make five million francs without any risk at

all."

"Except the risk of a million, I suppose," smiled Jean. "Well, are you

going to do it?" Lydia shook her head.

"I haven′t a million francs in France, for one thing," she said, "and I

wouldn′t risk it if I had."

And Jean smiled again at the discomfiture which Mr. Marcus

Stepney strove manfully to hide.

Later she took his arm and led him into the garden.

"Marcus," she said when they were out of range of the house, "I

think you are several kinds of a fool."

"Why?" asked the other, who was not in the best humour.

"It was so crude," she said scornfully, "so cheap and confidence-

trickish. A miserable million francs--twenty thousand pounds.

Apart from the fact that your name would be mud in London if it

were known that you had robbed a girl----"

"There′s no question of robbery," he said hotly, "I tell you Valdau is

a certainty for the Prix."

"It would not be a certainty if her money were on," said Jean dryly.

"It would finish an artistic second and you would be full of

apologies, and poor Lydia would be a million francs to the bad. No,

Marcus, that is cheap."

"I′m nearly broke," he said shortly.

He made no disguise of his profession, nor of his nefarious plan.

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Between the two there was a queer kind of camaraderie. Though he

may not have been privy to the more tremendous of her crimes, yet

he seemed to accept her as one of those who lived on the frontiers

of illegality.

"I was thinking about you, as you sat there telling her the story," said

Jean thoughtfully. "Marcus, why don′t you marry her?"

He stopped in his stride and looked down at the girl.

"Marry her, Jean; are you mad? She wouldn′t marry me."

"Why not?" she asked. "Of course she′d marry you, you silly fool, if

you went the right way about it."

He was silent.

"She is worth six hundred thousand pounds, and I happen to know

that she has nearly two hundred thousand pounds in cash on

deposit at the bank," said Jean.

"Why do you want me to marry her?" he asked significantly. "Is

there a rake-off for you?"

"A big rake-off," she said. "The two hundred thousand on deposit

should be easily get-at-able, Marcus, and she′d even give you more

----"

"Why?" he asked.

"To agree to a separation," she said coolly. "I know you. No woman

could live very long with you and preserve her reason."

He chuckled.

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"And I′m to hand it all over to you?"

"Oh no," she corrected. "I′m not greedy. It is my experience that the

greedy people get into bad trouble. The man or woman who ′wants

it all′ usually gets the dressing-case the ′all′ was kept in. No, I′d like

to take a half."

He sat down on a garden seat and she followed his example.

"What is there to be?" he asked. "An agreement between you and

me? Something signed and sealed and delivered, eh?"

Her sad eyes caught his and held them.

"I trust you, Marcus," she said softly. "If I help you in this--and I

will if you will do all that I tell you to do--I will trust you to give

me my share."

Mr. Marcus Stepney fingered his collar a little importantly.

"I′ve never let a pal down in my life," he said with a cough. "I′m as

straight as they make ′em, to people who play the game with me."

"And you are wise, so far as I am concerned," said the gentle Jean.

"For if you double-crossed me, I should hand the police the name

and address of your other wife who is still living."

His jaw dropped.

"Wha--what?" he stammered.

"Let us join the ladies," mocked Jean, as she rose and put her arm in

his.

It pleased her immensely to feel this big man trembling.

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Chapter XXI

It seemed to Lydia that she had been abroad for years, though in

reality she had been three days in Cap Martin, when Mr. Marcus

Stepney became a regular caller.

Even the most objectionable people improve on acquaintance, and

give the lie to first impressions.

Mr. Stepney never bored her. He had an inexhaustible store of

anecdotes and reminiscences, none of which was in the slightest

degree offensive. He was something of a sportsman, too, and he

called by arrangement the next morning, after his introduction to

the Cap Martin household, and conducting her to a sheltered cove,

containing two bathing huts, he introduced her to the exhilarating

Mediterranean.

Sea bathing is not permitted in Monte Carlo until May, and the

water was much colder than Lydia had expected. They swam out to

a floating platform when Mr. Briggerland and Jean put in an

appearance. Jean had come straight from the house in her bathing-

gown, over which she wore a light wrap. Lydia watched her with

amazement, for the girl was an expert swimmer. She could dive

from almost any height and could remain under water an alarming

time.

"I never thought you had so much energy and strength in your little

body," said Lydia, as Jean, with a shriek of enjoyment, drew herself

on the raft and wiped the water from her eyes.

"There′s a man up there looking at us through glasses," said

Briggerland suddenly. "I saw the flash of the sun on them."

He pointed to the rising ground beyond the seashore, but they could

see nothing.

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Presently there was a glitter of light amongst the green, and Lydia

pointed.

"I thought that sort of thing was never done except in comic

newspapers," she said, but Jean did not smile. Her eyes were focused

on the point where the unseen observer lay or sat, and she shaded

her eyes.

"Some visitor from Monte Carlo, I expect. People at Cap Martin are

much too respectable to do anything so vulgar."

Mr. Briggerland, at a glance from his daughter, slipped into the

water, and with strong heavy strokes, made his way to the shore.

"Father is going to investigate," said Jean, "and the water really is the

warmest place," and with that she fell sideways into the blue sea like

a seal, dived down into its depths, and presently Lydia saw her

walking along the white floor of the ocean, her little hands keeping

up an almost imperceptible motion. Presently she shot up again,

shook her head and looked round, only to dive again.

In the meantime, though Lydia, who was fascinated by the

manoeuvre of the girl, did not notice the fact, Mr. Briggerland had

reached the shore, pulled on a pair of rubber shoes, and with his

mackintosh buttoned over his bathing dress, had begun to climb

through the underbrush towards the spot where the glasses had

glistened. When Lydia looked up he had disappeared.

"Where is your father?" she asked the girl.

"He went into the bushes." Mr. Stepney volunteered the

information. "I suppose he′s looking for the Paul Pry."

Mr. Stepney had been unusually glum and silent, for he was piqued

by the tactless appearance of the Briggerlands.

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"Come into the water, Marcus," said Jean peremptorily, as she put

her foot against the edge of the raft, and pushed herself backward,

"I want to see Mrs. Meredith dive."

"Me?" said Lydia in surprise. "Good heavens, no! After watching

you I don′t intend making an exhibition of myself."

"I want to show you the proper way to dive," said Jean. "Stand up

on the edge of the raft."

Lydia obeyed.

"Straight up," said Jean. "Now put both your arms out wide. Now

----"

There was a sharp crack from the shore; something whistled past

Lydia′s head, struck an upright post, splintering the edge, and with a

whine went ricochetting into the sea.

Lydia′s face went white.

"What--what was that?" she gasped. She had hardly spoken before

there was another shot. This time the bullet must have gone very

high, and immediately afterwards came a yell of pain from the

shore.

Jean did not wait. She struck out for the beach, swimming furiously.

It was not the shot, but the cry which had alarmed her, and without

waiting to put on coat or sandals, she ran up the little road where

her father had gone, following the path through the undergrowth.

Presently she came to a grassy plot, in the centre of which two tall

pines grew side by side, and lying against one of the trees was the

huddled figure of Briggerland. She turned him over. He was

breathing heavily and was unconscious. An ugly wound gaped at the

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back of his head, and his mackintosh and bathing dress were

smothered with blood.

She looked round quickly for his assailant, but there was nobody in

sight, and nothing to indicate the presence of a third person but two

shining brass cartridges which lay on the grass.

Chapter XXII

Lydia Meredith only remembered swooning twice in her life, and

both these occasions had happened within a few weeks.

She never felt quite so unprepared to carry on as she did when, with

an effort she threw herself into the water at Marcus Stepney′s side

and swam slowly toward the shore.

She dare not let her mind dwell upon the narrowness of her escape.

Whoever had fired that shot had done so deliberately, and with the

intention of killing her. She had felt the wind of the bullet in her

face.

"What do you suppose it was?" asked Marcus Stepney as he assisted

her up the beach. "Do you think it was soldiers practising?"

She shook her head.

"Oh," said Mr. Stepney thoughtfully, and then: "If you don′t mind,

I′ll run up and see what has happened."

He wrapped himself in the dressing gown he had brought with him,

and followed Jean′s trail, coming up with her as Mr. Briggerland

opened his eyes and stared round.

"Help me to hold him, Marcus," said Jean.

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"Wait a moment," said Mr. Stepney, feeling in his pocket and

producing a silk handkerchief, "bandage him with that."

She shook her head.

"He′s lost all the blood he′s going to lose," she said quietly, "and I

don′t think there′s a fracture. I felt the skull very carefully with my

finger."

Mr. Stepney shivered.

"Hullo," said Briggerland drowsily, "Gee, he gave me a whack!"

"Who did it?" asked the girl.

Mr. Briggerland shook his head and winced with the pain of it.

"I don′t know," he moaned. "Help me up. Stepney."

With the man′s assistance he rose unsteadily to his feet.

"What happened?" asked Stepney.

"Don′t ask him any questions now," said the girl sharply. "Help him

back to the house."

A doctor was summoned and stitched the wound. He gave an

encouraging report, and was not too inquisitive as to how the injury

had occurred. Foreign visitors get extraordinary things in the regions

of Monte Carlo, and medical men lose nothing by their discretion.

It was not until that afternoon, propped up with pillows in a chair,

the centre of a sympathetic audience, that Mr. Briggerland told his

story.

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"I had a feeling that something was wrong," he said, "and I went up

to investigate. I heard a shot fired, almost within a few yards of me,

and dashing through the bushes, I saw the fellow taking aim for the

second time, and seized him. You remember the second shot went

high."

"What sort of a man was he?" asked Stepney.

"He was an Italian, I should think," answered Mr. Briggerland. "At

any rate, he caught me an awful whack with the back of his rifle,

and I knew no more until Jean found me."

"Do you think he was firing at me?" asked Lydia in horror.

"I am certain of it," said Briggerland. "I realised it the moment I

saw the fellow."

"How am I to thank you?" said the girl impulsively. "Really, it was

wonderful of you to tackle an armed man with your bare hands."

Mr. Briggerland closed his eyes and sighed.

"It was nothing," he said modestly.

Before dinner he and his daughter were left alone for the first time

since the accident.

"What happened?" she asked.

"It was going to be a little surprise for you," he said. "A little scheme

of my own, my dear; you′re always calling me a funk, and I wanted

to prove----"

"What happened?" she asked tersely.

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"Well, I went out yesterday morning and fixed it all. I bought the

rifle, an old English rifle, at Amiens from a peasant. I thought it

might come in handy, especially as the man threw in a packet of

ammunition. Yesterday morning, lying awake before daybreak, I

thought it out. I went up to the hill--the land belongs to an empty

house, by the way--and I located the spot, put the rifle where I

could find it easily, and fixed a pair of glass goggles on to one of the

bushes, where the sun would catch it. The whole scheme was not

without its merit as a piece of strategy, my dear," he said

complacently.

"And then----?" she said.

"I thought we′d go bathing yesterday, but we didn′t, but to-day--it

was a long time before anybody spotted the glasses, but once I had

the excuse for going ashore and investigating, the rest was easy."

She nodded.

"So that was why you asked me to keep her on the raft, and make

her stand up?"

He nodded.

"Well----?" she demanded.

"I went up to the spot, got the rifle and took aim. I′ve always been a

pretty good shot----"

"You didn′t advertise it to-day," she said sardonically. "Then I

suppose somebody hit you on the head?"

He nodded and made a grimace, but any movement of his injured

cranium was excessively painful.

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"Who was it?" she asked.

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Don′t ask fool questions," he said petulantly. "I know nothing. I

didn′t even feel the blow. I just remember taking aim, and then

everything went dark."

"And how would you have explained it all, supposing you had

succeeded?"

"That was easy," he said. "I should have said that I went in search of

the man we had seen, I heard a shot and rushed forward and found

nothing but the rifle."

She was silent, pinching her lips absently.

"And you took the risk of some peasant or visitor seeing you--took

the risk of bringing the police to the spot and turning what might

have easily been a case of accidental death into an obvious case of

wilful murder. I think you called yourself a strategist," she asked

politely.

"I did my best," he growled.

"Well, don′t do it again, father," she said. "Your foolhardiness appals

me, and heaven knows, I never expected that I should be in a

position to call you foolhardy."

And with this she left him to bask in the hero-worship which the

approaching Mrs. Cole-Mortimer would lavish upon him.

The "accident" kept them at home that night, and Lydia was not

sorry. A settee is not a very comfortable sleeping place, and she was

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ready for a real bed that night. Mr. Stepney found her yawning

surreptitiously, and went home early in disgust.

The night was warmer than the morning had been. The

Föhn

wind

was blowing and she found her room with its radiator a little

oppressive. She opened the long French windows, and stepped out

on to the balcony. The last quarter of the moon was high in the sky,

and though the light was faint, it gave shadows to trees and an eerie

illumination to the lawn.

She leant her arms on the rail and looked across the sea to the lights

of Monte Carlo glistening in the purple night. Her eyes wandered

idly to the grounds and she started. She could have sworn she had

seen a figure moving in the shadow of the tree, nor was she

mistaken.

Presently it left the tree belt, and stepped cautiously across the lawn,

halting now and again to look around. She thought at first that it

was Marcus Stepney who had returned, but something about the

walk of the man seemed familiar. Presently he stopped directly

under the balcony and looked up and she uttered an exclamation, as

the faint light revealed the iron-grey hair and the grisly eyebrows of

the intruder.

"All right, miss," he said in a hoarse whisper, "it′s only old Jaggs."

"What are you doing?" she answered in the same tone.

"Just lookin′ round," he said, "just lookin′ round," and limped again

into the darkness.

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Chapter XXIII

So old Jaggs was in Monte Carlo! Whatever was he doing, and how

was he getting on with these people who spoke nothing but French,

she wondered! She had something to think about before she went to

sleep.

She opened her eyes singularly awake as the dawn was coming up

over the grey sea. She looked at her watch; it was a quarter to six.

Why she had wakened so thoroughly she could not tell, but

remembered with a little shiver another occasion she had wakened,

this time before the dawn, to face death in a most terrifying shape.

She got up out of bed, put on a heavy coat and opened the wire

doors that led to the balcony. The morning was colder than she

imagined, and she was glad to retreat to the neighbourhood of the

warm radiator.

The fresh clean hours of the dawn, when the mind is clear, and

there is neither sound nor movement to distract the thoughts, are

favourable to sane thinking.

Lydia reviewed the past few weeks in her life, and realised, for the

first time, the miracle which had happened. It was like a legend of

old--the slave had been lifted from the king′s anteroom--the

struggling artist was now a rich woman. She twiddled the gold ring

on her hand absent-mindedly--and she was married .. and a widow!

She had an uncomfortable feeling that, in spite of her riches, she

had not yet found her niche. She was an odd quantity, as yet. The

Cole-Mortimers and the Briggerlands did not belong to her ideal

world, and she could find no place where she fitted.

She tried, in this state of mind so favourable to the consideration of

such a problem, to analyse Jack Glover′s antagonism toward Jean

Briggerland and her father.

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It seemed unnatural that a healthy young man should maintain so

bitter a feud with a girl whose beauty was almost of a transcendant

quality and all because she had rejected him.

Jack Glover was a public school boy, a man with a keen sense of

honour. She could not imagine him being guilty of a mean action.

And such men did not pursue vendettas without good reason. If

they were rejected by a woman, they accepted their

congé

with a good

grace, and it was almost unthinkable that Jack should have no other

reason for his hatred. Yet she could not bring herself even to

consider the possibility that the reason was the one he had

advanced. She came again to the dead end of conjecture. She could

believe in Jack′s judgment up to a point--beyond that she could not

go.

She had her bath, dressed, and was in the garden when the eastern

horizon was golden with the light of the rising sun. Nobody was

about, the most energetic of the servants had not yet risen, and she

strolled through the avenue to the main road. As she stood there

looking up and down a man came out from the trees that fringed

the road and began walking rapidly in the direction of Monte Carlo.

"Mr. Jaggs!" she called.

He took no notice, but seemed to increase his limping pace, and

after a moment′s hesitation, she went flying down the road after

him. He turned at the sound of her footsteps and in his furtive way

drew into the shadow of a bush. He looked more than usually

grimy; on his hands were an odd pair of gloves and a soft slouch hat

that had seen better days, covered his head.

"Good-morning, miss," he wheezed.

"Why were you running away, Mr. Jaggs?" she asked, a little out of

breath.

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"Not runnin′ away, miss," he said, glancing at her sharply from

under his heavy white eyebrows. "Just havin′ a look round!"

"Do you spend all your nights looking round?" she smiled at him.

"Yes, miss."

At that moment a cyclist gendarme came into view. He slowed down

as he approached the two and dismounted.

"Good morning, madame," he said politely, and then looking at the

man, "is this man in your employ? I have seen him coming out of

your house every morning?"

"Oh, yes," said Lydia hastily, "he′s my----"

She was at a loss to describe him, but old Jaggs saved her the

trouble.

"I′m madame′s courier," he said, and to Lydia′s amazement he spoke

in perfect French, "I am also the watchman of the house."

"Yes, yes," said Lydia, after she had recovered from her surprise.

"M′sieur is the watchman, also."

"

Bien

, madame," said the gendarme. "Forgive my asking, but we have

so many strangers here."

They watched the gendarme out of sight. Then old Jaggs chuckled.

"Pretty good French, miss, wasn′t it?" he said, and without another

word, turned and limped in the trail of the police.

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She looked after him in bewilderment. So he spent every night in

the grounds, or somewhere about the house? The knowledge gave

her a queer sense of comfort and safety.

When she went back to the villa she found the servants were up.

Jean did not put in an appearance until breakfast, and Lydia had an

opportunity of talking to the French housekeeper whom Mrs. Cole-

Mortimer had engaged when she took the villa. From her she learnt

a bit of news, which she passed on to Jean almost as soon as she put

in an appearance.

"The gardener′s little boy is going to get well, Jean."

Jean nodded.

"I know," she said. "I telephoned to the hospital yesterday."

It was so unlike her conception of the girl, that Lydia stared.

"The mother is in isolation," Lydia went on, "and Madame Souviet

says that the poor woman has no money and no friends. I thought

of going down to the hospital to-day to see if I could do anything

for her."

"You′d better not, my dear," warned Mrs. Cole-Mortimer nervously.

"Let us be thankful we′ve got the little brat out of the

neighbourhood without our catching the disease. One doesn′t want

to seek trouble. Keep away from the hospital."

"Rubbish!" said Jean briskly. "If Lydia wants to go, there is no

reason why she shouldn′t. The isolation people are never allowed to

come into contact with visitors, so there is really no danger."

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"I agree with Mrs. Cole-Mortimer," grumbled Briggerland. "It is

very foolish to ask for trouble. You take my advice, my dear, and

keep away."

"I had a talk with a gendarme this morning," said Lydia to change

the subject. "When he stopped and got off his bicycle I thought he

was going to speak about the shooting. I suppose it was reported to

the police?"

"Er--yes," said Mr. Briggerland, not looking up from his plate, "of

course. Have you been into Monte Carlo?"

Lydia shook her head.

"No, I couldn′t sleep, and I was taking a walk along the road when

he passed." She said nothing about Mr. Jaggs. "The police at

Monaco are very sociable."

Mr. Briggerland sniffed.

"Very," he said.

"Have they any theories?" she asked. In her innocence she was

persisting in a subject which was wholly distasteful to Mr.

Briggerland. "About the shooting I mean?"

"Yes, they have theories, but my dear, I should advise you not to

discuss the matter with the police. The fact is," invented Mr.

Briggerland, "I told them that you were unaware of the fact that you

had been shot at, and if you discussed it with the police, you would

make me look rather foolish."

When Lydia and Mrs. Cole-Mortimer had gone, Jean seized an

opportunity which the absence of the maid offered.

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"I hope you are beginning to see how perfectly insane your scheme

was," she said. "You have to support your act with a whole series of

bungling lies. Possibly Marcus, like a fool, has mentioned it in Monte

Carlo, and we shall have the detectives out here asking why you have

not reported the matter."

"If I were as clever as you----" he growled.

"You′re not," said Jean, rolling her serviette. "You′re the most un-

clever man I know."

Chapter XXIV

Lydia went up to her bedroom to put away her clothes and found

the maid making the bed.

"Oh, madame," said the girl, "I forgot to speak to you about a

matter--I hope madame will not be angry."

"I′m hardly likely to be angry on a morning like this," said Lydia.

"It is because of this matter," said the girl. She groped in her pocket

and brought out a small shining object, and Lydia took it from her

hand.

"This matter" was a tiny silver cross, so small that a five-franc piece

would have covered it easily. It was brightly polished and apparently

had seen service.

"When we took your bed, after the atrocious and mysterious

happening," said the maid rapidly, "this was found in the sheets. It

was not thought that it could possibly be madame′s, because it was

so poor, until this morning when it was suggested that it might be a

souvenir that madame values."

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"You found it in the sheets?" asked Lydia in surprise.

"Yes, madame."

"It doesn′t belong to me," said Lydia. "Perhaps it belongs to

Madame Cole-Mortimer. I will show it to her."

Mrs. Cole-Mortimer was a devout Catholic and it might easily be

some cherished keep-sake of hers.

The girl carried the cross to the window; an "X" had been scrawled

by some sharp-pointed instrument at the junction of the bars. There

was no other mark to identify the trinket.

She put the cross in her bag, and when she saw Mrs. Cole-Mortimer

again she forgot to ask her about it.

The car drove her into Nice alone. Jean did not feel inclined to make

the journey and Lydia rather enjoyed the solitude.

The isolation hospital was at the top of the hill and she found some

difficulty in obtaining admission at this hour. The arrival of the

chief medical officer, however, saved her from making the journey

in vain. The report he gave about the child was very satisfactory; the

mother was in the isolation ward.

"Can she be seen?"

"Yes, madame," said the urbane Frenchman in charge. "You

understand, you will not be able to get near her? It will be rather like

interviewing a prisoner, for she will be behind one set of bars and

you behind another."

Lydia was taken to a room which was, she imagined, very much like

a room in which prisoners interviewed their distressed relations.

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There were not exactly bars, but two large mesh nets of steel

separated the visitor from the patient under observation. After a

time a nun brought in the gardener′s wife, a tall, gaunt woman, who

was a native of Marseilles, and spoke the confusing patois of that

city with great rapidity. It was some time before Lydia could

accustom her ear to the queer dialect.

Her boy was getting well, she said, but she herself was in terrible

trouble. She had no money for the extra food she required. Her

husband who was away in Paris when the child had been taken, had

not troubled to write to her. It was terrible being in a place amongst

other fever cases, and she was certain that her days were

numbered.. .

Lydia pushed a five-hundred franc note through the grating to the

nun, to settle her material needs.

"And, oh, madame," wailed the gardener′s wife, "my poor little boy

has lost the gift of the Reverend Mother of San Surplice! His own

cross which has been blessed by his holiness the Pope! It is because

I left his cross in his little shirt that he is getting better, but now it is

lost and I am sure these thieving doctors have taken it."

"A cross?" said Lydia. "What sort of a cross?"

"It was a silver cross, madame; the value in money was nothing--it

was priceless. Little Xavier----"

"Xavier?" repeated Lydia, remembering the "X" on the trinket that

had been found in her bed. "Wait a moment, madame." She opened

her bag and took out the tiny silver symbol, and at the sight of it the

woman burst into a volley of joyful thanks.

"It is the same, the same, madame! It has a small ′X′ which the

Reverend Mother scratched with her own blessed scissors!"

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Lydia pushed the cross through the net and the nun handed it to the

woman.

"It is the same, it is the same!" she cried. "Oh, thank you, madame!

Now my heart is glad.. ."

Lydia came out of the hospital and walked through the gardens by

the doctor′s side. But she was not listening to what he was saying--

her mind was fully occupied with the mystery of the silver cross.

It was little Xavier′s . . it had been tucked inside his bed when he lay,

as his mother thought, dying . . and it had been found in her bed!

Then little Xavier had been in her bed! Her foot was on the step of

the car when it came to her--the meaning of that drenched couch

and the empty bottle of peroxide. Xavier had been put there, and

somebody who knew that the bed was infected had so soaked it

with water that she could not sleep in it. But who? Old Jaggs!

She got into the car slowly, and went back to Cap Martin along the

Grande Corniche.

Who had put the child there? He could not have walked from the

cottage; that was impossible.

She was half-way home when she noticed a parcel lying on the floor

of the car, and she let down the front window and spoke to the

chauffeur. It was not Mordon, but a man whom she had hired with

the car.

"It came from the hospital, madame," he said. "The porter asked me

if I came from Villa Casa. It was something sent to the hospital to

be disinfected. There was a charge of seven francs for the service,

madame, and this I paid."

She nodded.

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She picked up the parcel--it was addressed to "Mademoiselle Jean

Briggerland" and bore the label of the hospital.

Lydia sat back in the car with her eyes closed, tired of turning over

this problem, yet determined to get to the bottom of the mystery.

Jean was out when she got back and she carried the parcel to her

own room. She was trying to keep out of her mind the very

possibility that such a hideous crime could have been conceived as

that which all the evidence indicated had been attempted. Very

resolutely she refused to believe that such a thing could have

happened. There must be some explanation for the presence of the

cross in her bed. Possibly it had been found after the wet sheets had

been taken to the servants′ part of the house.

She rang the bell, and the maid who had given her the trinket came.

"Tell me," said Lydia, "where was this cross found?"

"In your bed, mademoiselle."

"But where? Was it before the clothing was removed from this room

or after?"

"It was before, madame," said the maid. "When the sheets were

turned back we found it lying exactly in the middle of the bed."

Lydia′s heart sank.

"Thank you, that will do," she said. "I have found the owner of the

cross and have restored it."

Should she tell Jean? Her first impulse was to take the girl into her

confidence, and reveal the state of her mind. Her second thought

was to seek out old Jaggs, but where could he be found? He

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evidently lived somewhere in Monte Carlo, but his name was hardly

likely to be in the visitors′ list. She was still undecided when Marcus

Stepney called to take her to lunch at the Café de Paris.

The whole thing was so amazingly improbable. It belonged to a

world of unreality, but then, she told herself, she also was living in

an unreal world, and had been so for weeks.

Chapter XXV

Mr. Stepney had become more bearable. A week ago she would have

shrunk from taking luncheon with him, but now such a prospect

had no terrors. His views of things and people were more generous

than she had expected. She had anticipated his attitude would be a

little cynical, but to her surprise he oozed loving-kindness. Had she

known Mr. Marcus Stepney as well as Jean knew him, she would

have realised that he adapted his mental attitude to his audience. He

was a man whose stock-in-trade was a knowledge of human nature,

and the ability to please. He would no more have attempted to

shock or frighten her, than a first-class salesman would shock or

annoy a possible customer.

He had goods to sell, and it was his business to see that they

satisfied the buyer. In this case the goods were represented by sixty-

nine inches of good-looking, well-dressed man, and it was rather

important that he should present the best face of the article to the

purchaser. It was almost as important that the sale should be a quick

one. Mr. Stepney lived from week to week. What might happen next

year seldom interested him, therefore his courting must be rapid.

He told the story of his life at lunch, a story liable to move a tender-

hearted woman to at least a sympathetic interest. The story of his

life varied also with the audience. In this case, it was designed for

one whom he knew had had a hard struggle, whose father had been

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heavily in debt, and who had tasted some of the bitterness of

defeat. Jean had given him a very precise story of the girl′s career,

and Mr. Marcus Stepney adapted it for his own purpose.

"Why, your life has almost run parallel with mine," said Lydia.

"I hope it may continue," said Mr. Stepney not without a touch of

sadness in his voice. "I am a very lonely man--I have no friends

except the acquaintances one can pick up at night clubs, and the

places where the smart people go in the season, and there is an

artificiality about society friends which rather depresses me."

"I feel that, too," said the sympathetic Lydia.

"If I could only settle down!" he said, shaking his head. "A little

house in the country, a few horses, a few cows, a woman who

understood me. . "

A false move this.

"And a few pet chickens to follow you about?" she laughed. "No, it

doesn′t sound quite like you, Mr. Stepney."

He lowered his eyes.

"I am sorry you think that," he said. "All the world thinks that I′m a

gadabout, an idler, with no interest in existence, except the pleasure

I can extract."

"And a jolly good existence, too," said Lydia briskly. She had

detected a note of sentiment creeping into the conversation, and

had slain it with the most effective weapon in woman′s armoury.

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"And now tell me all about the great Moorish Pretender who is

staying at your hotel--I caught a glimpse of him on the promenade

--and there was a lot about him in the paper."

Mr. Stepney sighed and related all that he knew of the redoubtable

Muley Hafiz on the way to the rooms. Muley Hafiz was being

lionised in France just then, to the annoyance of the Spanish

authorities, who had put a price on his head.

Lydia showed much more interest in the Moorish Pretender than

she did in the pretender who walked by her side.

He was not in the best of tempers when he brought her back to the

Villa Casa, and Jean, who entertained him whilst Lydia was

changing, saw that his first advances had not met with a very

encouraging result.

"There will be no wedding bells, Jean," he said.

"You take a rebuff very easily," said the girl, but he shook his head.

"My dear Jean, I know women as well as I know the back of my

hand, and I tell you that there′s nothing doing with this girl. I′m not

a fool."

She looked at him earnestly.

"No, you′re not a fool," she said at last. "You′re hardly likely to make

a mistake about that sort of thing. I′m afraid you′ll have to do

something more romantic."

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"You′ll have to run away with her; and like the knights of old carry

off the lady of your choice."

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"The knights of old didn′t have to go before a judge and jury and

serve seven years at Dartmoor for their sins," he said unpleasantly.

She was sitting on a low chair overlooking the sea, whittling a twig

with a silver-handled knife she had taken from her bag--a favourite

occupation of hers in moments of cogitation.

"All the ladies of old didn′t go to the police," she said. "Some of

them were quite happy with their powerful lords, especially delicate-

minded ladies who shrank from advertising their misfortune to the

readers of the Sunday press. I think most women like to be wooed

in the cave-man fashion, Marcus."

"Is that the kind of treatment you′d like, Jean?"

There was a new note in his voice. Had she looked at him she would

have seen a strange light in his eyes.

"I′m merely advancing a theory," she said, "a theory which has been

supported throughout the ages."

"I′d let her go and her money, too," he said. He was speaking

quickly, almost incoherently. "There′s only one woman in the world

for me, Jean, and I′ve told you that before. I′d give my life and soul

for her."

He bent over, and caught her arm in his big hand.

"You believe in the cave-man method, do you?" he breathed. "It is

the kind of treatment you′d like, eh, Jean?"

She did not attempt to release her arm.

"Keep your hand to yourself, Marcus, please," she said quietly.

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"You′d like it, wouldn′t you, Jean? My God, I′d sacrifice my soul for

you, you little devil!"

"Be sensible," she said. It was not her words or her firm tone that

made him draw back. Twice and deliberately she drew the edge of

her little knife across the back of his hand, and he leapt away with a

howl of pain.

"You--you beast," he stammered, and she looked at him with her

sly smile.

"There must have been cave women, too, Marcus," she said coolly,

as she rose. "They had their methods--give me your handkerchief, I

want to wipe this knife."

His face was grey now. He was looking at her like a man bereft of

his senses.

He did not move when she took his handkerchief from his pocket,

wiped the knife, closed and slipped it into her bag, before she

replaced the handkerchief tidily. And all the time he stood there

with his hand streaming with blood, incapable of movement. It was

not until she had disappeared round the corner of the house that he

pulled out the handkerchief and wrapped it about his hand.

"A devil," he whimpered, almost in tears, "a devil!"

Chapter XXVI

Jean Briggerland discovered a new arrival on her return to the

house.

Jack Glover had come unexpectedly from London, so Lydia told

her, and Jack himself met her with extraordinary geniality.

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"You lucky people to be in this paradise!" he said. "It is raining like

the dickens in London, and miserable beyond description. And

you′re looking brown and beautiful, Miss Briggerland."

"The spirit of the warm south has got into your blood, Mr. Glover,"

she said sarcastically. "A course at the Riviera would make you

almost human."

"And what would make you human?" asked Jack blandly.

"I hope you people aren′t going to quarrel as soon as you meet,"

said Lydia.

Jean was struck by the change in the girl. There was a colour in her

cheeks, and a new and a more joyous note in her voice, which was

unmistakable to so keen a student as Jean Briggerland.

"I never quarrel with Jack," she said. She assumed a proprietorial air

toward Jack Glover, which unaccountably annoyed Lydia. "He

invents the quarrels and carries them out himself. How long are you

staying?"

"Two days," said Jack, "then I′m due back in town."

"Have you brought your Mr. Jaggs with you?" asked Jean innocently.

"Isn′t he here?" asked Jack in surprise. "I sent him along a week

ago."

"Here?" repeated Jean slowly. "Oh, he′s here, is he? Of course." She

nodded. Certain things were clear to her now; the unknown

drencher of beds, the stranger who had appeared from nowhere and

had left her father senseless, were no longer mysteries.

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"Oh, Jean," it was Lydia who spoke. "I′m awfully remiss, I didn′t

give you the parcel I brought back from the hospital."

"From the hospital?" said Jean. "What parcel was that?"

"Something you had sent to be sterilized. I′ll get it."

She came back in a minute or two with the parcel which she had

found in the car.

"Oh yes," said Jean carelessly, "I remember. It is a rug that I lent to

the gardener′s wife when her little boy was taken ill."

She handed the packet to the maid.

"Take it to my room," she said.

She waited just long enough to find an excuse for leaving the party,

and went upstairs. The parcel was on her bed. She tore off the

wrapping--inside, starched white and clean, was the dust coat she

had worn the night she had carried Xavier from the cottage to

Lydia′s bed. The rubber cap was there, discoloured from the effects

of the disinfectant, and the gloves and the silk handkerchief, neatly

washed and pressed. She looked at them thoughtfully.

She put the articles away in a drawer, went down the servants′ stairs

and through a heavy open door into the cellar. Light was admitted

by two barred windows, through one of which she had thrust her

bundle that night, and she could see every corner of the cellar,

which was empty--as she had expected. The clothing she had

thrown down had been gathered by some mysterious agent, who

had forwarded it to the hospital in her name.

She came slowly up the stairs, fastened the open door behind her,

and walked out into the garden to think.

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"Jaggs!" she said aloud, and her voice was as soft as silk. "I think,

Mr. Jaggs, you ought to be in heaven."

Chapter XXVII

"Who were the haughty individuals interviewing Jean in the saloon?"

asked Jack Glover, as Lydia′s car panted and groaned on the stiff

ascent to La Turbie.

Lydia was concerned, and he had already noted her seriousness.

"Poor Jean is rather worried," she said. "It appears that she had a

love affair with a man three or four years ago, and recently he has

been bombarding her with threatening letters."

"Poor soul," said Jack dryly, "but I should imagine she could have

dealt with that matter without calling in the police. I suppose they

were detectives. Has she had a letter recently?"

"She had one this morning--posted in Monte Carlo last night."

"By the way, Jean went into Monte Carlo last night, didn′t she?"

asked Jack.

She looked at him reproachfully.

"We all went into Monte Carlo," she said severely. "Now, please

don′t be horrid, Mr. Glover, you aren′t suggesting that Jean wrote

this awful letter to herself, are you?"

"Was it an awful letter?" asked Jack.

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"A terrible letter, threatening to kill her. Do you know that Mr.

Briggerland thinks that the person who nearly killed me was really

shooting at Jean."

"You don′t say," said Jack politely. "I haven′t heard about people

shooting at you--but it sounds rather alarming."

She told him the story, and he offered no comment.

"Go on with your thrilling story of Jean′s mortal enemy. Who is

he?"

"She doesn′t know his name," said Lydia. "She met him in Egypt--

an elderly man who positively dogged her footsteps wherever she

went, and made himself a nuisance."

"Doesn′t know his name, eh?" said Jack with a sniff. "Well, that′s

convenient."

"I think you′re almost spiteful," said Lydia hotly. "Poor girl, she was

so distressed this morning; I have never seen her so upset."

"And are the police going to keep guard and follow her wherever

she goes? And is that impossible person, Mr. Marcus Stepney, also

in the vendetta? I saw him wandering about this morning like a

wounded hero, with his arm in a sling."

"He hurt his hand gathering wild flowers for me on the--"

But Jack′s outburst of laughter checked her, and she glared at him.

"I think you′re boorish," she snapped angrily. "I′m sorry I came out

with you."

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"And I′m sorry I′ve been such a fool," apologised the penitent Jack,

"but the vision of the immaculate Mr. Stepney gathering wild

flowers in a top hat and a morning suit certainly did appeal to me as

being comical!"

"He doesn′t wear a top hat or a morning suit in Monte Carlo," she

said, furious at his banter. "Let us talk about somebody else than my

friends."

"I haven′t started to talk about your friends yet," he said. "And

please don′t try to tell your chauffeur to turn round--the road is too

narrow, and he′d have the car over the cliff before you knew where

you were, if he were stupid enough to try. I′m sorry, deeply sorry,

Mrs. Meredith, but I think that Jean was right when she said that the

southern air had got into my blood. I′m a little hysterical--yes, put it

down to that. It runs in the family," he babbled on. "I have an aunt

who faints at the sight of strawberries, and an uncle who swoons

whenever a cat walks into the room."

"I hope you don′t visit him very much," she said coldly.

"Two points to you," said Jack, "but I must warn Jaggs, in case he is

mistaken for the elderly Lothario. Obviously Jean is preparing the

way for an unpleasant end to poor old Jaggs."

"Why do you think these things about Jean?" she asked, as they were

running into La Turbie.

"Because I have a criminal mind," he replied promptly. "I have the

same type of mind as Jean Briggerland′s, wedded to a wholesome

respect for the law, and a healthy sense of right and wrong. Some

people couldn′t be happy if they owned a cent that had been earned

dishonestly; other people are happy so long as they have the money

--so long as it is real money. I belong to the former category. Jean

--well, I don′t know what would make Jean happy."

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"And what would make you happy--Jean?" she asked.

He did not answer this question until they were sitting on the stoep

of the National, where a light luncheon was awaiting them.

"Jean?" he said, as though the question had just been asked. "No, I

don′t want Jean. She is wonderful, really, Mrs. Meredith, wonderful! I

find myself thinking about her at odd moments, and the more I

think the more I am amazed. Lucretia Borgia was a child in arms

compared with Jean--poor old Lucretia has been maligned, anyway.

There was a woman in the sixteenth century rather like her, and

another girl in the early days of New England, who used to

denounce witches for the pleasure of seeing them burn, but I can′t

think of an exact parallel, because Jean gets no pleasure out of

hurting people any more than you will get out of cutting that

cantaloup. It has just got to be cut, and the fact that you are finally

destroying the life of the melon doesn′t worry you."

"Have cantaloups life?" She paused, knife in hand, eyeing the fruit

with a frown. "No, I don′t think I want it. So Jean is a murderess at

heart?"

She asked the question in solemn mockery, but Jack was not smiling.

"Oh yes--in intention, at any rate. I don′t know whether she has

ever killed anybody, but she has certainly planned murders."

Lydia sighed and sat back in her chair patiently.

"Do you still suggest that she harbours designs against my young

life?"

"I not only suggest it, but I state positively that there have been four

attempts on your life in the past fortnight," he said calmly.

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"Let us have this out," she said recklessly. "Number one?"

"The nearly-a-fatal accident in Berkeley Street," said Jack.

"Will you explain by what miracle the car arrived at the

psychological moment?" she asked.

"That′s easy," he said with a smile. "Old man Briggerland lit his cigar

standing on the steps of the house. That light was a brilliant one,

Jaggs tells me. It was the signal for the car to come on. The next

attempt was made with the assistance of a lunatic doctor who was

helped to escape by Briggerland, and brought to your house by him.

In some way he got hold of a key--probably Jean manoeuvred it.

Did she ever talk to you about keys?"

"No," said the girl, "she----" She stopped suddenly, remembering

that Jean had discussed keys with her.

"Are you sure she didn′t?" asked Jack, watching her.

"I think she may have done," said the girl defiantly; "what was the

third attempt?"

"The third attempt," said Jack slowly, "was to infect your bed with a

malignant fever."

"Jean did it?" said the girl incredulously. "Oh no, that would be

impossible."

"The child was in your bed. Jaggs saw it and threw two buckets of

water over the bed, so that you should not sleep in it."

She was silent.

"And I suppose the next attempt was the shooting?"

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He nodded.

"Now do you believe?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"No, I don′t believe," she said quietly. "I think you have worked up a

very strong case against poor Jean, and I am sure you think you′re

justified."

"You are quite right there," he said.

He lifted a pair of field glasses which he had put on the table, and

surveyed the road from the sea. "Mrs. Meredith, I want you to do

something and tell Jean Briggerland when you have done it."

"What is that?" she asked.

"I want you to make a will. I don′t care where you leave your

property, so long as it is not to somebody you love."

She shivered.

"I don′t like making wills. It′s so gruesome."

"It will be more gruesome for you if you don′t," he said

significantly. "The Briggerlands are your heirs at law."

She looked at him quickly.

"So that is what you are aiming at? You think that all these plots are

designed to put me out of the way so that they can enjoy my

money?"

He nodded, and she looked at him wonderingly.

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"If you weren′t a hard-headed lawyer, I should think you were a

writer of romantic fiction," she said. "But if it will please you I will

make a will. I haven′t the slightest idea who I could leave the money

to. I′ve got rather a lot of money, haven′t I?"

"You have exactly £160,000 in hard cash. I want to talk to you about

that," said Jack. "It is lying at your bankers in your current account.

It represents property which has been sold or was in process of

being sold when you inherited the money, and anybody who can get

your signature and can satisfy the bankers that they are bona fide

payees, can draw every cent you have of ready money. I might say in

passing that we are prepared for that contingency, and any large

cheque will be referred to me or to my partner."

He raised his field glasses for a second time and looked steadily

down along the hill road up which they had come.

"Are you expecting anybody?" she asked.

"I′m expecting Jean," he said grimly.

"But we left her----"

"The fact that we left her talking to the police doesn′t mean that she

will not be coming up here, to watch us. Jean doesn′t like me, you

know, and she will be scared to death of this

tête-à-tête

."

The conversation had been arrested by the arrival of the soup and

now there was a further interruption whilst the table was being

cleared. When the

maître d′hôtel

had gone the girl asked:

"What am I to do with the money? Reinvest it?"

"Exactly," said Jack, "but the most important thing is to make your

will."

158

---

He looked along the deserted veranda. They were the only guests

present who had come early. From the veranda two curtained doors

led into the

salon

of the hotel and it struck him that one of these

had not been ajar when he looked at it before, and it was the door

opposite to the table where they were sitting.

He noted this idly without attaching any great importance to the

fact.

"Suppose somebody were to present a cheque to the bank in my

name?" she asked. "What would happen?"

"If it were for a large sum? The manager would call us up and one

of us would probably go round to your bank. It is only a block from

our office. If Rennett or I said it was all right the cheque would be

honoured. You may be sure that I should make very drastic inquiries

as to the origin of the signature."

And then she saw him stiffen and his eyes go to the door. He waited

a second, then rising noiselessly, crossed the wooden floor of the

veranda quickly and pushed open the door, to find himself face to

face with the smiling Jean Briggerland.

Chapter XXVIII

"However did you get here?" asked Lydia in surprise.

"I went into Nice," said the girl carelessly. "The detectives were

going there and I gave them a lift."

"I see," said Jack, "so you came into Turbie by the back road? I

wondered why I hadn′t seen your car."

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"You expected me, did you?" she smiled, as she sat down at the table

and selected a peach from its cotton-wool bed. "I only arrived a

second ago, in fact I was opening the door when you almost

knocked my head off. What a violent man you are, Jack! I shall have

to put you into my story."

Glover had recovered his self-possession by now.

"So you are adding to your other crimes by turning novelist, are

you?" he said good-humouredly. "What is the book, Miss

Briggerland?"

"It is going to be called ′Suspected,′" she said coolly. "And it will be

the Story of a Hurt Soul."

"Oh, I see, a humorous story," said Jack, wilfully dense. "I didn′t

know you were going to write a biography."

"But do tell me about this, it is very thrilling, Jean," said Lydia, "and

it is the first I′ve heard of it."

Jean was skinning the peach and was smiling as at an amusing

thought.

"I′ve been two years making up my mind to write it," she said, "and

I′m going to dedicate it to Jack. I started work on it three or four

days ago. Look at my wrist!" She held out her beautiful hand for the

girl′s inspection.

"It is a very pretty wrist," laughed Lydia, "but why did you want me

to see it?"

"If you had a professional eye," said the girl, resuming her

occupation, "you would have noticed the swelling, the result of

writers′ cramp."

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"The yarn about your elderly admirer ought to provide a good

chapter," said Jack, "and isn′t there a phrase ′A Chapter of

Accidents′--

that

ought to go in?"

She did not raise her eyes.

"Don′t discourage me," she said a little sadly. "I have to make money

somehow."

How much had she heard? Jack was wondering all the time, and he

groaned inwardly when he saw how little effect his warning had

upon the girl he was striving to protect. Women are natural

actresses, but Lydia was not acting now. She was genuinely fond of

Jean and he could see that she had accepted his warnings as the

ravings of a diseased imagination. He confirmed this view when

after a morning of sight-seeing and the exploration of the spot

where, two thousand years before, the Emperor Augustine had

erected his lofty "trophy," they returned to the villa. There are some

omissions which are marked, and when Lydia allowed him to depart

without pressing him to stay to dinner he realised that he had lost

the trick.

"When are you going back to London?" she asked.

"To-morrow morning," said Jack. "I don′t think I shall come here

again before I go."

She did not reply immediately. She was a little penitent at her lack of

hospitality, but Jack had annoyed her and the more convincing he

had become, the greater had been the irritation he had caused. One

question he had to ask but he hesitated.

"About that will----" he began, but her look of weariness stopped

him.

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It was a very annoyed young man that drove back to the Hôtel de

Paris. He had hardly gone before Lydia regretted her brusqueness.

She liked Jack Glover more than she was prepared to admit, and

though he had only been in Cap Martin for two days she felt a little

sense of desolation at his going. Very resolutely she refused even to

consider his extraordinary views about Jean. And yet----

Jean left her alone and watched her strolling aimlessly about the

garden, guessing the little storm which had developed in her breast.

Lydia went to bed early that night, another significant sign Jean

noted, and was not sorry, because she wanted to have her father to

herself.

Mr. Briggerland listened moodily whilst Jean related all that she had

learnt, for she had been in the

salon

at the National for a good

quarter of an hour before Jack had discovered her.

"I thought he would want her to make a will," she said, "and, of

course, although she has rejected the idea now, it will grow on her. I

think we have the best part of a week."

"I suppose you have everything cut and dried as usual," growled Mr.

Briggerland. "What is your plan?"

"I have three," said Jean thoughtfully, "and two are particularly

appealing to me because they do not involve the employment of any

third person."

"Had you one which brought in somebody else?" asked Briggerland

in surprise. "I thought a clever girl like you----"

"Don′t waste your sarcasm on me," said Jean quietly. "The third

person whom I considered was Marcus Stepney," and she told him

the gist of her conversation with the gambler. Mr. Briggerland was

not impressed.

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"A thief like Marcus will get out of paying," he said, "and if he can

stall you long enough to get the money you may whistle for your

share. Besides, a fellow like that isn′t really afraid of a charge of

bigamy."

Jean, curled up in a big arm-chair, looked up under her eyelashes at

her father and laughed.

"I had no intention of letting Marcus marry Lydia," she said coolly,

"but I had to dangle something in front of his eyes, because he may

serve me in quite another way."

"How did he get those two slashes on his hand?" asked Mr.

Briggerland suddenly.

"Ask him," she said. "Marcus is getting a little troublesome. I

thought he had learnt his lesson and had realised that I am not built

for matrimony, especially for a hectic attachment to a man who

gains his livelihood by cheating at cards."

"Now, now, my dear," said her father.

"Please don′t be shocked," she mocked him. "You know as well as I

do how Marcus lives."

"The boy is very fond of you."

"The boy is between thirty and thirty-six," she said tersely. "And he′s

not the kind of boy that I am particularly fond of. He is useful and

may be more useful yet."

She rose, stretched her arms and yawned.

"I′m going up to my room to work on my story. You are watching

for Mr. Jaggs?"

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---

"Work on what?" he said.

"The story I am writing and which I think will create a sensation,"

she said calmly.

"What′s this?" asked Briggerland suspiciously. "A story? I didn′t

know you were writing that kind of Stuff."

"There are lots of important things that you know nothing about,

parent," she said and left him a little dazed.

For once Jean was not deceiving him. A writing table had been put

in her room and a thick pad of paper awaited her attention. She got

into her kimono and with a little sigh sat down at the table and

began to write. It was half-past two when she gathered up the sheets

and read them over with a smile which was half contempt. She was

on the point of getting into bed when she remembered that her

father was keeping watch below. She put on her slippers and went

downstairs and tapped gently at the door of the darkened dining-

room.

Almost immediately it was opened.

"What did you want to tap for?" he grumbled. "You gave me a

start."

"I preferred tapping to being shot," she answered. "Have you heard

anything or seen anybody?"

The French windows of the dining-room were open, her father was

wearing his coat and on his arm she saw by the reflected starlight

from outside he carried a shot-gun.

"Nothing," he said. "The old man hasn′t come to-night."

164

---

She nodded.

"Somehow I didn′t think he would," she said.

"I don′t see how I can shoot him without making a fuss."

"Don′t be silly," said Jean lightly. "Aren′t the police well aware that

an elderly gentleman has threatened my life, and would it be

remarkable if seeing an ancient man prowl about this house you

shot him on sight?"

She bit her lips thoughtfully.

"Yes, I think you can go to bed," she said. "He will not be here to-

night. To-morrow night, yes."

She went up to her room, said her prayers and went to bed and was

asleep immediately.

Lydia had forgotten about Jean′s story until she saw her writing

industriously at a small table which had been placed on the lawn. It

was February, but the wind and the sun were warm and Lydia

thought she had never seen a more beautiful picture than the girl

presented sitting there in a garden spangled with gay flowers, heavy

with the scent of February roses, a dainty figure of a girl, almost

ethereal in her loveliness.

"Am I interrupting you?"

"Not a bit," said Jean, putting down her pen and rubbing her wrist.

"Isn′t it annoying. I′ve got to quite an exciting part, and my wrist is

giving me hell."

She used the word so naturally that Lydia forgot to be shocked.

165

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"Can I do anything for you?"

Jean shook her head.

"I don′t exactly see what you can do," she said, "unless you could--

but, no, I would not ask you to do that!"

"What is it?" asked Lydia.

Jean puckered her brows in thought.

"I suppose you could do it," she said, "but I′d hate to ask you. You

see, dear, I′ve got a chapter to finish and it really ought to go off to

London to-day. I am very keen on getting an opinion from a literary

friend of mine--but, no, I won′t ask you."

"What is it?" smiled Lydia. "I′m sure you′re not going to ask the

impossible."

"The thought occurred to me that perhaps you might write as I

dictated. It would only be two or three pages," said the girl

apologetically. "I′m so full of the story at this moment that it would

be a shame if I allowed the divine fire of inspiration--that′s the

term, isn′t it--to go out."

"Of course I′ll do it," said Lydia. "I can′t write shorthand, but that

doesn′t matter, does it?"

"No, longhand will be quick enough for me. My thoughts aren′t so

fast," said the girl.

"What is it all about?"

"It is about a girl," said Jean, "who has stolen a lot of money----"

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"How thrilling!" smiled Lydia.

"And she′s got away to America. She is living a very full and joyous

life, but the thought of her sin is haunting her and she decides to

disappear and let people think she has drowned herself. She is really

going into a convent. I′ve got to the point where she is saying

farewell to her friend. Do you feel capable of being harrowed?"

"I never felt fitter for the job in my life," said Lydia, and sitting

down in the chair the girl had vacated, she took up the pencil which

the other had left.

Jean strolled up and down the lawn in an agony of mental

composition and presently she came back and began slowly to

dictate.

Word by word Lydia wrote down the thrilling story of the girl′s

remorse, and presently came to the moment when the heroine was

inditing a letter to her friend.

"Take a fresh page," said Jean, as Lydia paused half-way down one

sheet. "I shall want to write something in there myself when my

hand gets better. Now begin:

"My dear Friend."

Lydia wrote down the words and slowly the girl dictated.

"I do not know how I can write you this letter. I intended to tel you when I saw
you the other day how miserable I was. Your suspicion hurt me less than your
ignorance of the one vital event in my life which has now made living a burden.
My money has brought no joy to me. I have met a man I love, but with whom I
know a union is impossible. We are determined to die together--farewel --"

"You said she was going away," interrupted Lydia.

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"I know," Jean nodded. "Only she wants to give the impression

----"

"I see, I see," said Lydia. "Go on."

"Forgive me for the act I am committing, which you may think is the act of a
coward, and try to think as wel of me as you possibly can. Your friend----"

"I don′t know whether to make her sign her name or put her

initials," said Jean, pursing her lips.

"What is her name?"

"Laura Martin. Just put the initials L.M."

"They′re mine also," smiled Lydia. "What else?"

"I don′t think I′ll do any more," said Jean. "I′m not a good dictator,

am I? Though you′re a wonderful amanuensis."

She collected the papers tidily, put them in a little portfolio and

tucked them under her arm.

"Let us gamble the afternoon away," said Jean. "I want distraction."

"But your story? Haven′t you to send it off?"

"I′m going to wrestle with it in secret, even if it breaks my wrist,"

said Jean brightly.

She took the portfolio up to her room, locked the door and sorted

over the pages. The page which held the farewell letter she put

carefully aside. The remainder, including all that part of the story

she had written on the previous night, she made into a bundle, and

when Lydia had gone off with Marcus Stepney to swim, she carried

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the paper to a remote corner of the grounds and burnt it sheet by

sheet. Again she examined the "letter," folded it and locked it in a

drawer.

Lydia, returning from her swim, was met by Jean half-way up the

hill.

"By the way, my dear, I wish you would give me Jack Glover′s

London address," she said as they went into the house. "Write it

here. Here is a pencil." She pulled out an envelope from a stationery

rack and Lydia, in all innocence, wrote as she requested.

The envelope Jean carried upstairs, put into it the letter signed "L.

M.," and sealed it down. Lydia Meredith was nearer to death at that

moment than she had been on the afternoon when Mordon the

chauffeur brought his big Fiat on to the pavement of Berkeley

Street.

Chapter XXIX

It was in the evening of the next day that Lydia received a wire from

Jack Glover. It was addressed from London and announced his

arrival.

"Doesn′t it make you feel nice, Lydia," said Jean, when she saw the

telegram, "to have a man in London looking after your interests--a

sort of guardian angel--and another guardian angel prowling round

your demesne at Cap Martin?"

"You mean Jaggs? Have you seen him?"

"No, I have not seen him," said the girl softly. "I should rather like

to see him. Do you know where he is staying at Monte Carlo?"

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Lydia shook her head.

"I hope I shall see him before I go," said Jean. "He must be a very

interesting old gentleman."

It was Mr. Briggerland who first caught a glimpse of Lydia′s

watchman. Mr. Briggerland had spent the greater part of the day

sleeping. He was unusually wakeful at one o′clock in the morning,

and sat on the veranda in a fur-lined overcoat, his gun lay across his

knees. He had seen many mysterious shapes flitting across the lawn,

only to discover on investigation that they were no more than the

shadows which the moving tree-tops cast.

At two o′clock he saw a shape emerge from the tree belt and move

stealthily in the shadow of the bushes toward the house. He did not

fire because there was a chance that it might have been one of the

detectives who had promised to keep an eye upon the Villa Casa in

view of the murderous threats which Jean had received.

Noiselessly he rose and stepped in his rubber shoes to the darker

end of the stoep. It was old Jaggs. There was no mistaking him. A

bent man who limped cautiously across the lawn and was making

for the back of the house. Mr. Briggerland cocked his gun and took

aim. .

Both girls heard the shot, and Lydia, springing out of bed, ran on to

the balcony.

"It′s all right, Mrs. Meredith," said Briggerland′s voice. "It was a

burglar, I think."

"You haven′t hurt him?" she cried, remembering old Jaggs′s

nocturnal habits.

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"If I have, he′s got away," said Briggerland. "He must have seen me

and dropped."

Jean flew downstairs in her dressing-gown and joined her father on

the lawn.

"Did you get him?" she asked in a low voice.

"I could have sworn I shot him," said her father in the same tone,

"but the old devil must have dropped."

He heard the quick catch of her breath and turned apprehensively.

"Now, don′t make a fuss about it, Jean, I couldn′t help it."

"You couldn′t help it!" she almost snarled. "You had him under your

gun and you let him go. Do you think he′ll ever come again, you

fool?"

"Now look here, I′m not going to----" began Mr. Briggerland, but

she snatched the gun from his hand, looked swiftly at the lock and

ran across the lawn toward the trees.

Somebody was hiding. She sensed that and all her nerves were alert.

Presently she saw a crouching figure and lifted the gun, but before

she could fire it was wrested from her hand.

She opened her lips to cry out for help, but a hand closed over her

mouth, and swung her round so that her back was toward her

assailant, and then in a flash his arm came round her neck, the flex

of the elbow against her throat.

"Say one of them prayers of yours," said a voice in her ear, and the

arm tightened.

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She struggled furiously, but the man held her as though she were a

child.

"You′re going to die," whispered the voice. "How do you like the

sensation?"

The arm tightened on her neck. She was suffocating, dying she

thought, and her heart was filled with a wild, mad longing for life

and a terror undreamt of. She could faintly hear her father′s voice

calling her and then consciousness departed.

When Jean came to herself she was in Lydia Meredith′s arms. She

opened her eyes and saw the pathetic face of her father looming

from the background. Her hand went up to her throat.

"Hallo, people--how did I get here?" she asked as she struggled into

a sitting position.

"I came in search of you and found you lying on the ground,"

quavered Mr. Briggerland.

"Did you see the man?" she asked.

"No. What happened to you, darling?"

"Nothing," she said with that composure which she could

command. "I must have fainted. It was rather ridiculous of me,

wasn′t it?" she smiled.

She got unsteadily to her feet and again she felt her throat. Lydia

noticed the action.

"Did he hurt you?" she asked anxiously. "It couldn′t have been

Jaggs."

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"Oh no," smiled Jean, "it couldn′t have been Jaggs. I think I′ll go to

bed."

She did not expect to sleep. For the first time in her extraordinary

life fear had come to her, and she had shivered on the very edge of

the abyss. She felt the shudder she could not repress and shook

herself impatiently. Then she extinguished the light and went to the

window and looked out. Somewhere there in the darkness she knew

her enemy was hidden, and again that sense of apprehension swept

over her.

"I′m losing my nerve," she murmured.

It was extraordinary to Lydia Meredith that the girl showed no sign

of her night′s adventure when she came in to breakfast on the

following morning. She looked bright. Her eyes were clear and her

delicate irony as pointed as though she had slept the clock round.

Lydia did not swim that day, and Mr. Stepney had his journey out to

Cap Martin in vain. Nor was she inclined to go back with him to

Monte Carlo to the Casino in the afternoon, and Mr. Stepney began

to realise that he was wasting valuable time.

Jean found her scribbling in the garden and Lydia made no secret of

the task she was undertaking.

"Making your will? What a grisly idea?" she said as she put down the

cup of tea she had carried out to the girl.

"Isn′t it," said Lydia with a grimace. "It is the most worrying

business, too, Jean. There is nobody I want to leave money to except

you and Mr. Glover."

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"For heaven′s sake don′t leave me any or Jack will think I am

conspiring to bring about your untimely end," said Jean. "Why make

a will at all?"

There was no need for her to ask that, but she was curious to

discover what reply the girl would make, and to her surprise Lydia

fenced with the question.

"It is done in all the best circles," she said good-humouredly. "And,

Jean, I′m not interested in a single public institution! I don′t know by

title the name of any home for dogs, and I shouldn′t be at all

anxious to leave my money to one even if I did."

"Then you′d better leave it to Jack Glover," said the girl, "or to the

Lifeboat Institution."

Lydia threw down her pencil in disgust.

"Fancy making one′s will on a beautiful day like this, and giving

instructions as to where one should be buried. Brrr! Jean," she asked

suddenly, "was it Mr. Jaggs you saw in the wood?"

Jean shook her head.

"I saw nobody," she said. "I went in to look for the burglar; the

excitement must have been too much for me, and I fainted."

But Lydia was not satisfied.

"I can′t understand Mr. Jaggs myself," she said, but Jean interrupted

her with a cry.

Lydia looked up and saw her eyes shining and her lips parting in a

smile.

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"Of course," she said softly. "He used to sleep at your flat, didn′t

he?"

"Yes, why?" asked the girl in surprise.

"What a fool I am, what a perfect fool!" said Jean, startled out of

her accustomed self-possession.

"I don′t quite know where your folly comes in, but perhaps you will

tell me," but Jean was laughing softly.

"Go on and make your will," she said mockingly. "And when you′ve

finished we′ll go into the rooms and chase the lucky numbers. Poor

dear Mrs. Cole-Mortimer is feeling a little neglected, too, we ought

to do something for her."

The day and night passed without any untoward event. In the

evening Jean had an interview with her French chauffeur, and

afterwards disappeared into her room. Lydia tapping at her door to

bid her good night received no answer.

Day was breaking when old Jaggs came out from the trees in his

furtive way and glancing up and down the road made his halting way

toward Monte Carlo. The only objects in sight was a donkey laden

with market produce led by a bare-legged boy who was going in the

same direction as he.

A little more than a mile along the road he turned sharply to the

right and began climbing a steep and narrow bridle path which

joined the mountain road, half-way up to La Turbie. The boy with

the donkey turned off to the main road and continued the steep

climb toward the Grande Corniche. There were many houses built

on the edge of the road and practically on the edge of precipices,

for the windows facing the sea often looked sheer down for two

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hundred feet. At first these dwellings appeared in clusters, then as

the road climbed higher, they occurred at rare intervals.

The boy leading the donkey kept his eye upon the valley below, and

from time to time caught a glimpse of the old man who had now

left the bridle path, and was picking his way up the rough hill-side.

He was making for a dilapidated house which stood at one of the

hairpin bends of the road, and the donkey-boy, shading his eyes

from the glare of the rising sun, saw him disappear into what must

have been the cellar of the house, since the door through which he

went was a good twenty feet beneath the level of the road. The

donkey-boy continued his climb, tugging at his burdened beast, and

presently he came up to the house. Smoke was rising from one of

the chimneys, and he halted at the door, tied the rope he held to a

rickety gate post, and knocked gently.

A bright-faced peasant woman came to the open door and shook

her head at the sight of the wares with which the donkey was laden.

"We want none of your truck, my boy," she said. "I have my own

garden. You are not a Monogasque."

"No, signora," replied the boy, flashing his teeth with a smile. "I am

from San Remo, but I have come to live in Monte Carlo to sell

vegetables for my uncle, and he told me I should find a lodging

here."

She looked at him dubiously.

"I have one room which you could have, boy," she said, "though I

do not like Italians. You must pay me a franc a night, and your

donkey can go into the shed of my brother-in-law up the hill."

She led the way down a flight of ancient stairs and showed him a

tiny room overlooking the valley.

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"I have one other man who lives here," she said. "An old one, who

sleeps all day and goes out all night. But he is a very respectable

man," she added in defence of her client.

"Where does he sleep?" asked the boy.

"There!" The woman pointed to a room on the opposite side of the

narrow landing. "He has just come in, I can hear him." She listened.

"Will madame get me change for this?" The boy produced a fifty-

franc note, and the woman′s eyebrows rose.

"Such wealth!" she said good-naturedly. "I did not think that a little

boy like you could have such money."

She bustled upstairs to her own room, leaving the boy alone. He

waited until her heavy footsteps sounded overhead, and then gently

he tried the door of the other lodger. Mr. Jaggs had not yet bolted

the door, and the spy pushed it open and looked. What he saw

satisfied him, for he pulled the door tight again, and as the footfall

of old Jaggs came nearer the door, the donkey-boy flew upstairs

with extraordinary rapidity.

"I will come later, madame," he said, when he had received the

change. "I must take my donkey into Monte Carlo."

She watched the boy and his beast go down the road, and went back

to the task of preparing her lodger′s breakfast.

To Monte Carlo the cabbage seller did not go. Instead, he turned

back the way he had come, and a hundred yards from the gate of

Villa Casa, Mordon, the chauffeur, appeared, and took the rope

from his hand.

"Did you find what you wanted, mademoiselle?" he asked.

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Jean nodded. She got into the house through the servants′ entrance

and up to her room without observation. She pulled off the black

wig and applied herself to removing the stains from her face. It had

been a good morning′s work.

"You must keep Mrs. Meredith fully occupied to-day." She waylaid

her father on the stairs to give him these instructions.

For her it was a busy morning. First she went to the Hôtel de Paris,

and on the pretext of writing a letter in the lounge, secured two or

three sheets of the hotel paper and an envelope. Next she hired a

typewriter and carried it with her back to the house. She was

working for an hour before she had the letter finished. The

signature took her some time. She had to ransack Lydia′s writing

case before she found a letter from Jack Glover--Lydia′s signature

was easy in comparison.

This, and a cheque drawn from the back of Lydia Meredith′s

cheque-book, completed her equipment.

That afternoon Mordon, the chauffeur, motored into Nice, and by

nine o′clock that night an aeroplane deposited him in Paris. He was

in London the following morning, a bearer of an urgent letter to

Mr. Rennett, the lawyer, which, however, he did not present in

person.

Mordon knew a French girl in London, and she it was who carried

the letter to Charles Rennett--a letter that made him scratch his

head many times before he took a sheet of paper, and addressing

the manager of Lydia′s bank, wrote:

"This cheque is in order. Please honour."

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Chapter XXX

"Desperate diseases," said Jean Briggerland, "call for desperate

remedies."

Mr. Briggerland looked up from his book.

"What was that tale you were telling Lydia this morning," he asked,

"about Glover′s gambling? He was only here a day, wasn′t he?"

"He was here long enough to lose a lot of money," said Jean. "Of

course he didn′t gamble, so he did not lose. It was just a little seed-

sowing on my part--one never knows how useful the right word

may be in the right season."

"Did you tell Lydia that he was losing heavily?" he asked quickly.

"Am I a fool? Of course not! I merely said that youth would be

served, and if you have the gambling instinct in you, why, it didn′t

matter what position you held in society or what your

responsibilities were, you must indulge your passion."

Mr. Briggerland stroked his chin. There were times when Jean′s

schemes got very far beyond him, and he hated the mental exercise

of catching up. The only thing he knew was that every post from

London bore urgent demands for money, and that the future held

possibilities which he did not care to contemplate. He was in the

unfortunate position of having numerous pensioners to support,

men and women who had served him in various ways and whose

approval, but what was more important, whose loyalty, depended

largely upon the regularity of their payments.

"I shall gamble or do something desperate," he said with a frown.

"Unless you can bring off a coup that will produce twenty thousand

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pounds of ready money we are going to get into all kinds of

trouble, Jean."

"Do you think I don′t know that?" she asked contemptuously. "It is

because of this urgent need of money that I have taken a step

which I hate."

He listened in amazement whilst she told him what she had done to

relieve her pressing needs.

"We are getting deeper and deeper into Mordon′s hands," he said,

shaking his head. "That is what scares me at times."

"You needn′t worry about Mordon," she smiled. Her smile was a

little hard. "Mordon and I are going to be married."

She was examining the toe of her shoe attentively as she spoke, and

Mr. Briggerland leapt to his feet.

"What!" he squeaked. "Marry a chauffeur? A fellow I picked out of

the gutter? You′re mad! The fellow is a rascal who has earned the

guillotine time and time again."

"Who hasn′t?" she asked, looking up.

"It is incredible! It′s madness!" he said. "I had no idea----" he

stopped for want of breath.

Mordon was becoming troublesome. She had known that better

than her father.

"It was after the ′accident′ that didn′t happen that he began to get a

little tiresome," she said. "You say we are getting deeper and deeper

into his hands? Well, he hinted as much, and I did not like it. When

he began to get a little loving I accepted that way out as an easy

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alternative to a very unpleasant exposure. Whether he would have

betrayed us I don′t know; probably he would."

Mr. Briggerland′s face was dark.

"When is this interesting event to take place?"

"My marriage? In two months, I think. When is Easter? That class

of person always wants to be married at Easter. I asked him to keep

our secret and not to mention it to you, and I should not have

spoken now if you had not referred to the obligation we were

under."

"In two months?" Mr. Briggerland nodded. "Let me know when you

want this to end, Jean," he said.

"It will end almost immediately. Please do not trouble," said Jean,

"and there is one other thing, father. If you see Mr. Jaggs in the

garden to-night, I beg of you do not attempt to shoot him. He is a

very useful man."

Her father sank back in his chair.

"You′re beyond me," he said, helplessly.

Mordon occupied two rooms above the garage, which was

conveniently situated for Jean′s purpose. He arrived late the next

night, and a light in his window, which was visible from the girl′s

room, told her all she wanted to know.

Mr. Mordon was a good-looking man by certain standards. His hair

was dark and glossily brushed. His normal pallor of countenance

gave him the interesting appearance which men of his kind did not

greatly dislike, and he had a figure which was admired in a dozen

servants′ halls, and a manner which passed amongst housemaids for

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"gentlemanly," and amongst gentlemen as "superior." He heard the

foot of the girl on the stairs, and opened the door.

"You have brought it?" she said, without a preliminary word.

She had thrown a dark cloak over her evening dress, and the man′s

eyes feasted on her.

"Yes, I have brought it--Jean," he said.

She put her finger to her lips.

"Be careful, François," she cautioned in a low voice.

Although the man spoke English as well as he spoke French, it was

in the latter language that the conversation was carried on. He went

to a grip which lay on the bed, opened it and took out five thick

packages of thousand-franc notes.

"There are a thousand in each, mademoiselle. Five million francs. I

changed part of the money in Paris, and part in London."

"The woman--there is no danger from her?"

"Oh no, mademoiselle," he smiled complacently. "She is not likely to

betray me, and she does not know my name or where I am living.

She is a girl I met at a dance at the Swiss Waiters′ Club," he

explained. "She is not a good character. I think the French police

wish to find her, but she is very clever."

"What did you tell her?" asked Jean.

"That I was working a coup with Vaud and Montheron. These are

two notorious men in Paris whom she knew. I gave her five

thousand francs for her work."

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"There was no trouble?"

"None whatever, mademoiselle. I watched her, and saw she carried

the letter to the bank. As soon as the money was changed I left

Croydon by air for Paris, and came on from Paris to Marseilles by

aeroplane."

"You did well, François," she said, and patted his hand.

He would have seized hers, but she drew back.

"You have promised, François," she said with dignity, "and a French

gentleman keeps his word."

François bowed.

He was not a French gentleman, but he was anxious that this girl

should think he was, and to that end had told her stories of his birth

which had apparently impressed her.

"Now will you do something more for me?"

"I will do anything in the world, Jean," he cried passionately, and

again a restraining hand fell on his shoulder.

"Then sit down and write; your French is so much better than

mine."

"What shall I write?" he asked. She had never called upon him for

proof of his scholarship, and he was childishly eager to reveal to the

woman he loved attainments of which he had no knowledge.

"Write, ′Dear Mademoiselle′." He obeyed.

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"′have returned from London, and have confessed to Madame Meredith that I
have forged her name and have drawn £100,000 from her bank----′"

"Why do I write this, Jean?" he asked in surprise.

"I will tell you one day--go on. François," she continued her

dictation.

"′And now I have learnt that Madame Meredith loves me. There is only one
end to this--that which you see----′"

"Do you intend passing suspicion to somebody else?" he asked,

evidently fogged, "but why should I say----?"

She stopped his mouth with her hand.

"How wonderful you are, Jean," he said, admiringly, as he blotted

the paper and handed it to her. "So that if this matter is traced to

you----" She looked into his eyes and smiled.

"There will be trouble for somebody," she said, softly, as she put the

paper in her pocket.

Suddenly, before she could realise what was happening he had her in

his arms, his lips pressed against hers.

"Jean, Jean!" he muttered. "You adorable woman!"

Gently she pressed him back and she was still smiling, though her

eyes were like granite.

"Gently, François," she said, "you must have patience!"

She slipped through the door and closed it behind her, and even in

her then state of mind she did not slam it, nor did she hurry down

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the stairs, but went out, taking her time, and was back in the house

without her absence having been noticed. Her face, reflected in her

long mirror, was serene in its repose, but within her a devil was alive,

hungry for destruction. No man had roused the love of Jean

Briggerland, but at least one had succeeded in bringing to life a

consuming hate which, for the time being, absorbed her.

From the moment she drew her wet handkerchief across her red

lips and flung the dainty thing as though it were contaminated

through the open window, François Mordon was a dead man.

Chapter XXXI

A letter from Jack Glover arrived the next morning. He had had an

easy journey, was glad to have had the opportunity of seeing Lydia,

and hoped she would think over the will. Lydia was not thinking of

wills, but of an excuse to get back to London. Of a sudden the

loveliness of Monte Carlo had palled upon her, and she had almost

forgotten the circumstances which had made the change of scene

and climate so welcome.

"Go back to London, my dear?" said Mrs. Cole-Mortimer, shocked.

"What a--a rash notion! Why it is

freezing

in town and foggy and . .

and I really can′t let you go back!"

Mrs. Cole-Mortimer was agitated at the very thought. Her own good

time on the Riviera depended upon Lydia staying. Jean had made

that point very clear. She, herself, she explained to her discomforted

hostess, was ready to go back at once, and the prolongation of Mrs.

Cole-Mortimer′s stay depended upon Lydia′s plans. A startling

switch of cause and effect, for Mrs. Cole-Mortimer had understood

that Jean′s will controlled the plans of the party.

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Lydia might have insisted, had she really known the reason for her

sudden longing for the grimy metropolis. But she could not even

convince herself that the charms of Monte Carlo were contingent

upon the presence there of a man who had aroused her furious

indignation and with whom she had spent most of the time

quarrelling. She mentioned her unrest to Jean, and Jean as usual

seemed to understand.

"The Riviera is rather like Turkish Delight--very sweet, but

unsatisfying," she said. "Stay another week and then if you feel that

way we′ll all go home together."

"This means breaking up your holiday," said Lydia in self-reproach.

"Not a bit," denied the girl, "perhaps I shall feel as you do in a

week′s time."

A week! Jean thought that much might happen in a week. In truth

events began to move quickly from that night, but in a way she had

not anticipated.

Mr. Briggerland, who had been reading the newspaper through the

conversation, looked up.

"They are making a great fuss of this Moor in Nice," he said, "but if

I remember rightly, Nice invariably has some weird lion to adore."

"Muley Hafiz," said Lydia. "Yes, I saw him the day I went to lunch

with Mr. Stepney, a fine-looking man."

"I′m not greatly interested in natives," said Jean carelessly. "What is

he, a negro?"

"Oh, no, he′s fairer than--" Lydia was about to say "your father,"

but thought it discreet to find another comparison. "He′s fairer than

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most of the people in the south of France," she said, "but then all

very highly-bred Moors are, aren′t they?"

Jean shook her head.

"Ethnology means nothing to me," she said humorously. "I′ve got

my idea of Moors from Shakespeare, and I thought they were

mostly black. What is he then? I haven′t read the papers."

"He is the Pretender to the Moorish throne," said Lydia, "and there

has been a lot of trouble in the French Senate about him. France

supports his claims, and the Spaniards have offered a reward for his

body, dead or alive, and that has brought about a strained

relationship between Spain and France."

Jean regarded her with an amused smile.

"Fancy taking an interest in international politics. I suppose that is

due to your working on a newspaper, Lydia."

Jean discovered that she was to take a greater interest in Muley Hafiz

than she could have thought was possible. She had to go into Monte

Carlo to do some shopping. Mentone was nearer, but she preferred

the drive into the principality.

The Rooms had no great call for her, and whilst Mordon went to a

garage to have a faulty cylinder examined, she strolled on to the

terrace of the Casino, down the broad steps towards the sea. The

bathing huts were closed at this season, but the little road down to

the beach is secluded and had been a favourite walk of hers in

earlier visits.

Near the huts she passed a group of dark-looking men in long white

jellabs, and wondered which of these was the famous Muley. One

she noticed with a particularly negro type of face, wore on his

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flowing robe the scarlet ribbon of the Legion of Honour. Somehow

or other he did not seem interesting enough to be Muley, she

thought as she went on to a strip of beach.

A man was standing on the sea shore, a tall, commanding man,

gazing out it seemed across the sunlit ocean as though he were in

search of something. He could not have heard her footfall because

she was walking on the sand, and yet he must have realised her

presence, for he turned, and she almost stopped at the sight of his

face. He might have been a European; his complexion was fair,

though his eyebrows and eyes were jet black, as also was the tiny

beard and moustache he wore. Beneath the conventional jellab he

wore a dark green jacket, and she had a glimpse of glittering

decorations before he pulled over his cloak so that they were

hidden. But it was his eyes which held her. They were large and as

black as night, and they were set in a face of such strength and

dignity that Jean knew instinctively that she was looking upon the

Moorish Pretender.

They stood for a second staring at one another, and then the Moor

stepped aside.

"Pardon," he said in French, "I am afraid I startled you."

Jean was breathing a little quicker. She could not remember in her

life any man who had created so immediate and favourable an

impression. She forgot her contempt for native people, forgot his

race, his religion (and religion was a big thing to Jean), forgot

everything except that behind those eyes she recognised something

which was kin to her.

"You are English, of course," he said in that language.

"Scottish," smiled Jean.

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"It is almost the same, isn′t it?" He spoke without any trace of an

accent, without an error of grammar, and his voice was the voice of

a college man.

He had left the way open for her to pass on, but she lingered.

"You are Muley Hafiz, aren′t you?" she asked, and he turned his

head. "I′ve read a great deal about you," she added, though in truth

she had read nothing.

He laughed, showing two rows of perfect white teeth. It was only by

contrast with their whiteness that she noticed the golden brown of

his complexion.

"I am of international interest," he said lightly and glanced round

toward his attendants.

She thought he was going and would have moved on, but he

stopped her.

"You are the first English speaking person I have talked to since I′ve

been in France," he said, "except the American Ambassador." He

smiled as at a pleasant recollection.

"You talk almost like an Englishman yourself."

"I was at Oxford," he said. "My brother was at Harvard. My father,

the brother of the late Sultan, was a very progressive man and

believed in the Western education for his children. Won′t you sit

down?" he asked, pointing to the sand.

She hesitated a second, and then sank to the ground, and crossing

his legs he sat by her side.

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"I was in France for four years," he carried on, evidently anxious to

hold her in conversation, "so I speak both languages fairly well. Do

you speak Arabic?" He asked the question solemnly, but his eyes

were bright with laughter.

"Not very well," she answered gravely. "Are you staying very long?"

It was a conventional question and she was unprepared for the reply.

"I leave to-night," he said, "though very few people know it. You

have surprised a State secret," he smiled again.

And then he began to talk of Morocco and its history, and with

extraordinary ease he traced the story of the families which had

ruled that troubled State.

He touched lightly on his own share in the rebellion which had

almost brought about a European war.

"My uncle seized the throne, you know," he said, taking up a handful

of sand and tossing it up in the air. "He defeated my father and

killed him, and then we caught his two sons."

"What happened to them?" asked Jean curiously.

"Oh, we killed them," he said carelessly. "I had them hanged in front

of my tent. You′re shocked?"

She shook her head.

"Do you believe in killing your enemies?"

She nodded.

"Why not? It is the only logical thing to do."

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"My brother joined forces with the present Sultan, and if I ever

catch him I shall hang him too," he smiled.

"And if he catches you?" she asked.

"Why, he′ll hang me," he laughed. "That is the rule of the game."

"How strange!" she said, half to herself.

"Do you think so? I suppose from the European standpoint----"

"No, no," she stopped him. "I wasn′t thinking of that. You are

logical and you do the logical thing. That is how I would treat my

enemies."

"If you had any," he suggested.

She nodded.

"If I had any," she repeated with a hard little smile. "Will you tell me

this--do I call you Mr. Muley or Lord Muley?"

"You may call me Wazeer, if you′re so hard up for a title," he said,

and the little idiom sounded queer from him.

"Well, Wazeer, will you tell me: Suppose somebody who had

something that you wanted very badly and they wouldn′t give it to

you, and you had the power to destroy them, what would you do?"

"I should certainly destroy them," said Muley Hafiz. "It is

unnecessary to ask. ′The common rule, the simple plan′" he quoted.

Her eyes were fixed on his face, and she was frowning, though this

she did not know.

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"I am glad I met you this afternoon," she said. "It must be

wonderful living in that atmosphere, the atmosphere of might and

power, where men and women aren′t governed by the finicking rules

which vitiate the Western world."

He laughed.

"Then you are tired of your Western civilisation," he said as he rose

and helped her to her feet (his hands were long and delicate, and she

grew breathless at the touch of them). "You must come along to my

little city in the hills where the law is the sword of Muley Hafiz."

She looked at him for a moment.

"I almost wish I could," she said and held out her hand.

He took it in the European fashion and bowed over it. She seemed

so tiny a thing by the side of him, her head did not reach his

shoulder.

"Good-bye," she said hurriedly and turning, walked back the way

she had come, and he stood watching her until she was out of sight.

Chapter XXXII

"Jean!"

She looked round to meet the scowling gaze of Marcus Stepney.

"I must say you′re the limit," he said violently. "There are lots of

things I imagine you′d do, but to stand there in broad daylight

talking to a nigger----"

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"If I stand in broad daylight and talk to a card-sharper, Marcus, I

think I′m just low enough to do almost anything."

"A damned Moorish nigger," he spluttered, and her eyes narrowed.

"Walk up the road with me, and if you possibly can, keep your voice

down to the level which gentlemen usually employ when talking to

women," she said.

She was in better condition than he, and he was a little out of breath

by the time they reached the Café de Paris, which was crowded at

that hour with the afternoon tea people.

He found a quiet corner, and by this time his anger, and a little of

his courage, had evaporated.

"I′ve only your interest at heart, Jean," he said almost pleadingly,

"but you don′t want people in our set to know you′ve been

hobnobbing with this infernal Moor."

"When you say ′our set,′ to which set are you referring?" she asked

unpleasantly. "Because if it is the set I believe you mean, they can′t

think too badly of me for my liking. It would be a degradation to

me to be admired by your set, Marcus."

"Oh, come now," he began feebly.

"I thought I had made it clear to you and I hoped you would carry

the marks to your dying day"--there was malice in her voice, and he

winced--"that I do not allow you to dominate my life or to censor

my actions. The ′nigger′ you referred to was more of a gentleman

than you can ever be, Marcus, because he has breed, which the Lord

didn′t give to you."

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The waiter brought the tea at that moment, and the conversation

passed to unimportant topics till he had gone.

"I′m rather rattled," he apologised. "I lost six thousand louis last

night."

"Then you have six thousand reasons why you should keep on good

terms with me," said Jean smiling cheerfully.

"That cave man stuff?" he asked, and shook his head. "She′d raise

Cain."

Jean was laughing inside herself, but she did not show her

merriment.

"You can but try," she said. "I′ve already told you how it can be

done."

"I′ll try to-morrow," he said after a thought. "By heavens, I′ll try to-

morrow!"

It was on the tip of her tongue to say "Not to-morrow," but she

checked herself.

Mordon came round with the car to pick her up soon after. Mordon!

Her little chin jerked up with a gesture of annoyance, which she

seldom permitted herself. And yet she felt unusually cheered. Her

meeting with the Moor was a milestone in her life from which

memory she could draw both encouragement and comfort.

"You met Muley?" said Lydia. "How thrilling! What is he like, Jean?

Was he a blackamoor?"

"No, he wasn′t a blackamoor," said the girl quietly. "He was an

unusually intelligent man."

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"H′m," grunted her father. "How did you come to meet him, my

dear?"

"I picked him up on the beach," said Jean coolly, "as any flapper

would pick up any nut."

Mr. Briggerland choked.

"I hate to hear you talking like that, Jean. Who introduced him?"

"I told you," she said complacently. "I introduced myself. I talked to

him on the beach and he talked to me, and we sat down and played

with the sand and discussed one another′s lives."

"But how enterprising of you, Jean," said the admiring Lydia.

Mr. Briggerland was going to say something, but thought better of

it.

There was a concert at the theatre that night and the whole party

went. They had a box, and the interval had come before Lydia saw

somebody ushered into a box on the other side of the house with

such evidence of deference that she would have known who he was

even if she had not seen the scarlet fez and the white robe.

"It is your Muley," she whispered.

Jean looked round.

Muley Hafiz was looking across at her; his eyes immediately sought

the girl′s, and he bowed slightly.

"What the devil is he bowing at?" grumbled Mr. Briggerland. "You

didn′t take any notice of him, did you, Jean?"

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"I bowed to him," said his daughter, not troubling to look round.

"Don′t be silly, father; anyway, if he weren′t nice, it would be quite

the right thing to do. I′m the most distinguished woman in the

house because I know Muley Hafiz, and he has bowed to me! Don′t

you realise the social value of a lion′s recognition?"

Lydia could not see him distinctly. She had an impression of a white

face, two large black spaces where his eyes were and a black beard.

He sat all the time in the shadow of a curtain.

Jean looked round to see if Marcus Stepney was present, hoping

that he had witnessed the exchange of courtesies, but Marcus at that

moment was watching little bundles of twelve thousand franc notes

raked across to the croupier′s end of the table--which is the

business end of Monte Carlo.

Jean was the last to leave the car when it set them down at the Villa

Casa. Mordon called her respectfully.

"Excuse me, mademoiselle," he said, "I wish you would come to the

garage and see the new tyres that have arrived. I don′t like them."

It was a code which she had agreed he should use when he wanted

her.

"Very good, Mordon, I will come to the garage later," she said

carelessly.

"What does Mordon want you for?" asked her father, with a frown.

"You heard him. He doesn′t approve of some new tyres that have

been bought for the car," she said coolly. "And don′t ask me

questions. I′ve got a headache and I′m dying for a cup of chocolate."

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"If that fellow gives you any trouble he′ll be sorry," said Briggerland.

"And let me tell you this, Jean, that marriage idea of yours----"

She only looked at him, but he knew the look and wilted.

"I don′t want to interfere with your private affairs," he mumbled,

"but the very thought of it gets me crazy."

The garage was a brick building erected by the side of the carriage

drive, built much nearer the house than is usually the case.

Jean waited a reasonable time before she slipped away. Mordon was

waiting for her before the open doors of the garage. The place was

in darkness; she did not see him standing in the entrance until she

was within a few paces of the man.

"Come up to my room," he said briskly.

"What do you want?" she asked.

"I want to speak to you and this is not the place."

"This is the only place where I am prepared to speak to you at the

moment, François," she said reproachfully. "Don′t you realise that

my father is within hearing, and at any moment Madame Meredith

may come out? How would I explain my presence in your room?"

He did not answer for the moment, then:

"Jean, I am worried," he said, in a troubled voice. "I cannot

understand your plans--they are too clever for me, and I have

known men and women of great attainment. The great Bersac----"

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"The great Bersac is dead," she said coldly. "He was a man of such

great attainments that he came to the knife. Besides, it is not

necessary that you should understand my plans, François."

She knew quite well what was troubling him, but she waited.

"I cannot understand the letter which I wrote for you," said

Mordon. "The letter in which I say Madame Meredith loved me. I

have thought this matter out, Jean, and it seems to me that I am

compromised."

She laughed softly.

"Poor François," she said mockingly. "With whom could you be

compromised but with your future wife? If I desire you to write that

letter, what else matters?"

Again he was silent.

"I cannot speak here," he said almost roughly. "You must come to

my room."

She hesitated. There was something in his voice she did not like.

"Very well," she said, and followed him up the steep stairs.

Chapter XXXIII

"Now explain." His words were a command, his tone peremptory.

Jean, who knew men, and read them without error, realised that this

was not a moment to temporise.

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"I will explain to you, François, but I do not like the way you speak,"

she said. "It is not you I wish to compromise, but Madame

Meredith."

"In this letter I wrote for you I said I was going away. I confessed to

you that I had forged a cheque for five million francs. That is a very

serious document, mademoiselle, to be in the possession of

anybody but myself." He looked at her straight in the eyes and she

met his gaze unflinchingly.

"The thing will be made very clear to you to-morrow, François," she

said softly, "and really there is no reason to worry. I wish to end this

unhappy state of affairs."

"With me?" he asked quickly.

"No, with Madame Meredith," she answered. "I, too, am tired of

waiting for marriage and I intend asking my father′s permission for

the wedding to take place next week. Indeed, François," she lowered

her eyes modestly, "I have already written to the British Consul at

Nice, asking him to arrange for the ceremony to be performed."

The sallow face of the chauffeur flushed a dull red.

"Do you mean that?" he said eagerly. "Jean, you are not deceiving

me?"

She shook her head.

"No, François," she said in that low plaintive voice of hers, "I could

not deceive you in a matter so important to myself."

He stood watching her, his breast heaving, his burning eyes

devouring her, then:

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"You will give me back that letter I wrote, Jean?" he said.

"I will give it to you to-morrow."

"To-night," he said, and took both her hands in his. "I am sure I am

right. It is too dangerous a letter to be in existence, Jean, dangerous

for you and for me--you will let me have it to-night?"

She hesitated.

"It is in my room," she said, an unnecessary statement, and, in the

circumstances, a dangerous one, for his eyes dropped to the bag that

hung at her wrist.

"It is there," he said. "Jean darling, do as I ask," he pleaded. "You

know, every time I think of that letter I go cold. I was a madman

when I wrote it."

"I have not got it here," she said steadily. She tried to draw back, but

she was too late. He gripped her wrists and pulled the bag roughly

from her hand.

"Forgive me, but I know I am right," he began, and then like a fury

she flew at him, wrenched the bag from his hand, and by the very

violence of her attack, flung him backward.

He stared at her, and the colour faded from his face leaving it a dead

white.

"What is this you are trying to do?" he glowered at her.

"I will see you in the morning, François," she said and turned.

Before she could reach the head of the stairs his arm was round her

and he had dragged her back.

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"My friend," he said between his teeth, "there is something in this

matter which is bad for me."

"Let me go," she breathed and struck at his face.

For a full minute they struggled, and then the door opened and Mr.

Briggerland came in, and at the sight of his livid face, Mordon

released his hold.

"You swine!" hissed the big man. His fist shot out and Mordon went

down with a crash to the ground. For a moment he was stunned,

and then with a snarl he turned over on his side and whipped a

revolver from his hip pocket. Before he could fire, the girl had

gripped the pistol and wrenched it from his hand.

"Get up," said Briggerland sternly. "Now explain to me, my friend,

what you mean by this disgraceful attack upon mademoiselle."

The man rose and dusted himself mechanically and there was that in

his face which boded no good to Mr. Briggerland.

Before he could speak Jean intervened.

"Father," she said quietly, "you have no right to strike François."

"François," spluttered Briggerland, his dark face purple with rage.

"François," she repeated calmly. "It is right that you should know

that François and I will be married next week."

Mr. Briggerland′s jaw dropped.

"What?" he almost shrieked.

She nodded.

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"We are going to be married next week," she said, "and the little

scene you witnessed has nothing whatever to do with you."

The effect of these words on Mordon was magical. The malignant

frown which had distorted his face cleared away. He looked from

Jean to Briggerland as though it were impossible to believe the

evidence of his ears.

"François and I love one another," Jean went on in her even voice.

"We have quarrelled to-night on a matter which has nothing to do

with anybody save ourselves."

"You′re--going--to--marry--him--next--week?" said Mr.

Briggerland dully. "By God, you′ll do nothing of the sort!"

She raised her hand.

"It is too late for you to interfere, father," she said quietly. "François

and I shall go our way and face our own fate. I′m sorry you

disapprove, because you have always been a very loving father to

me."

That was the first hint Mr. Briggerland had received that there might

be some other explanation for her words, and he became calmer.

"Very well," he said, "I can only tell you that I strongly disapprove

of the action you have taken and that I shall do nothing whatever to

further your reckless scheme. But I must insist upon your coming

back to the house now. I cannot have my daughter talked about."

She nodded.

"I will see you to-morrow morning early, François," she said.

"Perhaps you will drive me into Nice before breakfast. I have some

purchases to make."

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He bowed, and reached out his hand for the revolver which she had

taken from him.

She looked at the ornate weapon, its silver-plated metal parts, the

graceful ivory handle.

"I′m not going to trust you with this to-night," she said with her rare

smile. "Good night, François."

He took her hand and kissed it.

"Good night, Jean," he said in a tremulous voice. For a moment

their eyes met, and then she turned as though she dared not trust

herself and followed her father down the stairs.

They were half-way to the house when she laid her hand on

Briggerland′s arm.

"Keep this," she said. It was François′ revolver. "It is probably

loaded and I thought I saw some silver initials inlaid in the ivory

handle. If I know François Mordon, they are his."

"What do you want me to do with it?" he said as he slipped the

weapon in his pocket.

She laughed.

"On your way to bed, come in to my room," she said. "I′ve quite a

lot to tell you," and she sailed into the drawing-room to interrupt

Mrs. Cole-Mortimer, who was teaching a weary Lydia the elements

of bezique.

"Where have you been, Jean?" asked Lydia, putting down her cards.

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"I have been arranging a novel experience for you, but I′m not so

sure that it will be as interesting as it might--it all depends upon the

state of your young heart," said Jean, pulling up a chair.

"My young heart is very healthy," laughed Lydia. "What is the

interesting experience?"

"Are you in love?" challenged Jean, searching in a big chintz bag

where she kept her handiwork for a piece of unfinished sewing.

(Jean′s domesticity was always a source of wonder to Lydia.)

"In love--good heavens, no."

"So much the better," nodded Jean, "that sounds as though the

experience will be fascinating."

She waited until she had threaded the fine needle before she

explained.

"If you really are not in love and you sit on the Lovers′ Chair, the

name of your future husband will come to you. If you′re in love, of

course, that complicates matters a little."

"But suppose I don′t want to know the name of my future

husband?"

"Then you′re inhuman," said Jean.

"Where is this magical chair?"

"It is on the San Remo road beyond the frontier station. You′ve

been there, haven′t you, Margaret?"

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"Once," said Mrs. Cole-Mortimer, who had not been east of Cap

Martin, but whose rule it was never to admit that she had missed

anything worth seeing.

"In a wild, eerie spot," Jean went on, "and miles from any human

habitation."

"Are you going to take me?"

Jean shook her head.

"That would ruin the spell," she said solemnly. "No, my dear, if you

want that thrill, and, seriously, it is worth while, because the scenery

is the most beautiful of any along the coast, you must go alone."

Lydia nodded.

"I′ll try it. Is it too far to walk?" she asked.

"Much too far," said Jean. "Mordon will drive you out. He knows

the road very well and you ought not to take anybody but an

experienced driver. I have a

permis

for the car to pass the frontier;

you will probably meet father in San Remo--he is taking a motor-

cycle trip, aren′t you, daddy?"

Mr. Briggerland drew a long breath and nodded. He was beginning

to understand.

Chapter XXXIV

There was lying in Monaco harbour a long white boat with a stumpy

mast, which delighted in the name of

Jungle Queen

. It was the

property of an impecunious English nobleman who made a

respectable income from letting the vessel on hire.

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Mrs. Cole-Mortimer had seemed surprised at the reasonable fee

demanded for two months′ use until she had seen the boat the day

after her arrival at Cap Martin.

She had pictured a large and commodious yacht; she found a

reasonably sized motor-launch with a whale-deck cabin. The

description in the agent′s catalogue that the

Jungle Queen

would "sleep

four" was probably based on the experience of a party of young

roisterers who had once hired the vessel. Supposing that the "four"

were reasonably drunk or heavily drugged, it was possible for them

to sleep on board the

Jungle Queen

. Normally two persons would

have found it difficult, though by lying diagonally across the "cabin"

one small-sized man could have slumbered without discomfort.

The

Jungle Queen

had been a disappointment to Jean also. Her busy

brain had conceived an excellent way of solving her principal

problem, but a glance at the

Jungle Queen

told her that the money she

had spent on hiring the launch--and it was little better--was

wasted. She herself hated the sea and had so little faith in the utility

of the boat, that she had even dismissed the youth who attended to

its well-worn engines.

Mr. Marcus Stepney, who was mildly interested in motor-boating,

and considerably interested in any form of amusement which he

could get at somebody else′s expense, had so far been the sole

patron of the

Jungle Queen

. It was his practice to take the boat out

every morning for a two hours′ sail, generally alone, though

sometimes he would take somebody whose acquaintance he had

made, and who was destined to be a source of profit to him in the

future.

Jean′s talk of the cave-man method of wooing had made a big

impression upon him, emphasised as it had been, and still was, by

the two angry red scars across the back of his hand. Things were

not going well with him; the supply of rich and trusting youths had

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suddenly dried up. The little games in his private sitting-room had

dwindled to feeble proportions. He was still able to eke out a living,

but his success at his private séances had been counter-balanced by

heavy losses at the public tables.

It is a known fact that people who live outside the law keep to their

own plane. The swindler very rarely commits acts of violence. The

burglar who practises card-sharping as a side-line, is virtually

unknown.

Mr. Stepney lived on a plausible tongue and a pair of highly

dexterous hands. It had never occurred to him to go beyond his

own sphere, and indeed violence was as repugnant to him as it was

vulgar.

Yet the cave-man suggestion appealed to him. He had a way with

women of a certain kind, and if his confidence had been rather

shaken by Jean′s savagery and Lydia′s indifference, he had not

altogether abandoned the hope that both girls in their turn might be

conquered by the adoption of the right method.

The method for dealing with Jean he had at the back of his mind.

As for Lydia--Jean′s suggestion was very attractive. It was after a

very heavily unprofitable night spent at the Nice Casino, that he

took his courage in both hands and drove to the Villa Casa.

He was an early arrival, but Lydia had already finished her

petite
déjeuner

and she was painfully surprised to see him.

"I′m not swimming to-day, Mr. Stepney," she said, "and you don′t

look as if you were either."

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He was dressed in perfectly fitting white duck trousers, white shoes,

and a blue nautical coat with brass buttons; a yachtsman′s cap was

set at an angle on his dark head.

"No, I′m going out to do a little fishing," he said, "and I was

wondering whether, in your charity, you would accompany me."

She shook her head.

"I′m sorry--I have another engagement this morning," she said.

"Can′t you break it?" he pleaded, "as an especial favour to me? I′ve

made all preparations and I′ve got a lovely lunch on board--you

said you would come fishing with me one day."

"I′d like to," she confessed, "but I really have something very

important to do this morning."

She did not tell him that her important duty was to sit on the

Lovers′ Chair. Somehow her trip seemed just a little silly in the cold

clear light of morning.

"I could have you back in time," he begged. "Do come along, Mrs.

Meredith! You′re going to spoil my day."

"I′m sure Lydia wouldn′t be so unkind."

Jean had made her appearance as they were speaking.

"What is the scheme, Lydia?"

"Mr. Stepney wants me to go out in the yacht," said the girl, and

Jean smiled.

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"I′m glad you call it a ′yacht,′" she said dryly. "You′re the second

person who has so described it. The first was the agent. Take her to-

morrow, Marcus."

There was a glint of amusement in her eyes, and he felt that she

knew what was at the back of his mind.

"All right," he said in a tone which suggested that it was anything

but all right, and added, "I saw you flying through Nice this morning

with that yellow-faced chauffeur of yours, Jean."

"Were you up so early?" she asked carelessly.

"I wasn′t dressed, I was looking out of the window--my room faces

the Promenade d′Anglaise. I don′t like that fellow."

"I shouldn′t let him know," said Jean coolly. "He is very sensitive.

There are so many fellows that you dislike, too."

"I don′t think you ought to allow him so much freedom," Marcus

Stepney went on. He was not in an amiable frame of mind, and the

knowledge that he was annoying the girl encouraged him. "If you

give these French chauffeurs an inch they′ll take a kilometre."

"I suppose they would," said Jean thoughtfully. "How is your poor

hand, Marcus?"

He growled something under his breath and thrust his hand deep

into the pocket of his reefer coat.

"It is quite well," he snapped, and went back to Monaco and his

solitary boat trip, flaming.

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"One of these days . ." he muttered, as he tuned up the motor. He

did not finish his sentence, but sent the nose of the

Jungle Queen

at

full speed for the open sea.

Jean′s talk with Mordon that morning had not been wholly

satisfactory. She had calmed his suspicions to an extent, but he still

harped upon the letter, and she had promised to give it to him that

evening.

"My dear," she said, "you are too impulsive--too Gallic. I had a

terrible scene with father last night. He wants me to break off the

engagement; told me what my friends in London would say, and

how I should be a social outcast."

"And you--you, Jean?" he asked.

"I told him that such things did not trouble me," she said, and her

lips drooped sadly. "I know I cannot be happy with anybody but

you, François, and I am willing to face the sneers of London, even

the hatred and scorn of my father, for your sake."

He would have seized her hand, though they were in the open road,

but she drew away from him.

"Be careful, François," she warned him.

"Remember that you have a very little time to wait."

"I cannot believe my good fortune," he babbled, as he brought the

car up the gentle incline into Monte Carlo. He dodged an early

morning tram, missing an unsuspecting passenger, who had come

round the back of the tram-car, by inches, and set the big Italia up

the palm avenue into the town.

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"It is incredible, and yet I always thought some great thing would

happen to me, and, Jean, I have risked so much for you. I would

have killed Madame in London if she had not been dragged out of

the way by that old man, and did I not watch for you when the man

Meredith----"

"Hush," she said in a low voice. "Let us talk about something else."

"Shall I see your father? I am sorry for what I did last night," he said

when they were nearing the villa.

"Father has taken his motor-bicycle and gone for a trip into Italy,"

she said. "No, I do not think I should speak to him, even if he were

here. He may come round in time, François. You can understand

that it is terribly distressing; he hoped I would make a great

marriage. You must allow for father′s disappointment."

He nodded. He did not drive her to the house, but stopped outside

the garage.

"Remember, at half-past ten you will take Madame Meredith to the

Lovers′ Chair--you know the place?"

"I know it very well," he said. "It is a difficult place to turn--I must

take her almost into San Remo. Why does she want to go to the

Lovers′ Chair? I thought only the cheap people went there----"

"You must not tell her that," she said sharply. "Besides, I myself

have been there."

"And who did you think of, Jean?" he asked suddenly.

She lowered her eyes.

"I will not tell you--now," she said, and ran into the house.

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François stood gazing after her until she had disappeared, and then,

like a man waking from a trance, he turned to the mundane business

of filling his tank.

Chapter XXXV

Lydia was dressing for her journey when Mrs. Cole-Mortimer came

into the saloon where Jean was writing.

"There′s a telephone call from Monte Carlo," she said. "Somebody

wants to speak to Lydia."

Jean jumped up.

"I′ll answer it," she said.

The voice at the other end of the wire was harsh and unfamiliar to

her.

"I want to speak to Mrs. Meredith."

"Who is it?" asked Jean.

"It is a friend of hers," said the voice. "Will you tell her? The

business is rather urgent."

"I′m sorry," said Jean, "but she′s just gone out."

She heard an exclamation of annoyance.

"Do you know where she′s gone?" asked the voice.

"I think she′s gone in to Monte Carlo," said Jean.

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"If I miss her will you tell her not to go out again until I come to

the house?"

"Certainly," said Jean politely, and hung up the telephone.

"Was that a call for me?"

It was Lydia′s voice from the head of the stairs.

"Yes, dear. I think it was Marcus Stepney who wanted to speak to

you. I told him you′d gone out," said Jean. "You didn′t wish to speak

to him?"

"Good heavens, no!" said Lydia. "You′re sure you won′t come with

me?"

"I′d rather stay here," said Jean truthfully.

The car was at the door, and Mordon, looking unusually spruce in

his white dust coat, stood by the open door.

"How long shall I be away?" asked Lydia.

"About two hours, dear, you′ll be very hungry when you come

back," said Jean, kissing her. "Now, mind you think of the right

man," she warned her in mockery.

"I wonder if I shall," said Lydia quietly.

Jean watched the car out of sight, then went back to the saloon. She

was hardly seated before the telephone rang again, and she

anticipated Mrs. Cole-Mortimer, and answered it.

"Mrs. Meredith has not gone in to Monte Carlo," said the voice.

"Her car has not been seen on the road."

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"Is that Mr. Jaggs?" asked Jean sweetly.

"Yes, miss," was the reply.

"Mrs. Meredith has come back now. I′m dreadfully sorry, I thought

she had gone into Monte Carlo. She′s in her room with a bad

headache. Will you come and see her?"

There was an interval of silence.

"Yes, I will come," said Jaggs.

Twenty minutes later a taxicab set down the old man at the door,

and a maid admitted him and brought him into the saloon.

Jean rose to meet him. She looked at the bowed figure of old Jaggs.

Took him all in, from his iron-grey hair to his dusty shoes, and then

she pointed to a chair.

"Sit down," she said, and old Jaggs obeyed. "You′ve something very

important to tell Mrs. Meredith, I suppose."

"I′ll tell her that myself, miss," said the old man gruffly.

"Well, before you tell her anything, I want to make a confession,"

she smiled down on old Jaggs, and pulled up a chair so that she

faced him.

He was sitting with his back to the light, holding his battered hat on

his knees.

"I′ve really brought you up under false pretences," she said, "because

Mrs. Meredith isn′t here at all."

"Not here?" he said, half rising.

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"No, she′s gone for a ride with our chauffeur. But I wanted to see

you, Mr. Jaggs, because--" she paused. "I realise that you′re a dear

friend of hers and have her best interests at heart. I don′t know who

you are," she said, shaking her head, "but I know, of course, that Mr.

John Glover has employed you."

"What′s all this about?" he asked gruffly. "What have you to tell

me?"

"I don′t know how to begin," she said, biting her lips. "It is such a

delicate matter that I hate talking about it at all. But the attitude of

Mrs. Meredith to our chauffeur Mordon, is distressing, and I think

Mr. Glover should be told."

He did not speak and she went on.

"These things do happen, I know," she said, "but I am happy to say

that nothing of that sort has come into my experience, and, of

course, Mordon is a good-looking man and she is young----"

"What are you talking about?" His tone was dictatorial and

commanding.

"I mean," she said, "that I fear poor Lydia is in love with Mordon."

He sprang to his feet.

"It′s a damned lie!" he said, and she stared at him. "Now tell me

what has happened to Lydia Meredith," he went on, "and let me tell

you this, Jean Briggerland, that if one hair of that girl′s head is

harmed, I will finish the work I began out there," he pointed to the

garden, "and strangle you with my own hands."

She lifted her eyes to his and dropped them again, and began to

tremble, then turning suddenly on her heel, she fled to her room,

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locked the door and stood against it, white and shaking. For the

second time in her life Jean Briggerland was afraid.

She heard his quick footsteps in the passage outside, and there came

a tap on her door.

"Let me in," growled the man, and for a second she almost lost

control of herself. She looked wildly round the room for some way

of escape, and then as a thought struck her, she ran quickly into the

bath-room, which opened from her room. A large sponge was set to

dry by an open window, and this she seized; on a shelf by the side

of the bath was a big bottle of ammonia, and averting her face, she

poured its contents upon the sponge until it was sodden, then with

the dripping sponge in her hand, she crept back, turned the key and

opened the door.

The old man burst in, then, before he realised what was happening,

the sponge was pressed against his face. The pungent drug almost

blinded him, its paralysing fumes brought him on to his knees. He

gripped her wrist and tried to press away her hand, but now her arm

was round his neck, and he could not get the purchase.

With a groan of agony he collapsed on the floor. In that instant she

was on him like a cat, her knee between his shoulders.

Half unconscious he felt his hands drawn to his back, and felt

something lashing them together. She was using the silk girdle which

had been about her waist, and her work was effective.

Presently she turned him over on his back. The ammonia was still in

his eyes, and he could not open them. The agony was terrible,

almost unendurable. With her hand under his arm he struggled to

his feet. He felt her lead him somewhere, and suddenly he was

pushed into a chair. She left him alone for a little while, but

presently came back and began to tie his feet together. It was a most

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amazing single-handed capture--even Jean could never have

imagined the ease with which she could gain her victory.

"I′m sorry to hurt an old man." There was a sneer in her voice

which he had not heard before. "But if you promise not to shout, I

will not gag you."

He heard the sound of running water, and presently with a wet

cloth she began wiping his eyes gently.

"You will be able to see in a minute," said Jean′s cool voice. "In the

meantime you′ll stay here until I send for the police."

For all his pain he was forced to chuckle.

"Until you send for the police, eh? You know me?"

"I only know you′re a wicked old man who broke into this house

whilst I was alone and the servants were out," she said.

"You know why I′ve come?" he insisted. "I′ve come to tell Mrs.

Meredith that a hundred thousand pounds have been taken from her

bank on a forged signature."

"How absurd," said Jean. She was sitting on the edge of the bath

looking at the bedraggled figure. "How could anybody draw money

from Mrs. Meredith′s bank whilst her dear friend and guardian, Jack

Glover, is in London to see that she is not robbed."

"Old Jaggs" glared up at her from his inflamed eyes.

"You know very well," he said distinctly, "that I am Jack Glover, and

that I have not left Monte Carlo since Lydia Meredith arrived."

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Chapter XXXVI

Mr. Briggerland did not enthuse over any form of sport or exercise.

His hobbies were confined to the handsome motor-cycle, which not

only provided him with recreation, but had, on occasion, been of

assistance in the carrying out of important plans, formulated by his

daughter.

He stopped at Mentone for breakfast and climbed the hill to

Grimaldi after passing the frontier station at Pont St. Louis. He had

all the morning before him, and there was no great hurry. At

Ventimille he had a second breakfast, for the morning was keen and

his appetite was good. He loafed through the little town, with a cigar

between his teeth, bought some curios at a shop and continued his

leisurely journey.

His objective was San Remo. There was a train at one o′clock which

would bring him and his machine back to Monte Carlo, where it was

his intention to spend the remainder of the afternoon. At Pont St.

Louis he had had a talk with the Customs Officer.

"No, m′sieur, there are very few travellers on the road in the

morning," said the official. "It is not until late in the afternoon that

the traffic begins. Times have changed on the Riviera, and so many

people go to Cannes. The old road is almost now deserted."

At eleven o′clock Mr. Briggerland came to a certain part of the road

and found a hiding-place for his motor-cycle--a small plantation of

olive trees on the hill side. Incidentally it was an admirable resting

place, for from here he commanded an extensive view of the

western road.

Lydia′s journey had been no less enjoyable. She, too, had stopped at

Mentone to explore the town, and had left Pont St. Louis an hour

after Mr. Briggerland had passed.

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The road to San Remo runs under the shadow of steep hills

through a bleak stretch of country from which even the industrious

peasantry of northern Italy cannot win a livelihood. Save for

isolated patches of cultivated land, the hills are bare and menacing.

With these gaunt plateaux on one side and the rock-strewn seashore

on the other, there was little to hold the eye save an occasional

glimpse of the Italian town in the far distance. There was a wild

uncouthness about the scenery which awed the girl. Sometimes the

car would be running so near the sea level that the spray of the

waves hit the windows; sometimes it would climb over an out-jutting

headland and she would look down upon a bouldered beach a

hundred feet below.

It was on the crest of a headland that the car stopped.

Here the road ran out in a semi-circle so that from where she sat she

could not see its continuation either before or behind. Ahead it

slipped round the shoulder of a high and over-hanging mass of

rock, through which the road must have been cut. Behind it dipped

down to a cove, hidden from sight.

"There is the Lovers′ Chair, mademoiselle," said Mordon.

Half a dozen feet beneath the road level was a broad shelf of rock.

A few stone steps led down and she followed them. The Lovers′

Chair was carved in the face of the rock and she sat down to view

the beauty of the scene. The solitude, the stillness which only the

lazy waves broke, the majesty of the setting, brought a strange peace

to her. Beyond the edge of the ledge the cliff fell sheer to the water,

and she shivered as she stepped back from her inspection.

Mordon did not see her go. He sat on the running board of his car,

his pale face between his hands, a prey to his own gloomy thoughts.

There must be a development, he told himself. He was beginning to

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get uneasy, and for the first time he doubted the sincerity of the

woman who had been to him as a goddess.

He did not hear Mr. Briggerland, for the dark man was light of foot,

when he came round the shoulder of the hill. Mordon′s back was

toward him. Suddenly the chauffeur looked round.

"M′sieur," he stammered, and would have risen, but Briggerland laid

his hand on his shoulder.

"Do not rise, François," he said pleasantly. "I am afraid I was hasty

last night."

"M′sieur, it was I who was hasty," said Mordon huskily, "it was

unpardonable. . "

"Nonsense," Briggerland patted the man′s shoulder. "What is that

boat out there--a man o′ war, François?"

François Mordon turned his head toward the sea, and Briggerland

pointed the ivory-handled pistol he had held behind his back and

shot him dead.

The report of the revolver thrown down by the rocks came to Lydia

like a clap of thunder. At first she thought it was a tyre burst and

hurried up the steps to see.

Mr. Briggerland was standing with his back to the car. At his feet

was the tumbled body of Mordon.

"Mr.--Brig. .!" she gasped, and saw the revolver in his hand. With a

cry she almost flung herself down the steps as the revolver

exploded. The bullet ripped her hat from her head, and she flung up

her hands, thinking she had been struck.

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Then the dark face showed over the parapet and again the revolver

was presented. She stared for a second into his benevolent eyes, and

then something hit her violently and she staggered back, and

dropped over the edge of the shelf down, straight down into the sea

below.

Chapter XXXVII

Probably Jean Briggerland never gave a more perfect representation

of shocked surprise than when old Jaggs announced that he was

Jack Glover.

"Mr. Glover," she said incredulously.

"If you′ll be kind enough to release my hands," said Jack savagely, "I

will convince you."

Jean, all meekness, obeyed, and presently he stood up with a groan.

"You′ve nearly blinded me," he said, turning to the glass.

"If I′d known it was you----"

"Don′t make me laugh!" he snapped. "Of course you knew who it

was!" He took off the wig and peeled the beard from his face.

"Was that very painful?" she asked, sympathetically, and Jack

snorted.

"How was I to know that it was you?" she demanded, virtuously

indignant, "I thought you were a wicked old man----"

"You thought nothing of the sort, Miss Briggerland," said Jack.

"You knew who I was, and you guessed why I had taken on this

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disguise. I was not many yards from you when it suddenly dawned

upon you that I could not sleep at Lydia Meredith′s flat unless I

went there in the guise of an old man."

"Why should you want to sleep at her flat at all?" she asked

innocently. "It doesn′t seem to me to be a very proper ambition."

"That is an unnecessary question, and I′m wasting my time when I

answer you," said Jack sternly. "I went there to save her life, to

protect her against your murderous plots!"

"My murderous plots?" she repeated aghast. "You surely don′t know

what you′re saying."

"I know this," and his face was not pleasant to see. "I have sufficient

evidence to secure the arrest of your father, and possibly yourself.

For months I have been working on that first providential accident

of yours--the rich Australian who died with such remarkable

suddenness. I may not get you in the Meredith case, and I may not

be able to jail you for your attacks on Mrs. Meredith, but I have

enough evidence to hang your father for the earlier crime."

Her face was blank--expressionless. Never before had she been

brought up short with such a threat as the man was uttering, nor

had she ever been in danger of detection. And all the time she was

eyeing him so steadily, not a muscle of her face moving, her mind

was groping back into the past, examining every detail of the crime

he had mentioned, seeking for some flaw in the carefully prepared

plan which had brought a good man to a violent and untimely end.

"That kind of bluff doesn′t impress me," she said at last. "You′re in

a poor way when you have to invent crimes to attach to me."

"We′ll go into that later. Where is Lydia?" he said shortly.

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"I tell you I don′t know, except that she has gone out for a drive. I

expect her back very soon."

"Is your father with her?"

She shook her head.

"No, father went out early. I don′t know who gave you authority to

cross-examine me. Why, Jack Glover, you have all the importance of

a French examining magistrate," she smiled.

"You may learn how important they are soon," he said significantly.

"Where is your chauffeur, Mordon?"

"He is gone, too--in fact, he is driving Lydia. Why?" she asked with

a little tightening of heart. She had only just been in time, she

thought. So they had associated Mordon with the forgery!

His first words confirmed this suspicion.

"There is a warrant for Mordon which will be executed as soon as

he returns," said Jack. "We have been able to trace him in London

and also the woman who presented the cheque. We know his

movements from the time he left Nice by aeroplane for Paris to the

time he returned to Nice. The people who changed the money for

him will swear to his identity."

If he expected to startle her he was disappointed. She raised her

eyebrows.

"I can′t believe it is possible. Mordon was such an honest man," she

said. "We trusted him implicitly, and never once did he betray our

trust. Now, Mr. Glover," she said coolly, "might I suggest that an

interview with a gentleman in my bedroom is not calculated to

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increase my servants′ respect for me? Will you go downstairs and

wait until I come?"

"You′ll not attempt to leave this house?" he said, and she laughed.

"Really, you′re going on like one of those infallible detectives one

reads about in the popular magazines," she said a little

contemptuously. "You have no authority whatever to keep me from

leaving this house and nobody knows that better than you. But you

needn′t be afraid. Sit on the stairs if you like until I come down."

When he had gone she rang the bell for her maid and handed her an

envelope.

"I shall be in the saloon, talking to Mr. Glover," she said in a low

voice. "I want you to bring this in and say that you found it in the

hall."

"Yes, miss," said the woman.

Jean proceeded leisurely to her toilet. In the struggle her dress had

been torn, and she changed it for a pale green silk gown, and Jack,

pacing in the hall below, was on the point of coming up to discover

if she had made her escape, when she sailed serenely down the

stairs.

"I should like to know one thing, Mr. Glover," she said as she went

into the saloon. "What do you intend doing? What is your

immediate plan? Are you going to spirit Lydia away from us? Of

course, I know you′re in love with her and all that sort of thing."

His face went pink.

"I am not in love with Mrs. Meredith," he lied.

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"Don′t be silly," she said practically, "of course you′re in love with

her."

"My first job is to get that money back, and you′re going to help

me," he said.

"Of course I′m going to help you," she agreed. "If Mordon has

been such a scoundrel, he must suffer the consequence. I′m sure

that you are too clever to have made any mistake. Poor Mordon. I

wonder what made him do it, because he is such a good friend of

Lydia′s, and seriously, Mr. Glover, I do think Lydia is being

indiscreet."

"You made that remark before," he said quietly. "Now perhaps you′ll

explain what you mean."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"They are always about together. I saw them strolling on the lawn

last night till quite a late hour, and I was so scared lest Mrs. Cole-

Mortimer noticed it too----"

"Which means that Mrs. Cole-Mortimer did not notice it. You′re

clever, Jean! Even as you invent you make preparations to refute any

evidence that the other side can produce. I don′t believe a word you

say."

There was a knock at the door and the maid entered bearing a letter

on a salver.

"This was addressed to you, miss," she said. "It was on the hall table

--didn′t you see it?"

"No," said Jean in surprise. She took the letter, looked down at the

address and opened it.

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He saw a look of amazement and horror come to her face.

"Good God!" gasped Jean.

"What is it?" he said, springing up.

She stared at the letter again and from the letter to him.

"Read it," she said in a hollow voice.

"Dear Mademoisel e,

"I have returned from London and have confessed to Madame Meredith that I
have forged her name and have drawn £100,000 from her bank. And now I
have learnt that Madame Meredith loves me. There is only one end to this--
that which you see----"

Jack read the letter twice.

"It is in his writing, too," he muttered. "It′s impossible, incredible! I

tell you I′ve had Mrs. Meredith under my eyes all the time she has

been here. Is there a letter from her?" he asked suddenly. "But no, it

is impossible, impossible!"

"I haven′t been into her room. Will you come up with me?"

He followed her up the stairs and into Lydia′s big bedroom, and the

first thing that caught his eye was a sealed letter on a table near the

bed. He picked it up. It was addressed to him, in Lydia′s

handwriting, and feverishly he tore it open.

His face, when he had finished reading, was as white as hers had

been.

"Where have they gone?" he asked.

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"They went to San Remo."

"By car?"

"Of course."

Without a word he turned and ran down the stairs out of the house.

The taxi that had brought him in the role of Jaggs had gone, but

down the road, a dozen yards away, was the car he had hired on the

day he came to Monte Carlo. He gave instructions to the driver and

jumped in. The car sped through Mentone, stopped only the briefest

while at the Customs barrier whilst Jack pursued his inquiries.

Yes, a lady had passed, but she had not returned.

How long ago?

Perhaps an hour; perhaps less.

At top speed the big car thundered along the sea road, twisting and

turning, diving into valleys and climbing steep headlands, and then

rounding a corner, Jack saw the car and a little crowd about it. His

heart turned to stone as he leapt to the road.

He saw the backs of two Italian gendarmes, and pushing aside the

little knot of idlers, he came into the centre of the group and

stopped. Mordon lay on his face in a pool of blood, and one of the

policemen was holding an ivory-handled revolver.

"It was with this that the crime was committed," he said in florid

Italian. "Three of the chambers are empty. Now, at whom were the

other two discharged?"

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Jack reeled and gripped the mud-guard of the car for support, then

his eyes strayed to the opening in the wall which ran on the seaward

side of the road.

He walked to the parapet and looked over, and the first thing he saw

was a torn hat and veil, and he knew it was Lydia′s.

Chapter XXXVIII

Mr. Briggerland, killing time on the quay at Monaco, saw the

Jungle
Queen

come into harbour and watched Marcus land, carrying his

lines in his hand.

As Marcus came abreast of him he called and Mr. Stepney looked

round with a start.

"Hello, Briggerland," he said, swallowing something.

"Well, have you been fishing?" asked Mr. Briggerland in his most

paternal manner.

"Yes," admitted Marcus.

"Did you catch anything?"

Stepney nodded.

"Only one," he said.

"Hard luck," said Mr. Briggerland, with a smile, "but where is Mrs.

Meredith--I understood she was going out with you to-day?"

"She went to San Remo," said Stepney shortly, and the other

nodded.

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"To be sure," he said. "I had forgotten that."

Later he bought a copy of the

Nicoise

and learnt of the tragedy on

the San Remo road. It brought him back to the house, a visibly

agitated man.

"This is shocking news, my dear," he panted into the saloon and

stood stock still at the sight of Mr. Jack Glover.

"Come in, Briggerland," said Jack, without ceremony. There was a

man with him, a tall, keen Frenchman whom Briggerland recognised

as the chief detective of the Préfecture. "We want you to give an

account of your actions."

"My actions?" said Mr. Briggerland indignantly. "Do you associate

me with this dreadful tragedy? A tragedy," he said, "which has

stricken me almost dumb with horror and remorse. Why did I ever

allow that villain even to speak to poor Lydia?"

"Nevertheless, m′sieur," said the tall man quietly, "you must tell us

where you have been."

"That is easily explained. I went to San Remo."

"By road?"

"Yes, by road," said Mr. Briggerland, "on my motor-bicycle."

"What time did you arrive in San Remo?"

"At midday, or it may have been a quarter of an hour before."

"You know that the murder must have been committed at half-past

eleven?" said Jack.

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"So the newspapers tell me."

"Where did you go in San Remo?" asked the detective.

"I went to a café and had a glass of wine, then I strolled about the

town and lunched at the Victoria. I caught the one o′clock train to

Monte Carlo."

"Did you hear nothing of the murder?"

"Not a word," said Mr. Briggerland, "not a word."

"Did you see the car?"

Mr. Briggerland shook his head.

"I left some time before poor Lydia," he said softly.

"Did you know of any attachment between the chauffeur and your

guest?"

"I had no idea such a thing existed. If I had," said Mr. Briggerland

virtuously, "I should have taken immediate steps to have brought

poor Lydia to her senses."

"Your daughter says that they were frequently together. Did you

notice this?"

"Yes, I did notice it, but my daughter and I are very democratic. We

have made a friend of Mordon and I suppose what would have

seemed familiar to you, would pass unnoticed with us. Yes, I

certainly do remember my poor friend and Mordon walking

together in the garden."

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"Is this yours?" The detective took from behind a curtain an old

British rifle.

"Yes, that is mine," admitted Briggerland without a moment′s

hesitation. "It is one I bought in Amiens, a souvenir of our gallant

soldiers----"

"I know, I quite understand your patriotic motive in purchasing it,"

said the detective dryly, "but will you tell us how this passed from

your possession."

"I haven′t the slightest notion," said Mr. Briggerland in surprise. "I

had no idea it was lost--I′d lost sight of it for some weeks. Can it be

that Mordon--but no, I must not think so evilly of him."

"What were you going to suggest?" asked Jack. "That Mordon fired

at Mrs. Meredith when she was on the swimming raft? If you are, I

can save you the trouble of telling that lie. It was you who fired, and

it was I who knocked you out."

Mr. Briggerland′s face was a study.

"I can′t understand why you make such a wild and unfounded

charge," he said gently. "Perhaps, my dear, you could elucidate this

mystery."

Jean had not spoken since he entered. She sat bolt upright on a

chair, her hands folded in her lap, her sad eyes fixed now upon Jack,

now upon the detective. She shook her head.

"I know nothing about the rifle, and did not even know you

possessed one," she said. "But please answer all their questions,

father. I am as anxious as you are to get to the bottom of this

dreadful tragedy. Have you told my father about the letters which

were discovered?"

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The detective shook his head.

"I have not seen your father until he arrived this moment," he said.

"Letters?" Mr. Briggerland looked at his daughter. "Did poor Lydia

leave a letter?"

She nodded.

"I think Mr. Glover will tell you, father," she said. "Poor Lydia had

an attachment for Mordon. It is very clear what happened. They

went out to-day, never intending to return----"

"Mrs. Meredith had no intention of going to the Lovers′ Chair until

you suggested the trip to her," said Jack quietly. "Mrs. Cole-

Mortimer is very emphatic on that point."

"Has the body been found?" asked Mr. Briggerland.

"Nothing has been found but the chauffeur," said the detective.

After a few more questions he took Jack outside.

"It looks very much to me as though it were one of those crimes of

passion which are so frequent in this country," he said. "Mordon

was a Frenchman and I have been able to identify him by tattoo

marks on his arm, as a man who has been in the hands of the police

many times."

"You think there is no hope?"

The detective shrugged his shoulders.

"We are dragging the pool. There is very deep water under the rock,

but the chances are that the body has been washed out to sea. There

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is clearly no evidence against these people, except yours. The letters

might, of course, have been forged, but you say you are certain that

the writing is Mrs. Meredith′s."

Jack nodded.

They were walking down the road towards the officers′ waiting car,

when Jack asked:

"May I see that letter again?"

The detective took it from his pocket book and Jack stopped and

scanned it.

"Yes, it is her writing," he said and then uttered an exclamation.

"Do you see that?"

He pointed eagerly to two little marks before the words "Dear

friend."

"Quotation marks," said the detective, puzzled. "Why did she write

that?"

"I′ve got it," said Jack. "The story! Mademoiselle Briggerland told

me she was writing a story, and I remember she said she had writer′s

cramp. Suppose she dictated a portion of the story to Mrs.

Meredith, and suppose in that story there occurred this letter: Lydia

would have put the quotation marks mechanically."

The detective took the letter from his hand.

"It is possible," he said. "The writing is very even--it shows no sign

of agitation, and of course the character′s initials might be ′L.M.′ It

is an ingenious hypothesis, and not wholly improbable, but if this

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were a part of the story, there would be other sheets. Would you like

me to search the house?"

Jack shook his head.

"She′s much too clever to have them in the house," he said. "More

likely she′s put them in the fire."

"What fire?" asked the detective dryly. "These houses have no fires,

they′re central heated--unless she went to the kitchen."

"Which she wouldn′t do," said Jack thoughtfully. "No, she′d burn

them in the garden."

The detective nodded, and they returned to the house.

Jean, deep in conversation with her father, saw them reappear, and

watched them as they walked slowly across the lawn toward the

trees, their eyes fixed on the ground.

"What are they looking for?" she asked with a frown.

"I′ll go and see," said Briggerland, but she caught his arm.

"Do you think they′ll tell you?" she asked sarcastically.

She ran up to her own room and watched them from behind a

curtain. Presently they passed out of sight to the other side of the

house, and she went into Lydia′s room and overlooked them from

there. Suddenly she saw the detective stoop and pick up something

from the ground, and her teeth set.

"The burnt story," she said. "I never dreamt they′d look for that."

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It was only a scrap they found, but it was in Lydia′s writing, and the

pencil mark was clearly visible on the charred ashes.

"′Laura Martin,′" read the detective. "′L. M.,′ and there are the words

′tragic′ and ′remorse′."

From the remainder of the charred fragments they collected

nothing of importance. Jean watched them disappear along the

avenue, and went down to her father.

"I had a fright," she said.

"You look as if you′ve still got it," he said. He eyed her keenly.

She shook her head.

"Father, you must understand that this adventure may end

disastrously. There are ninety-nine chances against the truth being

known, but it is the extra chance that is worrying me. We ought to

have settled Lydia more quietly, more naturally. There was too much

melodrama and shooting, but I don′t see how we could have done

anything else--Mordon was very tiresome."

"Where did Glover come from?" asked Mr. Briggerland.

"He′s been here all the time," said the girl.

"What?"

She nodded.

"He was old Jaggs. I had an idea he was, but I was certain when I

remembered that he had stayed at Lydia′s flat."

He put down his tea cup and wiped his lips with a silk handkerchief.

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"I wish this business was over," he said fretfully. "It looks as if we

shall have trouble."

"Of course we shall," she said coldly. "You didn′t expect to get a

fortune of six hundred thousand pounds without trouble, did you? I

dare say we shall be suspected. But it takes a lot of suspicion to

worry me. We′ll be in calm water soon, for the rest of our lives."

"I hope so," he said without any great conviction.

Mrs. Cole-Mortimer was prostrate and in bed, and Jean had no

patience to see her.

She herself ordered the dinner, and they had finished when a visitor

in the shape of Mr. Marcus Stepney came in.

It was unusual of Marcus to appear at the dinner hour, except in

evening dress, and she remarked the fact wonderingly.

"Can I have a word with you, Jean?" he asked.

"What is it, what is it?" asked Mr. Briggerland testily. "Haven′t we

had enough mysteries?"

Marcus eyed him without favour.

"We′ll have another one, if you don′t mind," he said unpleasantly,

and the girl, whose every sense was alert, picked up a wrap and

walked into the garden, with Marcus following on her heels.

Ten minutes passed and they did not return, a quarter of an hour

went by, and Mr. Briggerland grew uneasy. He got up from his chair,

put down his book, and was half-way across the room when the

door opened and Jack Glover came in, followed by the detective.

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It was the Frenchman who spoke.

"M′sieur Briggerland, I have a warrant from the Préfect of the Alpes

Maritimes for your arrest."

"My arrest?" spluttered the dark man, his teeth chattering. "What--

what is the charge?"

"The wilful murder of François Mordon," said the officer.

"You lie--you lie," screamed Briggerland. "I have no knowledge of

any----" his words sank into a throaty gurgle, and he stared past

the detective. Lydia Meredith was standing in the doorway.

Chapter XXXIX

The morning for Mr. Stepney had been doubly disappointing; again

and again he drew up an empty line, and at last he flung the tackle

into the well of the launch.

"Even the damn fish won′t bite," he said, and the humour of his

remark cheered him. He was ten miles from the shore, and the blue

coast was a dim, ragged line on the horizon. He pulled out a big

luncheon basket from the cabin and eyed it with disfavour. It had

cost him two hundred francs. He opened the basket, and at the sight

of its contents, was inclined to reconsider his earlier view that he

had wasted his money, the more so since the

maître d′hôtel

had

thoughtfully included two quart bottles of champagne.

Mr. Marcus Stepney made a hearty meal, and by the time he had

dropped an empty bottle into the sea, he was inclined to take a more

cheerful view of life. He threw over the debris of the lunch, pushed

the basket under one of the seats of the cabin, pulled up his anchor

and started the engines running.

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The sky was a brighter blue and the sea held a finer sparkle, and he

was inclined to take a view of even Jean Briggerland, more generous

than any he had held.

"Little devil," he smiled reminiscently, as he murmured the words.

He opened the second bottle of champagne in her honour--Mr.

Marcus Stepney was usually an abstemious man--and drank

solemnly, if not soberly, her health and happiness. As the sun grew

warmer he began to feel an unaccountable sleepiness. He was sober

enough to know that to fall asleep in the middle of the ocean was to

ask for trouble, and he set the bow of the

Jungle Queen

for the

nearest beach, hoping to find a landing place.

He found something better as he skirted the shore. The sea and the

weather had scooped out a big hollow under a high cliff, a hollow

just big enough to take the

Jungle Queen

and deep and still enough to

ensure her a safe anchorage. A rock barrier interposed between the

breakers and this deep pool which the waves had hollowed in the

stony floor of the ocean. As he dropped his anchor he disturbed a

school of fish, and his angling instincts re-awoke. He let down his

line over the side, seated himself comfortable in one of the two big

basket chairs, and was dozing comfortably. .

It was the sound of a shot that woke him. It was followed by

another, and a third. Almost immediately something dropped from

the cliff, and fell with a mighty splash into the water.

Marcus was wide awake now, and almost sobered. He peered down

into the clear depths, and saw a figure of a woman turning over and

over. Then as it floated upwards it came on its back, and he saw the

face. Without a moment′s hesitation he dived into the water.

He would have been wiser if he had waited until she floated to the

surface, for now he found a difficulty in regaining the boat. After a

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great deal of trouble, he managed to reach into the launch and pull

out a rope, which he fastened round the girl′s waist and drew tight

to a small stanchion. Then he climbed into the boat himself, and

pulled her after him.

He thought at first she was dead, but listening intently he heard the

beating of her heart, and searched the luncheon basket for a small

flask of liqueurs, which Alphonse, the head waiter, had packed. He

put the bottle to her lips and poured a small quantity into her

mouth. She choked convulsively, and presently opened her eyes.

"You′re amongst friends," said Marcus unnecessarily.

She sat up and covered her face with her hands. It all came back to

her in a flash, and the horror of it froze her blood.

"What has happened to you?" asked Marcus.

"I don′t know exactly," she said faintly. And then: "Oh, it was

dreadful, dreadful!"

Marcus Stepney offered her the flask of liqueurs, and when she

shook her head, he helped himself liberally.

Lydia was conscious of a pain in her left shoulder. The sleeve was

torn, and across the thick of the arm there was an ugly raw weal.

"It looks like a bullet mark to me," said Marcus Stepney, suddenly

grave. "I heard a shot. Did somebody shoot at you?"

She nodded.

"Who?"

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She tried to frame the word, but no sound came, and then she burst

into a fit of weeping.

"Not Jean?" he asked hoarsely.

She shook her head.

"Briggerland?"

She nodded.

"Briggerland!" Mr. Stepney whistled, and as he whistled he shivered.

"Let′s get out of here," he said. "We shall catch our death of cold.

The sun will warm us up."

He started the engines going, and safely navigated the narrow

passage to the open sea. He had to get a long way out before he

could catch a glimpse of the road, then he saw the car, and a cycling

policeman dismounting and bending over something. He put away

his telescope and turned to the girl.

"This is bad, Mrs. Meredith," he said. "Thank God I wasn′t in it."

"Where are you taking me?" she asked.

"I′m taking you out to sea," said Marcus with a little smile. "Don′t

get scared, Mrs. Meredith. I want to hear that story of yours, and if

it is anything like what I fear, then it would be better for you that

Briggerland thinks you are dead."

She told the story as far as she knew it and he listened, not

interrupting, until she had finished.

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"Mordon dead, eh? That′s bad. But how on earth are they going to

explain it? I suppose," he said with a smile, "you didn′t write a letter

saying that you were going to run away with the chauffeur?"

She sat up at this.

"I did write a letter," she said slowly. "It wasn′t a real letter, it was in

a story which Jean was dictating."

She closed her eyes.

"How awful," she said. "I can′t believe it even now."

"Tell me about the story," said the man quickly.

"It was a story she was writing for a London magazine, and her

wrist hurt, and I wrote it down as she dictated. Only about three

pages, but one of the pages was a letter supposed to have been

written by the heroine saying that she was going away, as she loved

somebody who was beneath her socially."

"Good God!" said Marcus, genuinely shocked. "Did Jean do that?"

He seemed absolutely crushed by the realisation of Jean

Briggerland′s deed, and he did not speak again for a long time.

"I′m glad I know," he said at last.

"Do you really think that all this time she has been trying to kill

me?"

He nodded.

"She has used everybody, even me," he said bitterly. "I don′t want

you to think badly of me, Mrs. Meredith, but I′m going to tell you

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the truth. I′d provisioned this little yacht to-day for a twelve hundred

mile trip, and you were to be my companion."

"I?" she said incredulously.

"It was Jean′s idea, really, though I think she must have altered her

view, or thought I had forgotten all she suggested. I intended taking

you out to sea and keeping you out there until you agreed----" he

shook his head. "I don′t think I could have done it really," he said,

speaking half to himself. "I′m not really built for a conspirator.

None of that rough stuff ever appealed to me. Well, I didn′t try,

anyway."

"No, Mr. Stepney," she said quietly, "and I don′t think, if you had,

you would have succeeded."

He was in his frankest mood, and startled her later when he told her

of his profession, without attempting to excuse or minimise the

method by which he earned his livelihood.

"I was in a pretty bad way, and I thought there was easy money

coming, and that rather tempted me," he said. "I know you will

think I am a despicable cad, but you can′t think too badly of me,

really."

He surveyed the shore. Ahead of them the green tongue of Cap

Martin jutted out into the sea.

"I think I′ll take you to Nice," he said. "We′ll attract less attention

there, and probably I′ll be able to get into touch with your old Mr.

Jaggs. You′ve no idea where I can find him? At any rate, I can go to

the Villa Casa and discover what sort of a yarn is being told."

"And probably I can get my clothes dry," she said with a little

grimace. "I wonder if you know how uncomfortable I am?"

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"Pretty well," he said calmly. "Every time I move a new stream of

water runs down my back."

It was half-past three in the afternoon when they reached Nice, and

Marcus saw the girl safely to an hotel, changed himself and brought

the yacht back to Monaco, where Briggerland had seen him.

For two hours Marcus Stepney wrestled with his love for a girl who

was plainly a murderess, and in the end love won. When darkness

fell he provisioned the

Jungle Queen

, loaded her with petrol, and

heading her out to sea made the swimming cove of Cap Martin. It

was to the boat that Jean flew.

"What about my father?" she asked as she stepped aboard.

"I think they′ve caught him," said Marcus.

"He′ll hate prison," said the girl complacently. "Hurry, Marcus, I′d

hate it, too!"

Chapter XL

Lydia took up her quarters in a quiet hotel in Nice and Mrs. Cole-

Mortimer agreed to stay on and chaperon her.

Though she had felt no effects from her terrifying experience on the

first day, she found herself a nervous wreck when she woke in the

morning, and wisely decided to stay in bed.

Jack, who had expected the relapse, called in a doctor, but Lydia

refused to see him. The next day she received the lawyer.

She had only briefly outlined the part which Marcus Stepney had

played in her rescue, but she had said enough to make Jack call at

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Stepney′s hotel to thank him in person. Mr. Stepney, however, was

not at home--he had not been home all night, but this information

his discreet informant did not volunteer. Nor was the disappearance

of the

Jungle Queen

noticed for two days. It was Mrs. Cole-Mortimer,

in settling up her accounts with Jack, who mentioned the "yacht."

"The

Jungle Queen

," said Jack, "that′s the motor-launch, isn′t it? I′ve

seen her lying in the harbour. I thought she was Stepney′s property."

His suspicions aroused, he called again at Stepney′s hotel, and this

time his inquiry was backed by the presence of a detective. Then it

was made known that Mr. Stepney had not been seen since the night

of Briggerland′s arrest.

"That is where they′ve gone. Stepney was very keen on the girl, I

think," said Jack.

The detective was annoyed.

"If I′d known before we could have intercepted them. We have

several destroyers in the harbour at Villafrance. Now I am afraid it is

too late."

"Where would they make for?" asked Jack.

The officer shrugged his shoulders.

"God knows," he said. "They could get into Italy or into Spain,

possibly Barcelona. I will telegraph the Chief of the Police there."

But the Barcelona police had no information to give. The

Jungle
Queen

had not been sighted. The weather was calm, the sea smooth,

and everything favourable for the escape.

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Inquiries elicited the fact that Mr. Stepney had bought large

quantities of petrol a few days before his departure, and had

augmented his supply the evening he had left. Also he had bought

provisions in considerable quantities.

The murder was a week old, and Mr. Briggerland had undergone his

preliminary examination, when a wire came through from the

Spanish police that a motor-boat answering the description of the

Jungle Queen

had called at Malaga, had provisioned, refilled, and put

out to sea again, before the police authorities, who had a description

of the pair, had time to investigate.

"You′ll think I have a diseased mind," said Lydia, "but I hope she

gets away."

Jack laughed.

"If you had been with her much longer, Lydia, she would have

turned you into a first-class criminal," he said. "I hope you do not

forget that she has exactly a hundred thousand pounds of yours--in

other words, a sixth of your fortune."

Lydia shook her head.

"That is almost a comforting thought," she said. "I know she is what

she is, Jack, but her greatest crime is that she was born six hundred

years too late. If she had lived in the days of the Italian Renaissance

she would have made history."

"Your sympathy is immoral," said Jack. "By the way, Briggerland has

been handed over to the Italian authorities. The crime was

committed on Italian soil and that saves his head from falling into

the basket."

She shuddered.

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"What will they do to him?"

"He′ll be imprisoned for life," was the reply "and I rather think

that′s a little worse than the guillotine. You say you worry for Jean--

I′m rather sorry for old man Briggerland. If he hadn′t tried to live

up to his daughter he might have been a most respectable member

of society."

They were strolling through the quaint, narrow streets of Grasse,

and Jack, who knew and loved the town, was showing her sights

which made her forget that the Perfumerie Factory, the Mecca of

the average tourist, had any existence.

"I suppose I′ll have to settle down now," she said with an expression

of distaste.

"I suppose you will," said Jack, "and you′ll have to settle up, too;

your legal expenses are something fierce."

"Why do you say that?" she asked, stopping in her walk and looking

at him gravely.

"I am speaking as your mercenary lawyer," said Jack.

"You are trying to put your service on another level," she corrected.

"I owe everything I have to you. My fortune is the least of these. I

owe you my life three times over."

"Four," he corrected, "and to Marcus Stepney once."

"Why have you done so much for me? Were you interested?" she

asked after a pause.

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"Very," he replied. "I was interested in you from the moment I saw

you step out of Mr. Mordon′s taxi into the mud, but I was especially

interested in you----"

"When?" she asked.

"When I sat outside your door night after night and discovered you

didn′t snore," he said shamelessly, and she went red.

"I hope you′ll never refer to your old Jaggs′s adventures. It was very

----"

"What?"

"I was going to say horrid, but I shouldn′t be telling the truth," she

admitted frankly. "I liked having you there. Poor Mrs. Morgan will

be disconsolate when she discovers that we′ve lost our lodger."

They walked into the cool of the ancient cathedral and sat down.

"There′s something very soothing about a church, isn′t there?" he

whispered. "Look at that gorgeous window. If I were ever rich

enough to marry the woman I loved, I should be married in a

cathedral like this, full of old tombs and statues and stained glass."

"How rich would you have to be?" she asked.

"As rich as she is."

She bent over toward him, her lips against his ear.

"Tell me how much money you have," she whispered, "and I′ll give

away all I have in excess of that amount."

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He caught her hand and held it fast, and they sat there before the

altar of St. Catherine until the sun went down and the disapproving

old woman who acted as the cathedral′s caretaker tapped them on

the shoulder.

Chapter XLI

"That is Gibraltar," said Marcus Stepney, pointing ahead to a grey

shape that loomed up from the sea.

He was unshaven for he had forgotten to bring his razor and he was

pinched with the cold. His overcoat was turned up to his ears, in

spite of which he shivered.

Jean did not seem to be affected by the sudden change of

temperature. She sat on the top of the cabin, her chin in the palm

of her hand, her elbow on her crossed knee.

"You are not going into Gibraltar?" she asked.

He shook his head.

"I think not," he said, "nor to Algeciras. Did you see that fellow on

the quay yelling for the craft to come back after we left Malaga?

That was a bad sign. I expect the police have instructions to detain

this boat, and most of the ports must have been notified."

"How long can we run?"

"We′ve got enough gas and grub to reach Dacca," he said. "That′s

roughly an eight-days′ journey."

"On the African coast?"

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He nodded, although she could not see him.

"Where could we get a ship to take us to South America?" she

asked, turning round.

"Lisbon," he said thoughtfully. "Yes, we could reach Lisbon, but

there are too many steamers about and we′re certain to be sighted.

We might run across to Las Palmas, most of the South American

boats call there, but if I were you I should stick to Europe. Come

and take this helm, Jean."

She obeyed without question, and he continued the work which had

been interrupted by a late meal, the painting of the boat′s hull, a

difficult business, involving acrobatics, since it was necessary for

him to lean over the side. He had bought the grey paint at Malaga,

and happily there was not much surface that required attention. The

stumpy mast of the

Jungle Queen

had already gone overboard--he

had sawn it off with great labour the day after they had left Cap

Martin.

She watched him with a speculative eye as he worked, and thought

he had never looked quite so unattractive as he did with an eight-

days′ growth of beard, his shirt stained with paint and petrol. His

hands were grimy and nobody would have recognised in this

scarecrow the elegant habitué of those fashionable resorts which

smart society frequents.

Yet she had reason to be grateful to him. His conduct toward her

had been irreproachable. Not one word of love had been spoken,

nor, until now, had their future plans, for it affected them both, been

discussed.

"Suppose we reach South America safely?" she asked. "What

happens then, Marcus?"

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He looked round from his work in surprise.

"We′ll get married," he said quietly, and she laughed.

"And what happens to the present Mrs. Stepney?"

"She has divorced me," said Stepney unexpectedly. "I got the papers

the day we left."

"I see," said Jean softly. "We′ll get married----" then stopped.

He looked at her and frowned.

"Isn′t that your idea, too?" he asked.

"Married? Yes, that′s my idea, too. It seems a queer uninteresting

way of finishing things, doesn′t it, and yet I suppose it isn′t."

He had resumed his work and was leaning far over the bow intent

upon his labour. Suddenly she spun the wheel round and the launch

heeled over to starboard. For a second it seemed that Marcus

Stepney could not maintain his balance against that unexpected

impetus, but by a superhuman effort he kicked himself back to

safety, and stared at her with a blanched face.

"Why did you do that?" he asked hoarsely. "You nearly had me

overboard."

"There was a porpoise lying on the surface of the sea, asleep, I

think," she said quietly. "I′m very sorry, Marcus, but I didn′t know

that it would throw you off your balance."

He looked round for the sleeping fish but it had disappeared.

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"You told me to avoid them, you know," she said apologetically.

"Did I really put you in any danger?"

He licked his dry lips, picked up the paint-pot, and threw it into the

sea.

"We′ll leave this," he said, "until we are beached. You gave me a

scare, Jean."

"I′m dreadfully sorry. Come here, and sit by me."

She moved to allow him room, and he sat down by her, taking the

wheel from her hand.

On the horizon the high lands of northern Africa were showing

their saw-edge outlines.

"That is Morocco," he pointed out to her. "I propose giving

Gibraltar a wide berth, and following the coast line to Tangier."

"Tangier wouldn′t be a bad place to land if there weren′t two of us,"

he went on. "It is our being together in this yacht that is likely to

cause suspicion. You could easily pretend that you′d come over from

Gibraltar, and the port authorities there are pretty slack."

"Or if we could land on the coast," he suggested. "There′s a good

landing, and we could follow the beach down, and turn up in

Tangier in the morning--all sorts of oddments turn up in Tangier

without exciting suspicion."

She was looking out over the sea with a queer expression in her face.

"Morocco!" she said softly. "Morocco--I hadn′t thought of that!"

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They had a fright soon after. A grey shape came racing out of the

darkening east, and Stepney put his helm over as the destroyer

smashed past on her way to Gibraltar.

He watched the stern light disappearing, then it suddenly turned and

presented its side to them.

"They′re looking for us," said Marcus.

The darkness had come down, and he headed straight for the east.

There was no question that the destroyer was on an errand of

discovery. A white beam of light shot out from her decks, and

began to feel along the sea. And then when they thought it had

missed them, it dropped on the boat and held. A second later it

missed them and began a search. Presently it lit the little boat, and it

did something more--it revealed a thickening of the atmosphere.

They were running into a sea fog, one of those thin white fogs that

come down in the Mediterranean on windless days. The blinding

glare of the searchlight blurred.

"

Bang!

"

"That′s the gun to signal us to stop," said Marcus between his teeth.

He turned the nose of the boat southward, a hazardous proceeding,

for he ran into clear water, and had only just got back into the

shelter of the providential fog bank when the white beam came

stealthily along the edge of the mist. Presently it died out, and they

saw it no more.

"They′re looking for us," said Marcus again.

"You said that before," said the girl calmly.

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"They′ve probably warned them at Tangier. We dare not take the

boat into the bay," said Stepney, whose nerves were now on edge.

He turned again westward, edging toward the rocky coast of

northern Africa. They saw little clusters of lights on the shore, and

he tried to remember what towns they were.

"I think that big one is Cutra, the Spanish convict station," he said.

He slowed down the boat, and they felt their way gingerly along the

coast line, until the flick and flash of a lighthouse gave them an idea

of their position.

"Cape Spartel," he identified the light. "We can land very soon. I was

in Morocco for three months, and if I remember rightly the beach is

good walking as far as Tangier."

She went into the cabin and changed, and as the nose of the

Jungle
Queen

slid gently up the sandy beach she was ready.

He carried her ashore, and set her down, then he pushed off the

nose of the boat, and manoeuvred it so that the stern was against

the beach, resting in three feet of water. He jumped on board,

lashed the helm, and started the engines going, then wading back to

the shore he stood staring into the gloom as the little

Jungle Queen

put

out to sea.

"That′s that," he said grimly. "Now my dear, we′ve got a ten mile

walk before us."

But he had made a slight miscalculation. The distance between

himself and Tangier was twenty-five miles, and involved several

detours inland into country which was wholly uninhabited, save at

that moment it held the camp of Muley Hafiz, who was engaged in

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negotiation with the Spanish Government for one of those

"permanent peaces" which frequently last for years.

Muley Hafiz sat drinking his coffee at midnight, listening to the

strains of an ornate gramophone, which stood in a corner of his

square tent.

A voice outside the silken fold of his tent greeted him, and he

stopped the machine.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Lord, we have captured a man and a woman walking along by the

sea."

"They are Riffi people--let them go," said Muley in Arabic. "We are

making peace, my man, not war."

"Lord, these are infidels; I think they are English."

Muley Hafiz twisted his trim little beard.

"Bring them," he said.

So they were brought to his presence, a dishevelled man and a girl at

the sight of whose face, he gasped.

"My little friend of the Riviera," he said wonderingly, and the smile

she gave him was like a ray of sunshine to his heart.

He stood up, a magnificent figure of a man, and she eyed him

admiringly.

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"I am sorry if my men have frightened you," he said. "You have

nothing to fear, madame. I will send my soldiers to escort you to

Tangier."

And then he frowned. "Where did you come from?"

She could not lie under the steady glance of those liquid eyes.

"We landed on the shore from a boat. We lost our way," she said.

He nodded.

"You must be she they are seeking," he said. "One of my spies came

to me from Tangier to-night, and told me that the Spanish and the

French police were waiting to arrest a lady who had committed

some crime in France. I cannot believe it is you--or if it is, then I

should say the crime was pardonable."

He glanced at Marcus.

"Or perhaps," he said slowly, "it is your companion they desire."

Jean shook her head.

"No, they do not want him," she said, "it is I they want."

He pointed to a cushion.

"Sit down," he said, and followed her example.

Marcus alone remained standing, wondering how this strange

situation would develop.

"What will you do? If you go into Tangier I fear I could not protect

you, but there is a city in the hills," he waved his hand, "many miles

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from here, a city where the hills are green, mademoiselle, and where

beautiful springs gush out of the ground, and there I am lord."

She drew a long breath.

"I will go to the city of the hills," she said softly, "and this man," she

shrugged her shoulders, "I do not care what happens to him," she

said, with a smile of amusement at the pallid Marcus.

"Then he shall go to Tangier alone."

But Marcus Stepney did not go alone. For the last two miles of the

journey he had carried a bag containing the greater part of five

million francs that the girl had brought from the boat. Jean did not

remember this until she was on her way to the city of the hills, and

by that time money did not interest her.

THE END.

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