 25 Mr. Stetney 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 Stetney as well as Jean knew him she would have realized that he adapted his mental attitude to his audience. He was a man whose stock and 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. Stetney 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 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 Stetney adapted it for his own purpose. "'Why, your life is almost drum-parallel with mine,' said Lydia. "'I hope it may continue,' said Mr. Stetney, 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 nightclubs 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 that 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. Stetney.' He lowered his eyes. "'I am sorry you think that,' he said. "'All the world thinks that I'm a gad about, 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 armory. "'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. Stetney sighed and related all that he knew of the redoubtable Mule Hafees on the way to the rooms. Mule Hafees was being lionized 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.' "'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 favorite 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 caveman fashion markets.' "'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 caveman 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. "'You'd like it, wouldn't you, Jean?' "'I'd sacrifice my soul for you, you little to 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 to Marcus,' she said coolly as she rose. They had their methods. "'Give me your handkerchief. I want to wipe this knife.' His face was gray 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 tidally, and all the time he stood there with his hand streaming with blood, incapable of movement. It was not until she had disappeared around the corner of the house that he pulled out the handkerchief and wrapped it about his hand. "'But, Jeffle,' he whispered almost in tears. Chapter 26 Jean Briggerland discovered a new arrival on her return to the house. That glover had come unexpectedly from London, so Lydia told her, and Jack himself met her with extraordinary geniality. "'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 Blanley. "'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 color 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 to Mr. Jaggs with you?' asked Jean innocently. "'Is any 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. "'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 and admitted her to 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, discolored 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 servant's stairs, and threw 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. Jags. She said aloud, and her voice was as soft as silk. I think, Mr. Jags, you ought to be in heaven. End of Chapter 26. Chapter 27 of the Angel of Terror. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Angel of Terror by Edgar Wallace. Chapter 27. 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 Terbe. 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? A terrible letter, threatening to kill her. Do you know that Mr. Brigelin 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 this 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 heard his hand gathering wildflowers 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. And I'm sorry I've been such a fool, apologized the penitent Jack, but the vision of the immaculate Mr. Stepney gathering wildflowers in a top hat in a morning suit certainly did appeal to me as being comical. He doesn't wear a top hat or a morning suit in Monty 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 around, 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 swoones 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 Jags in case he is mistaken for the elderly Lothario. Obviously Jean is preparing the way for an unpleasant end to poor old Jags. Why do you think these things about Jean, she asked, as they were running into Lutterby? Because I have a criminal mind, he replied promptly. I have the same type of mind as Jean Briggerland, 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 scent 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, and what would make you happy. Jean, she asked. He did not answer this question until they were sitting on the stoop 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. Pearl Lucretia has been maligned, anyway. There was a woman in the sixteenth century, rather like her, and another girl in the early days in New England who liked 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 cantaloupe. 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 cantaloupes life? She paused, knife in hand, eyeing the fruit with a frown. No, I don't think I want it. So Jean is a murderous at heart. She asked the question in solemn mockery, but Jack was not smiling. Oh yes, an intention at any rate. I don't know whether she has ever killed anybody, but she has certainly planned murders. The city aside, and sat back in her chair patiently, do you still suggest that she harbors 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. 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, Jack 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 maneuvered it. Did she ever talk to you about keys? No, said the girl. 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. Jack 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. 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. 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 one hundred and sixty thousand pounds in hard cash. I want to talk to you about that, Sir 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 check 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 day to day. 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 mater-de-hotel had gone, the girl asked, What am I to do with the money? Reinvested? Exactly, said Jack, but the most important thing is to make your will. He looked along the deserted veranda. They were the only guests present who had come early. From the veranda two curtain-doors led into the salon of the hotel, and it struck him that one of these had not been ajar when they 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 check 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's only a block from our office. If Rennerter I said it was all right, the check would be honored. You may be sure that I should make very drastic inquiries as to the origin of the signature. 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. End of Chapter 27 Chapter 28 of The Angel of Terror. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, The Angel of Terror, by Edgar Wallace. Chapter 28 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 Turby by the back road. I wondered why I hadn't seen your car. 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 were adding to your other crimes by turning novelist, are you? He said good-humoredly. What is the book, Miss Brickerland? It's 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 willfully 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 am 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 writer's cramp. 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. Even our 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 realized that he had lost the trick. When are you going back to London, she asked? Tomorrow 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. It was a very annoyed young man that drove back to the hotel 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 learned, 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. 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 were watching for Mr. Jaggs? Work on what, he said? The story I am writing of 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 a 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. He 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 shotgun. Nothing, he said. The old man hasn't come to-night. 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 tonight. Tomorrow 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. 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 and thought. I suppose you could do it, she said, but I'd hate to ask you. You see there, I've got a chapter to finish that really ought to go off to London today. 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. How thrilling, smiled Lydia. And she's got a way 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've 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 halfway 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 tell 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. Farewell. You said she was going away, interrupted Lydia. 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 well 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 immanuensis. She collected the papers tidally, 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 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 halfway up the hill. By the way, my dear, I wish you would give me Jack Clover's London address, as she said as they went into the house. Write it here. Here's a pencil. She pulled out an envelope from a stationary 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 Morden the chauffeur brought his big feet onto the pavement of Berkeley Street. End of Chapter 28 Chapter 29 of The Angel of Terror. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Angel of Terror by Edgar Wallace. Chapter 29. It was in the evening of the next day that Lydia received a wire from Jack Clover. 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 around your domain at Cap Martin. You mean Jags? 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? 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 across his knees. He had seen many mysterious shapes floating across the lawn only to discover on investigation that they were no more than the shadows which the moving treetops 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 step. 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' nocturnal habit. 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 you'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 towards 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 rested 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 around 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. 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. Hello, 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. Brigoland. 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 Jags. Oh no, smiled Jean. It couldn't have been Jags. 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 into breakfast on the following morning. She looked bright. Her eyes were clear and her delicate irony is 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 realize 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 her 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. For heaven's sake, don't leave me any for Jack will think I'm 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 humordly 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. Jean, she asked suddenly, was it Mr. Jags 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. Jags 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. 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 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 Jags came out from the trees in his furtive way and glancing up and down the road and made his halting way toward Monte Carlo. The only object 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 halfway up to LaTurbie. The boy with the donkey turned off to the main road and continued to steep climb toward the Grand 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 sheared down for 200 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 up on 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 hillside. 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 20 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 hauled it 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 sugar-headed the side 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, senor," 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 frankenite 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. 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 defense 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 Madonna get me change for this? The boy produced a 50-frank 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 bolded 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 Villacasa, Morden the chauffeur appeared and took the rope from his hand. Did you find what you wanted, Madame Iselle? He asked. 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 today. She waylaid her father on the stairs to give him these instructions. For her it was a busy morning. First she went to the hotel 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 check drawn from the back of Lydia Meredith's checkbook completed her equipment. That afternoon Morden 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. Rennet the lawyer which however he did not present in person. Morden knew a French girl in London and she it was who carried the letter to Charles Rennet. 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 check is in order, please honor. End of chapter 29. Chapter 30 of the Angel of Terror. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. The Angel of Terror by Edgar Wallace. Chapter 30. Desperate Diseases said Jean Briggerland called 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 then you why it didn't matter what position you held in society or what your responsibilities were you must indulge or 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 20,000 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 while she told him what she had done to relieve her pressing needs. We are getting deeper and deeper into Morden's hands he said shaking his head. That is what scares me at times. You needn't worry about Morden, she smiled. Her smile was a little hard. Morden and I are going to be married. She was examining the toe of her shoe attentively as she spoke and Mr. Brigolin leapt to his feet. What, he squeaked, marry a chauffeur? A fellow I picked out of the gutter? Her mad. The fellow was 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 one to breath. Morden 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. He said 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 alternative to a very unpleasant exposure. Whether he would have betrayed us, I don't know. Probably he would. Mr. Brigolin'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, 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. Brigolin nodded. Let me know when you want this to end, Jane, he said. It will end almost immediately. Please do not trouble, said Jane. And there is one other thing, Father. If you see Mr. Jags in the garden tonight, 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. Morden occupied two rooms above the garage, which was conveniently situated for Jane's purpose. He arrived late the next night and alight in his window, which was visible from the girl's room, told her all she wanted to know. Mr. Morden was a good-looking man by certain standards. His hair was dark and glossily brushed. His normal pallor of continents 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 among housemaids for 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, Jane, he said. She put her finger to her lips. Be careful, Francois, 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 Jane, that I was working a coup with Vaude and Montheron. These are two notorious men in Paris whom she knew. I gave her five thousand francs for her work. 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 Marseille by airplane. You did well, France-la, she said, and patted his hand. He would have seized hers, but she drew back. You have promised, France-la, she said with dignity, and a French gentleman keeps his word. France-la 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. Have returned from London and have confessed to Madame Meredith that I have forged her name and have drawn one hundred thousand pounds from her bank. Why do I write this, Jean, he asked in surprise. I will tell you one day. Go on, Francois, 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 realize 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, Francois, 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 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 Jane Brigolund, 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, Francois Morden was a dead man. End of Chapter 30 Chapter 31 OF THE ANGEL OF TERROR This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org THE ANGEL OF TERROR by Edgar Wallace Chapter 31 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 pawled 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 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. 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 quarreling. 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 more in Nice, he said. But if I remember rightly, Nice invariably has some weird lie into a door. Mule 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 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 Moulay Hafiz and she could have thought was possible. She had to go into Monte Carlo to do some shopping. Monton was nearer, but she preferred to drive into the principality. The rooms had no great call for her, and Wastonwarden 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 this season, but the little road down to the beach is secluded and had been a favorite walk of hers in earlier visits. Near the huts she passed a group of dark-looking men in long white gelabs, and wondered which of these was the famous Moulay. One she noticed with a particularly negro type of face, wore on his flowing robe the scarlet ribbon of the Legion of Honor. Somehow or other he did not seem interesting enough to be Moulay, she thought, as she went on to a strip of beach. A man was standing on the seashore, a tall, commanding man, gazing out at 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 realized her presence, for he turned, and she almost stopped at the side 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 mustache he wore. Beneath the conventional gelab 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 she 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 favorable 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 recognized something which was kin to her. You are English, of course, he said in that language. Scottish, smiled Jean. 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 Moulin Hafees, 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 around toward his attendance. 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. 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 tonight, 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 sees 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. 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. Mole or Lord Mole? You may call me Fazir if you're so hard up for a title, he said, and the little idiom sounded queer from him. Well, Fazir, will you tell me? Suppose somebody 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 Mole 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. 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 officiate the Western world. He laughed. Then you are tired of your Western civilization, 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 Mole 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. End of Chapter 31 Chapter 32 of The Angel of Terror This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org The Angel of Terror by Edgar Wallace Chapter 32 Jean She looked around 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 do, but to stand there in broad daylight, talking to a nigger. If I stand in broad daylight and talk to a carn-sharper Marcus, I think I'm just low enough to do almost anything. A tamed Moorish snicker, 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 interested 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. The waiter brought the tea at that moment, and the conversation passed to unimportant topics till he had gone. I'm rather rattled, he apologized. I lost 6000 Louis last night. Then you have 6000 reasons why you should keep on good terms with me, said Jeanne, smiling cheerfully. That caveman stuff, he asked, and shook his head. She'd raised Cain. Jeanne 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 tomorrow, he said after a thought. By heavens! I'll try tomorrow. It was on the tip of her tongue to say, not tomorrow, but she checked herself. Morden came round with the car to pick her up soon after. Morden. Her little chin jerked up with a gesture of annoyance which she seldom permitted herself, and yet she felt unusually cheered. Her meeting with Amour was a milestone in her life, from which memories she could draw both encouragement and comfort. You met Moulet? said Lydia. How thrilling! What is he like, Jeanne? Was he at Blackamour? No, he wasn't at Blackamour, said the girl quietly. He was an unusually intelligent man. Hmm, grunted her father. How did you come to meet him, my dear? I picked him up on the beach, said Jeanne Cooley. As any flapper would pick up any nut. Mr. Brigolin choked. I hate to hear you talking like that, Jeanne. 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 a sand and discussed one another's lives. But how enterprising of you, Jeanne, said the admiring Lydia. Mr. Brigolin 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 Moulet, she whispered. Jeanne looked round. Moulet Hafiz was looking across at her. His eyes immediately sought the girls, and he bowed slightly. What the devil is he bowing at, grumbled Mr. Brigolin? You didn't take any notice of him, did you, Jeanne? 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 Moulet Hafiz and he has bowed to me. Don't you realize 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. Jeanne 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 frank notes raked across to the croupier's end of the table, which is the business end of Monte Carlo. Jeanne was the last to leave the car when it sat them down at the Villa Casa. Morden called her respectfully. Excuse me, mademoiselle, he said. I wish you would come to the garage and see the new tires 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, Morden. I will come to the garage later, she said carelessly. What does Morden want you for, asked her father with a frown? You heard him. He doesn't approve of some new tires 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. If that fellow gives you any trouble, he'll be sorry, said Briggerland, and let me tell you this, Jeanne, 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, humumbled. 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. Jeanne waited a reasonable time before she slipped away. Morden was waiting for her before they opened 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 a 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, Francois, she said reproachfully. Don't you realize 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. Jeanne, I am worried, he said, in a troubled voice. I cannot understand your plans. They're too clever for me. And I have no men and women of great attainment, the great Bursik. The great Bursik 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, Francois. She knew quite well what was troubling him, but she waited. I cannot understand the letter which I wrote for you, said Morden. The letter in which I say Madame Meredith loved me. I have thought this matter out, Jeanne, and it seems to me that I am compromised. She laughed softly. Poor Francois, 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. End of Chapter 32 Chapter 33 of The Angel of Terror This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org The Angel of Terror by Edgar Wallace Chapter 33 Now explain. His words were a command, his tone parenthory. Jeanne, who knew men and read them without error, realized that this was not a moment to temporize. I will explain to you Francois, 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 confess to you that I have forged a check for five million francs. That is a very serious document, mademoiselle, to be in the possession of anybody but myself. He looked at her, straightened the eyes, and she met his gaze unflinchingly. The thing will be made very clear to you tomorrow, Francois, 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, Francois, 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, Francois, she said in that low plaintiff 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. You will give me back that letter I wrote, Jean, he said. I will give it to you tomorrow. Tonight, 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 tonight. 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 color 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, Francois, she said, and turned. Before she could reach the head of the stairs, his arm was round her and he had dragged her back. 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 Morden released his hold. You swine, hissed the big man. His fist shot out, and Morden 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 Madame Azale. The man rose and dusted himself mechanically, and there was that in his face which boated no good to Mr. Briggerland. Before he could speak Jean intervened. Father, she said quietly, you have no right to strike Francois. Francois, spluttered Briggerland, his dark face purple with rage. Francois, she repeated calmly, it is right that you should know that Francois and I will be married next week. Mr. Briggerland's jaw dropped. What! he almost shrieked. She nodded. 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 Morden 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. Francois and I loved one another. Jean went on in her even voice. We have quarreled tonight on a matter which has nothing to do with anybody save ourselves. You are going to marry him next week, said Mr. Briggerland Dolly. Bye. God, you'll do nothing the sort! She raised her hand. It is too late for you to interfere, Father, she said quietly. Francois 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 tomorrow morning early, Francois, she said. Perhaps you will drive me into Nice before breakfast. I have some purchases to make. 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 tonight, she said with her rare smile. Good night, Francois. 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 halfway to the house when she laid her hand on Briggerland's arm. Keep this, she said. It was Francois' revolver. It is probably loaded, and I thought I saw some silver initials inlaid in the ivory handle. If I know Francois Morden, 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 into 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 physique. Where have you been, Jean? asked Lydia, putting down her cards. 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. Not a 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 lover's 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 in Newman, 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? Once, said Mrs. Cole Mortimer, who had not been east of Kat 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 worthwhile 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. Morden will drive you out. He knows the road very well, and you ought not to take anybody but an experienced driver. I have a permiss for the car to pass the Frontier. You will probably meet Father in San Remo. He is taking a motorcycle trip, aren't you, Daddy? Mr. Brigelin drew a long breath and nodded. He was beginning to understand. End of Chapter 33 Chapter 34 of The Angel of Terror This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org The Angel of Terror by Edgar Wallace Chapter 34 There was lying in Monaco Harbor 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. 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 shot. 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 for was probably based on the experience of a party of young roisters 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-hour 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 caveman method of wooing had made a big impression upon him, emphasized 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 youth had 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 seances had been counterbalanced by heavy losses at the public tables. It is a known fact that people who live outside the law keep to their own playing. The swindler very rarely commits acts of violence. The burglar who practices card-sharping as a sideline is virtually unknown. Mr. Stetney 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 caveman's suggestion appealed to him. He had a way with women of a certain kind, and if his confidence had been rather shaken by Jean 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 petit de june and she was painfully surprised to see him. I'm not swimming today, Mr. Stetney, she said, and you don't look as if you were either. He was dressed imperfectly 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 in a special 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 lover's 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 yachts of the girl, and Jean smiled. I'm glad you called it a yacht, she said, dryly. You're the second person who has so described it. The first was the agent. Take her to Maro 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 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 to anglice. I don't like that fellow. I shouldn't let him know, said Jean Cooley. 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 kilometer. 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. 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 Morden 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. 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 merited? 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 lover's 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 lover's 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. 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. End of Chapter 34 Chapter 35 of The Angel of Terror This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Angel of Terror by Edgar Wallace Chapter 35 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 into Monte Carlo, said Jean. 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 from 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. He didn't wish to speak to him. Good heavens know, 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 Morden, 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 in her 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 into Monte Carlo, said the voice. Her car has not been seen on the road. 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 taxi cab 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 gray hair to his dusty shoes, and then she pointed to a chair. Sit down, she said, and old Jaggs obeyed. He's 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 pretenses, she said, because Mrs. Meredith isn't here at all. Not here, he said, half-rising. No, she's gone for a ride with our chauffeur. But I wanted to see you, Mr. Jaggs, because— She paused. I realized 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 Morden 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, Morden 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 Morden. He sprang to his feet. It's a damn 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 dream-briggerland that of one hair of that girl's head is harmed. I will finish the work I began out there. He pointed to the garden and strangled you with my own hands. She lifted her eyes to his and dropped them again, and began to tremble. Then, turning suddenly on her heels, she fled to her room, 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 around the room for some way of escape, and then, as a thought-strucker, she ran quickly into the bathroom, 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 realized what was happening, the sponge was pressed against his face. The pungent drug almost blinded him. Its paralyzing fumes brought him onto his knees. He gripped her wrists, 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 amazing single hand to 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. He 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 Jag's Glitch.