 CHAPTER 12 Mr. Brickerland, it seemed, had some other object in life than the regeneration of the criminal classes. He was a sociologist, a loose title which covers a great deal of inquisitive investigation into other people's affairs. Moreover he had published a book on the subject. His name was on the title page, and the book had been reviewed to his credit, though in truth he did no more than suggest the title, the work in question having been carried out by a writer on the subject who, for a consideration, had allowed Mr. Brickerland to adopt the child of his brain. On a morning when pale yellow sunlight brightened his dining-room, Mr. Brickerland put down his newspaper and looked across the table at his daughter. He had a club in the east end of London, and his manager had telephoned that morning, sending a somewhat unhappy report. Do you remember that man Talmit, my dear, he asked? She nodded and looked up quickly. Yes, what about him? He's in hospital, said Mr. Brickerland. I fear that he and Huggins were engaged in some nefarious plan, and that in making an attempt to enter, as of course they had no right to enter, a block of flats and cavendish place, poor Talmit slipped and fell from the fourth floor window sill breaking his leg. Huggins had to carry him to hospital. The girl reached for bacon from the hot plate. He should have broken his neck, she said calmly. I suppose now the police are making tender inquiries. No, no, Mr. Brickerland hastened to assure her. Nobody knows anything about it, not even the fortunate occupant of the flat they were evidently trying to burgle. I only learned of it because the manager of the club, who gets information of this character, thought I would be interested. Anyway, I'm glad they didn't succeed, said Jean after a while. The possibility of their trying rather worried me. The Huggins type is such a bungler that it was almost certain they would fail. It was a curious fact that whilst her father made the most guarded references to all their exploits and clothed them with garments of euphemism his daughter never attempted any such disguise. The psychologist would find in Mr. Brickerland's reticence the embryo of a once dominant rectitude, no trace of which remained in his daughter's moral equipment. I have been trying to place this man jagged, she went on with a little puzzled frown, and he completely baffles me. He arrives every night in a taxi cab, sometimes from St. Pancras, sometimes from Houston, sometimes from London Bridge Station. Do you think he is a detective? I don't know, she said thoughtfully. If he is, he has been imported from the provinces. He is not a Scotland yard man. He may, of course, be an old police pensioner, and I have been trying to trace him from that source. It should not be difficult to find out all about him, said Mr. Brickerland easily. A man with his affliction should be pretty well known. He looked at his watch. My appointment at Norwood is at eleven o'clock, he said. He made a little grimace of disgust. Would you rather I went, asked the girl. Mr. Brickerland would much rather that she had undertaken the disagreeable experience which lay before him, but he dare not confess as much. You my dear, of course not. I would not allow you to have such an experience. No, no, I don't mind it a bit. Nevertheless he tossed down two long glasses of brandy before he left. His car set him down before the iron gates of a squat and ugly stucco building surrounded by high walls, and the uniform detendent having examined his credentials admitted him. He had to wait a little while before a second detendent arrived to conduct him to the medical superintendent, an elderly man who did not seem overwhelmed with joy at the honour Mr. Brickerland was paying him. I'm sorry I shan't be able to show you round, Mr. Brickerland, he said. I have an engagement in town, but my assistant, Dr. Caru, will conduct you over the asylum and give you all the information you require. This, of course, as you know, is a private institution. I should have thought you would have got more material for your book in one of the big public asylums. The people who are sent to Norwood, you know, are not the mild cases, and you will see some rather terrible sights. You are prepared for that? Mr. Brickerland nodded. He was prepared, to the extent of two full noggins of brandy. Moreover, he was well aware that Norwood was the asylum to which the more dangerous of lunatics were transferred. Dr. Caru proved to be a young and enthusiastic alienist whose heart and soul was in his work. I suppose you are prepared to see jumpy things, he said with a smile as he conducted Mr. Brickerland along a stone-vaulting corridor. He opened a steel gate, the bars of which were encased with thick layers of rubber, crossed a grassy plot, there were no stone-flagged paths at Norwood, and entered one of the three buildings which constituted the asylum proper. It was a harrowing heart-breaking, and to some extent a disappointing experience for Mr. Brickerland. True, his heart did not break because it was made of infrangible material, and his disappointment was counterbalanced by a certain vague relief. At the end of two hours' inspection they were standing out in the big playing fields, watching the less violent of the patients wandering aimlessly about. Except one they were unattended by keepers, but in the case of this one man two stalwart uniformed men walked on either side of him. Who is he? asked Brickerland. That is rather a sad case, said the alieness cheerfully. He had pointed out many sad cases in the same bright manner. He is a doctor and a genuine homicide. Luckily they detected him before he did any mischief, or he would have been embroiled more. Aren't you ever afraid of these men escaping? asked Mr. Brickerland. You asked that before, said the doctor in surprise. No. You see, an insane asylum is not like a prison. To make a good getaway from prison you have to have outside assistance. Nobody wants to help a lunatic escape. Otherwise it would be easier than getting out of prison because we have no patrols in the grounds. The wards can be opened from the outside without a key and the night patrol who visits the wards every half hour has no time for any other observation. Would you like to talk to Dr. Thun? Mr. Brickerland hesitated only for a second. Yes, he said huskily. There was nothing in the appearance of the patient to suggest that he was in any way dangerous. A fair bearded man with pale blue eyes he held out his hand impulsively to the visitor, and after a momentary hesitation Mr. Brickerland took it and found his hand in a grip like a vice. The two attendants exchanged glances with the asylum doctor and strolled off. I think you can talk to him without fear, said the doctor in a low voice. Not so low, however, that the patient did not hear it for he left. Without fear, favor, or prejudice, eh? Yes, that was how they swore the officers at my court-martial. The doctor was the general who was responsible for the losses at Caporetto, explained Dr. Corru. That was where the Italians lost so heavily. Thun nodded. Of course I was perfectly innocent, he explained to Brickerland seriously, and taking the visitor's arm he strolled across the field, the doctor and the two attendants following at a distance. Mr. Brickerland breathed a little more quickly as he felt the strength of the patient's biceps. My conviction, said Dr. Thun seriously, was due to the fact that women were sitting on the court-martial, which is, of course, against all regulations. Certainly murmured Mr. Brickerland. Keeping me here, Thun went on, is part of the plot of the Italian government. Naturally they do not wish me to get at my enemies, who I have every reason to believe are in London. Mr. Brickerland drew a long breath. They are in London, he said a little hoarsely. I happen to know where they are. Really? said the other easily, and then a cloud passed over his face and he shook his head. They are safe from my vengeance, he said a little sadly. As long as they keep me in this place pretending that I am mad, there is no possible chance for me. The visitor looked round and saw that the three men who were following were out of earshot. Suppose I came to-morrow night, he said, lowering his voice, and helped you to get away. What is your ward? Number six, said the other in the same tone, his eyes were blazing. Do you think you will remember? asked Brickerland. Thun nodded. You will come to-morrow night. Number six, the first cubicle on the left, he whispered. You will not fail me if I thought you'd fail me. His eyes lit up again. I shall not fail you, said Mr. Brickerland hastily. When the clock strikes twelve you may expect me. You must be Marshall Fock, murmured Thun, and then with all a madman's cunning changed the conversation as the doctor in the attendance who had noticed his excitement drew nearer. Believe me, Mr. Brickerland, he went on airily. The strategy of the allies was at fault until I took up command of the army. Ten minutes later Mr. Brickerland was in his car, driving homeward. A little breathless, more than a little terrified at the unpleasant task he had set himself. Jubilant, too, at his amazing success. Gene had said he might have to visit a dozen assailants before he found his opportunity in the right man, and he had succeeded at the first attempt. Yet he shuddered at the picture he conjured. That climb over the high wall he had already located the ward for he had followed the general in the attendance and had seen him safely put away. The midnight association with a madman. He burst in upon Gene with his news. At the first attempt, my dear, what do you think of that? His dark face glowed with almost childish pride, and she looked at him with a half smile. I thought she would, she said quietly. That's the rough work done at any rate. The rough work, he said indignantly. She nodded. Half the difficulty is going to be to cover up your visit to the asylum, because this man is certain to mention your name, and it will not all be dismissed as the imagination of a madman. Now I think I will make my promise call upon Mrs. Meredith. There was one thing which rather puzzled an almost piqued Lydia Meredith, and that was the failure of Gene Briggerland's prophecy to materialize. Gene had said half jestingly that Jack Glover would be a frequent visitor at the flat, in point of fact he did not come at all. Even when she visited the offices of Renet Glover and Simpson it was Mr. Renet who attended to her, and Jack was invisible. Mr. Renet sometimes explained that he was at the courts, for Jack did all the court work. Sometimes that he had gone home. She caught a glimpse of him once as she was driving past the law courts in the Strand. He was standing on the pavement talking to a bewigged council, so possibly Mr. Renet had not stated more than the truths when he said that the young man's time was mostly occupied by the processes of litigation. She was curious enough to look through the telephone directory to discover where he lived. There were about fifty Glovers, and ten of these were John Glovers, and she was enough of a woman to call up six of the most likely only to discover that her Mr. Glover was not amongst them. She did not know till later that his full name was Bertram John Glover, or she might have found his address without difficulty. Mrs. Morgan had now arrived to Lydia's infinite relief and had taken control of the household affairs. The new maid was as perfect as a new maid could be, and but for the nightly intrusion of the taciturn jags to whom for some reason Mrs. Morgan took a liking, the current of her domestic life ran smoothly. She was already becoming accustomed to the possession of wealth. The habit of being rich is one of the easiest acquired, and she found herself negotiating for a little house in Curzon Street and a more pretentious establishment in Somerset with a samfoie which astonished and frightened her. The purchase and arrival of her first car and the engagement of her chauffeur had been a thrilling experience. It was incredible too that her new bankers should without hesitation deliver to her enormous sums of money at the mere of fixing of her signature to an oblong slip of paper. She had even gotten over the panicked feeling which came to her on her first few visits to the bank. On these earlier occasions she had felt rather like an inexpert forger who was endeavoring to get money by false pretense, and it was both a relief and a wonder to her when the nonchalant cashier thrust thick wads of banknotes under the grill without so much ascending for a policeman. It's a lovely flat, said Jing Briggerland, looking round the pink drawing room approvingly, but of course, my dear, this is one that was already furnished for you. I'm dying to see what you will make of your own home when you get one. She had telephoned that morning to Lydia saying that she was paying a call, asking if it was convenient, and the two girls were alone. It is a nice flat, and I shall be sorry to leave it, agreed Lydia. It is so extraordinarily quiet I sleep like a top. There is no noise to disturb one, except that there was rather an unpleasant happening the other morning. What was that? asked Jing during her tea. I don't know really what happened, said Lydia. I heard an awful groaning very early in the morning, and I got up and looked out of the window. There were two men in the courtyard. One, I think, had hurt himself very badly. I never discovered what happened. They must have been workmen, I should think, said Jing, or else they were drunk. Personally, I have never liked taking furnished flats, she went on. One always breaks things, and there's such a big bill to pay at the end. And then I always lose the keys. One usually has two or three. You should be very careful about that, my dear. They make an enormous charge for lost keys, she prattled on. I think the house agent gave me three, said Lydia. She walked to her little secretary, opened it, and pulled out a drawer. Yes, three, she said. There's one here, one I carry, and Mrs. Morgan has one. Have you seen Jack Glover lately? Jing never pursued an inquiry too far, by so much as one syllable. No, I haven't seen him, smiled Lydia. You weren't a good prophet. I expect he is busy, said the girl carelessly. I think I could like Jack awfully if he hadn't such a passion for ordering people about. Oh, how careless of me. She had tipped over her teacup and its contents were running across the little tea-table. She pulled out her handkerchief quickly and tried to stop the flow. Oh, please, please don't spoil your beautiful handkerchief, said Lydia, rising hurriedly. I'll get a duster. She ran out of the room and was back almost immediately to find Jean standing with her back to the secretary examining the ruins of her late handkerchief with a smile. Let me put your handkerchief in water or it will be stained, said Lydia, putting on her hand. I would rather do it myself, laughed Jean Brickerland, and pushed the handkerchief into her bag. There were many reasons why Lydia should not handle that flimsy piece of camberkin lace, the most important of which was the key which Jean had taken from the secretary in Lydia's absence and had rolled inside the tea-stained handkerchief. A few days later Mr. Bertram John Glover interviewed a high official at Scotland Yard and the interview was not a particularly satisfactory one to the lawyer. It might have been worse had not the police commissioner been a friend of Jack's partner. The official listened patiently whilst the lawyer, with professional skill, marshaled all his facts, attaching to them the suspicions which had matured to convictions. I have sat in this chair for twenty-five years, said the head of the CID, and I have heard stories which beat the best and the worst of detective's stories hollow. I have listened to cranks, amateur detectives, crooks, Parsons, and expert fictionists, but never in my experience have I heard anything quite so improbable as your theory. It happens that I have met Brickerland, and I've met his daughter too, and a more beautiful girl I don't think it has been my pleasure to meet. Jack groaned. Aren't you feeling well? asked the chief, unpleasantly. I am all right, sir, said Jack. Only I am so tired of hearing about Jean Brickerland's beauty. It doesn't seem a very good argument to oppose to the facts. Facts, said the other scornfully. What facts have you given us? The fact of the Brickerland's history, said Jack desperately. Brickerland was broke when he married Miss Meredith under the impression that he would get a fortune with his wife. He has lived by his wits all his life, and until this girl was about fifteen they were existing in a state of poverty. They lived in a tiny house in Ealing, the rent of which was always in arrears, and then Brickerland became acquainted with a rich Australian of middle age who was crazy about his daughter. The rich Australian died suddenly. From an overdose of Virenol, said the chief, it was established at the inquest—I got all the documents out after I received your letter—that he was in the habit of taking Virenol. You suggest he was murdered? If he was, for what? He left the girl about six thousand pounds. Brickerland thought she was going to get it all, said Jack. That is conjecture, interrupted the chief. Go on. Brickerland moved up west, Jack went on, and when the girl was seventeen she made the acquaintance of a man named Gunnsbury, who went just as mad about her. Gunnsbury was a Midland merchant with a wife and family. He was so infatuated with her that he collected all the loose money he could lay his hands on, some twenty five thousand pounds, and bolded to the continent. The girl was supposed to have gone on ahead and he was to join her at Calais. He never reached Calais. The theory was that he jumped overboard. His body was found and brought into Dover. But there was none of the money in his possession that he had drawn from the Midland's bank. That's a theory, too, said the chief, shaking his head. The identity of the girl was never established. It was known that she was a friend of Gunnsbury's, but there's no proof that she was in London on the night of his death. It was a clear case of suicide. A year later, Jack went on, she forced a meeting with Meredith, her cousin. His father had just died, Jim had come back from Central Africa to put things in order. He was not a woman's man and was a grave retiring sort of fellow who had no other interest in life than his shooting. The story of Meredith, you know. And is that all, asked the chief politely? All the facts I can gather. There must be other cases which are beyond the power of the investigator to unearth. And what do you expect me to do? Jack smiled. I don't expect you to do anything, he said frankly. You are not exactly supporting my views with enthusiasm. The chief rose a signal that the interview was at an end. I'd like to help you if you had any real need for help, he said, but when you come to me and tell me that Miss Briggerland, a girl whose innocence shows in her face, is a heartless criminal and murderous and a conspirator, why, Mr. Glover, what do you expect me to say? I expect you to give adequate protection to Mrs. Meredith, said Jack sharply. I expect you, sir, to remember that I've warned you that Mrs. Meredith may die one of those accidental deaths in which Mr. and Miss Briggerland specialise. I'm going to put my warning in black and white, and if anything happens to Lydia Meredith, there is going to be serious trouble on the Tim's embankment. The chief touched a bell and a constable came in. Show Mr. Glover the way out, he said stiffly. Jack had calmed down considerably by the time he reached the Tim's embankment and was inclined to be annoyed with himself for losing his temper. He stopped a newsboy, took a paper from his hand, and hailing a cab drove to his office. There was little in the early edition save the sporting news, but on the front page a paragraph arrested his eye. Dangerous lunatic at large. The medical superintendent at Norwood Asylum reports that Dr. Elgin and John Thunn, an inmate of the asylum, escaped last night and is believed to be at large in the neighbourhood. Search parties have been organised, but no trace of the man has been found. He is known to have homicidal tendencies, a fact which renders his immediate recapture a very urgent necessity. There followed a description of the wanted man. Jack turned to another part of the paper and dismissed the paragraph from his mind. His partner, however, was to bring the matter up at lunch. Norwood Asylum was near Dulwich and Mr. Wrennit was pardonably concerned. The women folk at my house are scared to death, he said at lunch. They won't go out at night and they keep all the doors locked. How did your interview with the commissioner go on? We parted the worst of friends, said Jack, and Wrennit, the next man who talks to me about Jim Briggerlin's beautiful face, is going to be killed dead through it, even though I have to take a leaf from her book and employ the grisly jags to do it. End of Chapter 13 Chapter 14 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 14 That night the grisly jags was later than usual. Lydia heard him shuffling along the passage and presently the door of his room closed with a click. She was sitting at the piano and had stopped playing at the sound of his knock, and when Mrs. Morgan came in to announce his arrival, she closed the piano and swung round on the music stool a look of determination on her delicate face. He's come, Miss. And for the last time, said Lydia ominously, Mrs. Morgan, I can't stand that weird old gentleman any longer. He has got on my nerves so that I could scream when I think of him. He's not a bad old gentleman, excuse Mrs. Morgan. I'm not so worried about his moral character, and I dare say that it is perfectly blameless, said Lydia determinedly, but I have written a note to Mr. Glover to tell him that I really must dispense with his services. What's he here for, Miss? asked Mrs. Morgan. Her curiosity had been aroused, but this was the first time she had given it expression. He's here because—Lydia hesitated. Well, because Mr. Glover thinks I ought to have a man in the house to look after me. Why, Miss? asked the startled woman. You better ask Mr. Glover that question, said Lydia grimly. She was beginning to chafe under the sense of restraint. She was being school-marmed, she thought. No girl likes the ostentatious protection of the big brother or the headmistress. The soul of the schoolgirl yearns to break from the crocodile in which she is marched to church and to school, and this sensation of being marshaled and ordered about and of living her life according to a third person's program—and that third person a man—urked her horribly. Old Jax was the outward invisible sign of Jack Glover's unwarranted authority, and slowly there was creeping into her mind a suspicion that Jean Briggerland might not have been mistaken when she spoke of Jax's penchant for ordering people about. Life was growing bigger for her. She had broken down the barriers which had confined her to a narrow promenade between office and home. The hours which she had had to devote to work were now entirely free and she could sketch or paint whenever the fancy took her, which was not very often, though she promised herself a period of hard work when once she was settled down. Toward the good-looking young lawyer her point of view had shifted. She hardly knew herself how she regarded him. He irritated. And yet in some indefinable way pleased her. His sincerity? She did not doubt his sincerity. She admitted to herself that she wished he would call a little more frequently than he did. He might have persuaded her that Jax was a necessary evil, but he hadn't even taken the trouble to come. Therefore, but this she did not admit, Jax must go. I don't think the old gentleman's quite right in his head, you know, sometimes, said Mrs. Morgan. Why ever not, Mrs. Morgan, asked the girl in surprise. I often hear him sniggering to himself as I go past his door. I suppose he stays in his room all night, Miss. He doesn't, said the girl emphatically, and that's why he's going. I heard him in the passage at two o'clock this morning. I'm getting into such a state of nerves that the slightest sound awakens me. He had his boots off and was creeping about in his stockings, and when I went out and switched the light on, he bolded back to his room. I can't have that sort of thing going on, and I won't. It's altogether too creepy. Mrs. Morgan agreed. Lydia had not been out in the evening for several days, she remembered, as she began to undress for the night. The weather had been unpleasant, and to stay in the warm comfortable flat was no great hardship. Even if she had gone out, Jags would have accompanied her, she thought ironically. And then she had a little twinge of conscience, remembering that Jag's presence on a memorable afternoon had saved her from destruction. She wondered for the twentieth time what was old Jag's history and where Jag had found him. Once she had been tempted to ask Jags himself, but the old man had fenced with the question and had talked vaguely of having worked in the country, and she was as wise as she had been before. But she must get rid of old Jags, she thought, as she switched off the light and kicked out the innumerable water-bottles with which Mrs. Morgan, in mistaken kindness, had encumbered the bed. Old Jags must go. He was a nuisance. She woke with a start from a dreamless sleep. The clock in the hall was striking three. She realized this subconsciously. Her eyes were fixed on the window which was open at the bottom. Mrs. Morgan had pulled it down at the top, but now it was wide open, and her heart began to thump, thump rapidly. Jags! He was her first thought. She would never have believed that she could have thought of that old man with such a warm glow of thankfulness. There was nothing to be seen. The storm of the early night had passed over, and a faint light came into the room from the waning moon, and then she saw the curtains move and opened her mouth to scream. But fear had paralyzed her voice, and she lay staring at the hangings, incapable of movement or sound. As she watched the curtain she saw it move again, and a shape appeared faintly against the gloomy background. The spell was broken. She swung herself out of the opposite side of the bed and raced to the door. But the man was before her, before she could scream a big hand, gripped her throat and flung her back against the rail of the bed. Horrified! She stared into the cruel face that leered down at her and felt the grip tighten. And then as she looked into the face she saw a sudden grimace and sensed the terror in his eyes. The hand relaxed. He bubbled something thickly and fell sideways against the bed. And now she saw. A man had come through the doorway, a tall man with a fair beard, and eyes that danced with insane joy. He came slowly toward her, wiping on his cuff the long-handled knife that had sent her assailant to the floor. He was mad. She knew it instinctively, and remembered in a hazy, confused way a paragraph she had read about an escaped lunatic. She tried to dash past him to the open door, but he caught her in the crook of his left arm and pressed her to him, towering head and shoulders over her. You have no right to sit in a court-martial, madam. He said with uncanny politeness, and at that moment the light in the room was switched on and jags appeared in the doorway. His bearded lips parted in an ugly grin, a long-barreled pistol in his left hand. Drop your knife, he said, or I'll drop you. The mad doctor turned his head slowly and frowned at the intruder. Good morning, general, he said calmly. You came in time. And he threw the knife onto the ground. We will try her according to regulations. End of Chapter 14 Chapter 15 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 15 A Tragic Affair in the West End Mad Doctor wounds a burglar in a society woman's bedroom. There was an extraordinary and tragic sequel to the escape of Dr. Thun from Norwood Asylum, particulars of which appeared in our early edition of yesterday. This morning, at four o'clock, an answer to a telephone call, Detective Sergeant Miller, accompanied by another officer, went to eighty-four Cavendish Mansions, a flat occupied by Mrs. Meredith, and there found and took into custody Dr. Algernon Thun, who had escaped from Norwood Asylum. In the room was also found a man named Hoggins, a person well known to the police. It appears that Hoggins had affected an entrance into Mrs. Meredith's flat, descending from the roof by means of a rope, making his way into the premises through the window of Mrs. Meredith's bedroom. Whilst there he was detected by Mrs. Meredith, who would undoubtedly have been murdered had not Dr. Thun, who in some mysterious manner had gained admission to the flat, intervened. In the struggle that followed, the doctor, who was suffering from the delusion of persecution, severely wounded the man who was not expected to live. He then turned his attention to the lady. Happily, an old man who works at the flat, who was sleeping on the premises at the time, was roused by the sound of the struggle and succeeded in releasing the lady from the maniacal grasp of the intruder. The wounded burglar was removed to hospital, and the lunatic was taken to the police station and was afterwards sent under a strong guard to the asylum from whence he had escaped. He made a rambling statement to the police to the effect that General Fock had assisted his escape and had directed him to the home of his persecutors. Jean Briggerland put down the paper and laughed. It is nothing to snigger about, growled Briggerland savagely. If I didn't laugh, I should do something more emotional, said the girl coolly. To think that that fool should go back and make the attempt single-handed. I never imagined that. Fair tells me that he's not expected to live, said Mr. Briggerland. He rubbed his bald head irritably. I wonder if that lunatic is going to talk. What does it matter if he does, said the girl impatiently? You said the other day, he began. The other day it mattered, my dear father. Today nothing matters very much. I think we have got well out of it. I ignored all the lessons which my textbook teaches when I entrusted work to other hands. Jags, she said softly. Eh, said the father. I'm repeating a well-beloved name. She smiled and rose, folding her serviette. I am going for a long run in the country. Would you like to come? Morden is very enthusiastic about the new car, the bill for which, by the way, came in this morning. Have we any money? A few thousands, said her father, rubbing his chin. Jean, we shall have to sell something unless things brighten. Jean's lips twitched, but she said nothing. On her way to the open road she called at Cavendish Mansions and was neither surprised nor discomfited to discover that Jack Glover was there. My dear, she said, warmly clasping both the girl's hands in hers. I was so shocked when I read the news, how terrible it must have been for you. Lydia was looking pale and there were dark shadows under her eyes, but she treated the matter cheerfully. I've just been trying to explain to Mr. Glover what happened. Unfortunately the wonderful Jags is not here. He knows more about it than I, for I collapsed in the most feminine way. How did he get in? I mean, this madman, asked the girl. Through the door it was Jack who answered. It is the last way in the world a lunatic would enter a flat, isn't it? He came in with a key and he was brought here by somebody who struck a match to make sure it was the right number. He might have struck the match himself, said Jean, but you're so clever that you would not say a thing like that unless you had proof. We found two matches in the hall outside, said Jack, and when Dr. Thun was searched no matches were found on him. And I have since learnt that like most homicidal lunatics he had a horror of fire in any form. The doctor to whom I have been talking is absolutely sure that he would not have struck the match himself. Oh, by the way, Miss Briggerland, your father met this unfortunate man. I understand he paid a visit to the asylum a few days ago. Yes, he did, she answered without hesitation. He was talking about him this morning. You see, father has been making a tour of the asylums. He is writing a book about such things. Father was horrified when he heard the man had escaped because the doctor told him that he was a particularly dangerous lunatic. But who would have imagined he would have turned up here? Her big sad eyes were fixed on Jack as she shook her head in wonder. If one had read that in a book one would never have believed it would one. And the man Hoggins, said Jack, who did not share her wonder. He was by way of being an acquaintance of yours, a member of your father's club, wasn't he? She knit her brows. I don't remember the name, but if he is a very bad character, she said with a little smile. I should say distinctly that he was a member of father's club. Poor Daddy, I don't think he will ever regenerate the East End. I don't think he will, agreed Jack heartily. The question is whether the East End will ever regenerate him. A slow smile dawned on her face. How unkind, she said, mockery in her eyes now. I wonder why you dislike him so. He is so very harmless, really. My dear, she turned to the girl with a gesture of helplessness. I'm afraid that even in this affair Mr. Glover is seeing my sinister influence. You're the most unsinister person I have ever met, Jean, laughed Lydia, and Mr. Glover doesn't really think all these horrid things. Doesn't he? said Jean Softly, and Jack saw that she was shaking with laughter. There was a certain deadly humor in the situation which tickled him too, and he grinned. I wish to heaven you get married and settle down, Ms. Briggerland, he said, unconsciously. It was her chance. She shook her head, the lips drooped, the eyes again grew moist with the pain she could call to them at will. I wish I could, she said in a tone a little above a whisper, but Jack, I could never marry you. Never. She left Jack Glover bereft of speech, totally incapable of arousing so much as a moan. Lydia, returning from escorting her visitor to the door, saw his embarrassment and checked his impulsive explanation a little coldly. I—I believed you when you said it wasn't true, Mr. Glover, she said, and there was a reproach in her tone, for which she hated herself afterwards. End of Chapter 15 CHAPTER 16 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 16 Lydia had promised to go to the theatre that night with Mrs. Cole Mortimer, and she was glad of the excuse to leave her tragic home. Mrs. Cole Mortimer, who was not lavish in the matter of entertainment that cost money, had a box, and although Lydia had seen the piece before, it was in fact the very place she had attended to sketch dresses on the night of her adventure, it was a relief to sit in silence, which her hostess, with singular discretion, did not attempt to disturb. It was during the last act that Mrs. Cole Mortimer gave her an invitation, which she accepted joyfully. I've got a house at Cap Martin, said Mrs. Cole Mortimer. It is only a tiny place, but I think you would rather like it. I hate going to the Riviera alone, so if you care to come as my guest, I shall be most happy to chaperone you. They are bringing my yacht down to Monaco, so we ought to have a really good time. Lydia accepted the yacht and the house as she had accepted the invitation, without question. That the yacht had been chartered that morning, and the house hired by Telegram on the previous day she could not be expected to guess. For all she knew Mrs. Mortimer might be a very wealthy woman, and in her wildest dreams she did not imagine that Jean Briggerland had provided the money for both. It had not been a delicate negotiation, because Mrs. Cole Mortimer had the skin of a pachyderm. A hint dropped by Jean that there was somebody on the Riviera whom she desired to meet without her father's knowledge, accompanied by the plain statement that she would pay all expenses, was quite sufficient for Mrs. Cole Mortimer, and she had fallen in with her patron's views as readily as she had agreed to pose as a friend of Meredith's. To do her justice she had the faculty of believing in her own invention, and she was quite satisfied that James Meredith had been a great personal friend of hers, just as she would believe that the house on the Riviera and the little steam yacht had been procured out of her own purse. It was harder for her, however, to explain the great system which she was going to work in Monte Carlo, and which was to make everybody's fortune. Lydia, who was no gambler and only mildly interested in games of chance, displayed so little evidence of interest in the scheme that Mrs. Cole Mortimer groaned her despair, not knowing that she was expected to do no more than stir the soil for the crop which Jean Briggerland would plant and reap. They went on to supper at one of the clubs, and Lydia thought with amusement of poor old Jags, who apparently took his job very seriously indeed. Again her angle of vision had shifted, and her respect for the old man had overcome any annoyance his uncouth presence brought to her. As she alighted at the door of the club she looked round half expecting to see him. The club entrance was up a side street, off Lester Square, an ill-lit thoroughfare which favoured Mr. Jag's retiring methods, but there was no sign of him, and she did not wait in the drizzling night to make any closer inspection. Mrs. Cole Mortimer had not disguised the possibility of Jean Briggerland being at the club, and they found her with a gay party of young people sitting in one of the recesses. Jean made a place for the girl by her side and introduced her to half a dozen people whose names Lydia did not catch and never afterwards remembered. Mr. Marcus Stepney, however, that sleek, dark man who bowed over her hand and seemed as though he were going to kiss it, she had met before, and her second impression of him was even less favourable than the first. "'Do you dance?' asked Jean. A jazz band was playing an infectious two-step. At the girl's nod Jean beckoned one of her party, a tall, handsome boy who throughout the subsequent dance babbled into Lydia's ear an incessant peon in praise of Jean Briggerland. Lydia was amused. Of course, she is very beautiful, she said in answer to the interminable repetition of his question. I think she's lovely." "'That's what I say,' said the young man whom she discovered was Lord Stoker. The most amazingly beautiful creature on the earth, I think. Of course, you're awfully good-looking too,' he blundered, and Lydia laughed aloud. "'But she's got enemies,' said the young man viciously, and if ever I meet that infernal cag-glover, he'll be sorry.' The smile left Lydia's face. Mr. Glover is a friend of mine,' she said a little quickly. "'Sorry,' he mumbled. But does Miss Briggerland say he is so very bad?' "'Of course not. She never says a word against him, really. His lordship hastened to exonerate his idol. She just says she doesn't know how long she's going to stand his persecutions. It breaks one's heart to see how sad this—your friend makes her.'" Lydia was a very thoughtful girl for the rest of the evening. She was beginning, in a hazy way, to see things which she had not seen before. Of course, Jean never said anything against Jack Glover. And yet she had succeeded in arousing this youth defury against the lawyer. And Lydia realized with a sense of amazement that Jean had also made her feel bad about Jack. And yet she had said nothing but sweet things. When she got back to the flat that night she found that Mr. Jaggs had not been there all the evening. He came in a few minutes after her wrapped in an old army coat, and from his appearance she gathered that he had been standing out in the rain and sleep the whole of the evening. Why, Jaggs, she said impulsively, wherever have you been? Just dodging round, Miss, he cretted. Having a look at the little ducks in the pond. You've been outside the theatre, and you've been waiting outside Nero's club, she said accusingly. Don't know it, Miss, he said. One theatre is as much like another one to me. You must take your things off and let Mrs. Morgan dry your clothes, she insisted, but he would not hear of this, compromising only with stripping his sodden great coat. He disappeared into his dark room, there to ruminate upon such matters as appeared of interest to him. A bed had been placed for him, but only once had he slept on it. After the flat grew still and the last click of a switch told that the last light had been extinguished, he opened the door softly, and carrying a chair in his hand, he placed this gently with its back to the front door, and there he sat in doze throughout the night. When Lydia woke the next morning, he was gone as usual. ANGEL OF TERROR by Edgar Wallace Lydia had plenty to occupy her days. The house in Curson Street had been bought, and she had been a round of furnishers, paper hangers, and fitters of all variety. The trip to the Riviera came at the right moment. She could leave Mrs. Morgan in charge and come back to her new home, which was to be ready in two months. Amongst other things, the problem of the watchful Mr. Jags would be settled automatically. She spoke to him that night when he came. By the way, Mr. Jags, I am going to the south of France next week. A pretty place by all accounts? Volunteered Mr. Jags. A lovely place by all accounts, repeated Lydia with a smile. And you're going to have a holiday, Mr. Jags. By the way, what am I to pay you? The gentleman pays me, miss, said Mr. Jags with a sniff. The lawyer, gentlemen. Well, he must continue paying you whilst I am away, said the girl. I am very grateful to you, and I want to give you a little present before I go. Is there anything you would like, Mr. Jags? Mr. Jags rubbed his beard, scratched his head, and thought he would like a pipe. Though, bless you, miss, I don't want any present. You shall have the very best pipe I can buy, said the girl. It seems very inadequate. I'd rather have a briar, miss, said old Jags, mistakenly. He was on duty until the morning she left, and although she rose early, he had gone. She was disappointed, for she had not given him the handsome case of pipe she had bought, and she wanted to thank him. She felt she had acted rather meanly towards him. She owed her life to him, twice. Didn't you see him go, she asked Mrs. Morgan? No, miss, the stout housekeeper's sugarhead. I was up at six, and he'd gone then, but he'd left his chair in the passage. I've got an idea that's where he slept, miss, if he slept at all. Poor old man, said the girl gently. I haven't been very kind to him, have I? And I do owe him such a lot. Maybe he'll turn up again, said Mrs. Morgan, hopefully. She had the mother feeling for the old, which is one of the beauties of her class, and she regretted Lydia's absence probably as much because it would entail the disappearance of old Jags, as for the loss of her mistress. But old Jags did not turn up. Lydia hoped to see him at the station, hovering on the outskirts of the crowd in his furtive way, but she was disappointed. She left by the eleven o'clock train, joining Mrs. Cole Mortimer on the station. That lady had arranged to spend a day in Paris, and the girl was not sorry, after a somewhat bad crossing of the English Channel, that she had not to continue her journey through the night. The South of France was to be a revelation to her. She had no conception of the extraordinary change of climate and vegetation that could be experienced in one country. She passed from a drizzly bedraggled Paris into a land of sunshine and gentle breezes, from the bare sullen lands of the champagne into a country where flowers grew by the side of the railway and that in February to a semi-tropic land fragrant with flowers, to white beaches by a blue lazy sea and a sky over all unflecked by clouds. It took her breath away the beauty of it, and the scents and genial warmth of it, the trees laden with lemons, the wisteria on the walls, the white dust on the road, and the glory of the golden mimosa that scented the air with its rare and lovely perfume. They left the train at Nice and drove along the grand Corniche. Mrs. Cole Mortimer had a call to make in Monte Carlo, and the girl sat back in the car and drank in the beauty of this delicious spot whilst her hostess interviewed the house agent. Surely the place must be kept under glass. It looks so fresh and clean and free from stain. The casino disappointed her. It was a place of plaster and stucco, and did not seem built for permanent use. They drove back part of the way they had come onto the peninsula of Cat Martin, and she had a glimpse of beautiful villas between the pines and queer little roads that led into mysterious dels. Presently the car drew up before a good-looking house. Even Mrs. Cole Mortimer was surprised into an expression of her satisfaction at the side of it. Lydia, who thought that this was Mrs. Cole Mortimer's own domain, was delighted. You are lucky to have a beautiful home like this, Mrs. Cole Mortimer, she said. It must be heavenly living here. The habit of wealth had not been so well acquired that she could realize that she also could have a beautiful house if she wished. She thought of that later. Nor did she expect to find Jean Briggerland there, and Mr. Briggerland, too, sitting on a big cane chair on the veranda overlooking the sea and smoking a cigar of peace. Mrs. Cole Mortimer had been very careful to avoid all mention of Jean on the journey. Didn't I tell you they would be here, she said, in careless amazement? Why, of course, dear Jean left two days before we did. It makes such a nice little party. Do you play bridge? Lydia did not play bridge, but was willing to be taught. She spent the remaining hour of daylight exploring the ground, which led down to the road which fringed the sea. She could look across at the lights already beginning to twinkle at Monte Carlo, to the white yachts lying off Monaco, and farther along the coast to a little cluster of lights that stood for Boulot. It is glorious, she said, drawing a long breath. Mrs. Cole Mortimer, who had accompanied her in her stroll, purred the purr of the pleased patron whose protege has been thankful for favors received. Dinner was a gay meal, for Jean was in her brightest mood. She had a keen sense of fun on her sly little sallies, sometimes aimed at her father, sometimes at Lydia's expense, but more often directed at people in the social world, whose names were household words, kept Lydia in a constant gurgle of laughter. Mrs. Cole Mortimer alone was nervous and ill at ease. She had learned unpleasant news and was not sure whether she should tell the company or keep her secret to herself. In such dilemma weak people take the most sensational course, and presently she had dropped her bombshell. Celeste says that the gardener's little boy has malignant smallpox! She almost wailed. Jean was telling a funny story to the girl who sat by her and did not pause her so much as a second inner narrative. The effect on Mr. Briggerland was, however, wholly satisfactory to Mrs. Cole Mortimer. He pushed back his chair and blinked at his hostess. Smallpox? He said in horror. Here? In Cap Martin? Good God! Did you hear that, Jean? Did I hear what? She asked lazily. About the gardener's little boy? Oh, yes. There's been quite an epidemic on the Italian Riviera. In fact, they closed the front tier last week. But... But here? spluttered Briggerland. Lydia could only look at him in open-eyed amazement. The big man's terror was pitiably apparent. The copper skin had turned to dirty gray. His lower lip was trembling like a frightened child. Why not here? said Jean Cooley. There's nothing to be scared about. Have you been vaccinated recently? She turned to the girl and Lydia shook her head. Not since I was a baby, and then I believe the operation was not a success. Anyway, the child is isolated in the cottage in there, taking him to Nice tonight, said Jean. Poor little fellow, even his own mother has deserted him. Are you going to the casino? she asked. I don't know, replied Lydia. I'm very tired, but I should love to go. Take her, Father, and you go, Margaret. By the time you return the infection will be removed. Won't you come too, asked Lydia? No, I'll stay at home tonight. I turned my ankle today, and it is rather stiff. Father. This time her voice was sharp, menacing, almost, thought Lydia, and Mr. Briggerland made an heroic attempt to recover his self-possession. Sir—certainly, my dear. I shall be delighted—delighted. He saw her alone whilst Lydia was changing in her lovely big dressing-room overlooking the sea. Why didn't you tell me there was smallpox in Cap Martin, he demanded fretfully? Because I didn't know till Margaret relieved her mind at our expense, said his daughter Cooley. I had to say something. Besides, I'd heard one of the maids say that somebody's mother had deserted him. I fitted it in. What a funk you are, Father. I hate the very thought of disease, he growled. Why aren't you coming with us? There's nothing the matter with your ankle. Because I prefer to stay at home. He looked at her suspiciously. Jean, he said in a milder voice, hadn't we better let up on the girl for a bit, until that lunatic doctor affair has blown over? She reached out and took a gold case from his waistcoat pocket, extracted a cigarette, and replaced the case before she spoke. We can't afford to let up, as you call it, for a single hour. Do you realize that any day her lawyer may persuade her to make a will, leaving her money to a home for cats or something equally untouchable? If there was no Jack Glover, we could afford to wait months. And I'm less troubled about him than I am about the man Jags. Father, you will be glad to learn that I am almost afraid of that freakish old man. Neither of them are here, he began. Exactly, said Jean. Neither are here. Lydia had a telegram from him just before dinner, asking if he could come to see her next week. At this moment Lydia returned, and Jean Briggerland eyed her critically. My dear, you look lovely, she said, and kissed her. Mr. Briggerland's nose wrinkled, as it always did when his daughter shocked him. End of Chapter 17 Chapter 18 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 18 Jean Briggerland waited until she heard the sound of the departing car sink to a faint hum. Then she went up to her room, opened the bureau, and took out a long and tightly fitting dust-coat that she wore when she was motoring. She had seen a large bottle of peroxide in Mrs. Cole Mortimer's room. It probably contributed to the dazzling glories of Mrs. Cole Mortimer's hair, but it was also a powerful germicide. She soaked a big silk handkerchief in a basin of water, to which she added a generous quantity of the drug, and squeezing the handkerchief nearly dry she knotted it loosely about her neck. A rubber bathing cap she pulled down over her head and smiled at her queer reflection in the glass. Then she found a pair of kig gloves and drew them on. She turned out the light and went softly down the carpeted stairs. The servants were at their dinner, and she opened the front door and crossed the lawn into a belt of trees, beyond which she knew, for she had been in the house two days, was the gardener's cottage. A dim light burnt in one of the two rooms, and the window was uncurtained. She saw the bed and its tiny occupant, but nobody else was in the room. The maid had said that the mother had deserted the little sufferer, but this was not quite true. The doctor had ordered the mother into isolation, and had sent a nurse from the Infection Hospital to take her place. That lady at the moment was waiting at the end of the avenue for the ambulance to arrive. Jean opened the door and stepped in, pulling up the saturated handkerchief until it covered nose and mouth. The place was deserted, and without a moment's hesitation she lifted the child, wrapped a blanket about it, and crossed the lawn again. She went quietly up the stairs straight to Lydia's room. There was enough light from the dressing room to see the bed, and unwrapping the blanket she pulled back the covers and laid him gently in the bed. The child was unconscious. The hideous marks of the disease had developed with remarkable rapidity, and he made no sound. She sat down in a chair, waiting. Her almost inhuman calm was not ruffled by so much as a second's apprehension. She had provided for every contingency and was ready with a complete explanation whatever happened. Half an hour passed, and then, rising, she wrapped the child in the blanket and carried him back to the cottage. She heard the purr of the motor and footsteps as she flitted back through the trees. First she went to Lydia's room and straightened the bed, spraying the room with the faint perfume which she found on the dressing table. Then she went back again into the garden, stripped off the dust-coat, cap, and handkerchief, rolling them into a bundle which she thrust through the bars of an open window which she knew ventilated a cellar. Last of all, she stripped her gloves and sent them after the bundle. She heard the voices of the nurse and attendant as they carried the child to the ambulance. Poor little kid, she murmured. I hope he gets better. And strangely enough, she meant it. It had been a thrilling evening for Lydia, and she returned to the house at Kat Martin, very tired, but very happy. She was seeing a new world, a world the like of which had never been revealed to her, and though she could have slept, and her head did nod in the car, she roused herself to talk it all over again with a sympathetic Jean. Mrs. Cole Mortimer retired early. Mr. Brigeland had gone up to bed the moment he returned, and Lydia would have been glad to have ended her conversation, since her head reeled with weariness. But Jean was very talkative until. My dear, if I don't go to bed, I shall sleep on the table, smiled Lydia, rising and suppressing a yawn. I'm so sorry, said the penitent Jean. She accompanied the girl upstairs, her arm about her waist, and left her at the door of her dressing-room. A maid had laid out her night-things in a big satis, a little to Lydia's surprise, and she undressed quickly. She opened the door of her bedroom, her hand was on a switch. When she was conscious of a faint and not unpleasant odor, it was a clean pungent smell. Disinfectants at her brain mechanically. She turned on the light, wondering where it came from, and then as she crossed the room she came inside of her bed and stopped, for it was saturated with water, water that dropped from the hanging coverlet and made little pools on the floor. From the head of the bed to the foot there was not one dry place. Whosoever had done the work was thorough. Blankets, sheets, pillows were soddened, and from the soaked mask came a faint acrid aroma which she recognized even before she saw on the floor an empty bottle labeled peroxide of hydrogen. She could only stand and stare. It was too late to arouse the household, and she remembered that there was a very comfortable satis in the dressing-room with a rug and a pillow, and she went back. A few minutes later she was fast asleep. Not so Miss Briggerland who was sitting up in bed, a cigarette between her lips, a heavy volume on her knees, reading, Such malignant cases are almost without exception rapidly fatal, sometimes so early that no sign of the characteristic symptoms appear at all, she read, and, dropping the book on the floor, extinguished her cigarette on an alabaster tray and settled herself to sleep. She was dozing when she remembered that she had forgotten to say her prayers. Oh, damn, said Jean, getting out reluctantly to kneel on the cold floor by the side of the bed. End of Chapter 18 Chapter 19 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 19 Her maid woke Jean Briggerland at eight o'clock the next morning. Oh, Miss, she said as she drew up the table for the chocolate. Have you heard about Mrs. Meredith? Jean blinked open her eyes, slipped into her dressing jacket, and sat up with a yawn. Have I heard about Mrs. Meredith? Many times, she said. But what somebody did last night, Miss? Jean was wide awake now. What has happened to Mrs. Meredith? She asked. Well, Miss, somebody played a practical joke on her. Her bed's sopping. Sopping? Frowned the girl. Yes, Miss, the woman nodded. They must have poured buckets of water over it and used up all Mrs. Cole Mortimer's peroxide, what she uses for keeping her hands nice. Jean swung out of her bed and sat looking down at her tiny white feet. Where did Mrs. Meredith sleep? Why didn't she wake us up? She slept in the dressing room, Miss. I don't suppose the young lady likes making a fuss. Who did it? I don't know who did it. It's a silly kind of practical joke, and I know none of the maids would have dared. Not the French ones. Jean put her feet into her slippers, exchanged her jacket for a gown, and went on a tour of inspection. Lydia was dressing in her room in the sound of her fresh, young voice as she caroled out of sheer love of life came to the girl before she turned into the room. One glance at the bed was sufficient. It was still wet, and the empty peroxide bottle told its own story. Jean glanced at it thoughtfully as she crossed into the dressing room. Whatever happened last night, Lydia? Lydia turned at the voice. Oh, the bed you mean. She made a little face. Heaven knows. It occurred to me this morning that some person out of mistaken kindness had started to disinfect the room. It was only this morning that I recalled the little boy who was ill, and had overdone it. They've certainly overdone it, said Jean Grimly. I wonder what poor Mrs. Cole Mortimer will say. You haven't the slightest idea? Not the slightest idea, said Lydia, answering the unspoken question. I'll see Mrs. Cole Mortimer and get her to change your bed. There's another room you could have, suggested Jean. She went back to her own apartment, bathed, and dressed leisurely. She found her father in the garden, reading the niswas, under the shade of a bush, for the sun was not warm, but at that hour blinding. I've changed my plans, she said, without preliminary. He looked up over his glasses. I didn't know you had any, he said, with heavy humor. I intended going back to London and taking you with me, she said, unexpectedly. Back to London, he said incredulously. I thought you were staying on for a month. I probably shall now, she said, pulling up a basket chair and sitting by his side. Give me a cigarette. You're smoking a lot lately, he said, as he handed his case to her. I know I am. Have your nerves gone wrong? She looked at him out of the corner of her eye and her lips curled. It wouldn't be remarkable if I inherited a little of your yellow streak, she said coolly, and he growled something under his breath. No, my nerves are all right, but a cigarette helps me to think. A yellow streak, have I? Mr. Brigoland was annoyed. And I've been out since five o'clock this morning. He stopped. Doing what, she asked curiously. Never mind, he said with a lofty gesture. Thus they sat busy with their own thoughts for a quarter of an hour. Jean. Yes, she said, without turning her head. Don't you think we better give this up and get back to London? Lord Stoker is pretty keen on you. I'm not pretty keen on him, she said decidedly. He has his regimental pay and five hundred pounds a year, two estates mortgaged, no brains and a title. What is the use of his title to me, as much use as a coat of paint? Besides which I am essentially democratic. He chuckled and there was another silent. Do you think the lawyer is keen on the girl? Jack Glover? Mr. Brigoland nodded. I imagine he is, said Jean thoughtfully. I like Jack, he's clever. He has all the moral qualities which one admires so much in the abstract. I could love Jack myself. Could he love you, bantered her father? He couldn't, she said shortly. Jack would be a happy man if he saw me stand in Jim Meredith's place in the Old Bailey. No, I have no illusion about Jack's affections. He's after Lydia's money, I suppose, said Mr. Brigoland, stroking his bald head. Don't be a fool, was the calm reply. That kind of man doesn't worry about a girl's money. I wish Lydia was dead, she added, without malice. It would make things so easy and smooth. Her father swallowed something. You shock me sometimes, Jean, he said, a statement which amused her. You're such a half-and-half man, she said with a note of contempt in her voice. You were quite willing to benefit by Jim Meredith's death. You killed him as cold-bloodedly as you killed poor little Balford, and yet you must whine and snivel whenever your deeds are put into plain language. What does it matter if Lydia dies now or in fifty years' time, she asked? It would be different if she were immortal. You people attach so much importance to human life. The ancients and the Japanese amongst the modern are the only people who have the matter in true perspective. It is no more cruel to kill a human being than it is to cut the throat of a pig to provide you with bacon. There's hardly a dish at your table which doesn't represent willful murder, and yet you never think of it. But because the man-animal can talk and dress as himself or herself and queer animal and vegetable fabrics and decorate the body with bits of metal and pieces of glittering quartz, you give its life a value which you deny to the cattle within your gates. Killing is a matter of expediency, permissible if you call it war, terrible if you call it murder. To me it is just killing. If you are caught in the act of killing they kill you, and people say it is right to do so. The sacredness of human life is a slogan invented by cowards who fear death as you do. Don't you, Jean? he asked in a hushed voice. I fear life without money, she said quietly. I fear long days of work for a callous leering employer and strap hanging in a crowded tube on my way home to one miserable room and the cold mutton of yesterday. I fear getting up and making my own bed and washing my own handkerchiefs and blouses and renovating last year's hats to make them look like this year's. I fear a poor husband and a procession of children and doing the housework with an incompetent maid or maybe without any at all. Those are the things I fear, Mr. Brigoland. She dusted the ash from her dress and got up. I haven't forgotten the life we lived at Ealing, she said significantly. She looked across the bay to Monte Carlo, glittering in the morning sunlight to the green-capped head of Captain Al, to Boulou, a jewel set in graystone and shook her head. It is written, she quoted somberly, and left him in the midst of the question he was asking. She strolled back to the house and joined Lydia, who was looking radiantly beautiful in a new dress of silver-gray charmous. End of Chapter 19 Chapter 20 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 20 Have you solved the mystery of the submerged bed, smiled Jean? Lydia laughed. I'm not probing too deeply into the matter, she said. Poor Mrs. Cole Mortimer was terribly upset. She would be, said Jean. It was her own Eiderdown. This was the first hint Lydia had received that the house was red and furnished. They drove into Nice that morning, and Lydia, remembering Jack Glover's remarks, looked closely at the chauffeur, and was startled to see a resemblance between him and the man who had driven the taxi cab on the night she had been carried off from the theatre. It is true that the taxi driver had a mustache, and that this man was clean-shaven, and moreover had tiny side whiskers, but there was a resemblance. Have you had your driver long, she asked, as they were running through Monte Carlo along the sea road? Morden? Yes, we have had him six or seven years, said Jean carelessly. He drives a swimmer on the continent, you know. He speaks French perfectly, and is an excellent driver. Father has tried to persuade him to come to England, but he hates London. He was telling me the other day that he hadn't been there for ten years. That disposed of the resemblance, thought Lydia, and yet she could remember his voice, she thought, and when they alighted on the promenade, the anglaise, she spoke to him. He replied in French, and it is impossible to detect points of resemblance in a voice that speaks one language in the same voice when it speaks another. The promenade was crowded with saunters. A band was playing by the jetty, and although the wind was colder than it had been at Cap Martin, the sun was warm enough to necessitate the opening of a parasol. It was a race week, and the two girls lunched at the Negrito. They were in the midst of their meal when a man came toward them, and Lydia recognized Mr. Marcus Stepney. This dark, suave man was no favorite of hers, though why she could not have explained. His manners were always perfect and towards her deferential. As usual he was dressed with the precision of a fashion plate. Mr. Marcus Stepney was a man, a considerable portion of whose time was taken up every morning by the choice of cravats and socks and shirts. Though Lydia did not know this, his smartness plus a certain dexterity with cards was his stock in trade. No breath of scandal had touched him, he moved in a good set, and was always at the right place at the proper season. When Aix was full he was certain to be found at the palace. In the Dewville week you would find him at the casino, punting mildly at the baccarat table. And after the rooms were closed, and even the sports club at Monte Carlo had shut its doors, there was always a little game to be had in the hotels, and in Marcus Stepney's private sitting-room. And it cannot be denied that Mr. Stepney was lucky. He won sufficient at these out-of-hour games to support him nobly through the trials and vicissitudes which the public tables inflict upon their votaries. Going to the races, he said, how very fortunate will you come along with me, I can give you three good winners. I have no money to gamble, so Gene, I am a poor woman. Lydia, who is rolling in wealth, can afford to take your tips, Marcus. Marcus looked at Lydia with a speculative high. If you haven't any money with you, don't worry. I have plenty, and you can pay me afterwards. I could make you a million francs today. Thank you, Sir Gene Cooley, but Mrs. Meredith does not bet so heavily. Her tone was a clear intimation to the man of wits that he was impinging upon somebody else's preserves, and he grinned amiably. Nevertheless it was a profitable afternoon for Lydia. She came back to Cap Martin twenty thousand francs richer than she had been when she started off. Lydia's had a lot of luck, she tells me, said Mr. Brickerland. Yes, she won about five hundred pounds, said his daughter. Marcus was laying ground-bait. She did not know what horses he had backed until after the race was run, when he invariably appeared with a few mill notes and Lydia's pleasure was pathetic. Of course she didn't win anything. The twenty thousand francs was a sprat. He's coming to-night to see how the whales are blowing. Mr. Marcus Stepney arrived punctually, and to Mr. Brickerland's disgust was dressed for dinner, a fact which necessitated the older man's hurried retreat and reappearance in conventional evening-wire. Marcus Stepney's behaviour at dinner was faultless. He devoted himself in the main to Mrs. Cole Mortimer, and Gene, who apparently never looked at him and yet observed his every movement, knew that he was merely waiting his opportunity. It came when the dinner was over and the party adjourned to the big stoop facing the sea. The night was chilly, and Mr. Stepney found wraps and furs for the ladies, and so maneuvered the arrangement of the chairs that Lydia and he were detached from the remainder of the party, not by any great distance, but sufficient as the experienced Marcus knew to remove a murmur conversation from the sharpest eavesdropper. Gene, who was carrying on a three-cornered conversation with her father and Mrs. Cole Mortimer, did not stir until she saw, by the light of a shaded lamp in the roof, the dark head of Mr. Marcus Stepney drew more confidently towards his companion. Then she rose and strolled across. Marcus did not curse her, because he did not express his inmost thoughts aloud. He gave her his chair and pulled another forward. Does Miss Briggerland know, asked Lydia? No, said Mr. Stepney pleasantly. May I tell her? Of course. Mr. Stepney has been telling me about a wonderful racing coup to be made tomorrow. Isn't it rather thrilling, Gene? He says it will be quite possible for me to make five million francs without any risk at all. Except the risk of a million, I suppose, smiled, Gene. Well, are you going to do it? Lydia shook her head. I haven't a million francs in France for one thing, she said, and I wouldn't risk it if I had. And Gene smiled again at the discomforture which Mr. Marcus Stepney strove manfully to hide. Later she took his arm and led him into the garden. Marcus, she said when they were out of range of the house, I think you are several kinds of a fool. Why? asked the other, who was not in the best humor. It was so crude, she said scornfully, so cheap and confidence-trickish, a miserable million francs, twenty thousand pounds, apart from the fact that your name would be mud in London if it were known that you had robbed a girl. There's no question of robbery, he said hotly. I tell you, Veldau is a certainty for the pre. It would not be a certainty if her money were on, said Gene dryly. It would finish an artistic second, and you would be full of apologies, and poor Lydia would be a million francs to the bad. No, Marcus, that is cheap. I'm nearly broke, he said shortly. He made no disguise of his profession nor of his nefarious plan. Between the two there was a queer kind of camaraderie, though he may not have been privy to the more tremendous of her crimes, yet he seemed to accept her as one of those who lived on the frontiers of illegality. I was thinking about you as you sat there telling her this story, said Gene thoughtfully. Marcus, why don't you marry her? He stopped in his stride and looked down at the girl. Marry her, Gene. Are you mad? She wouldn't marry me. Why not, she asked. Of course she'd marry you. You silly fool if you went the right way about it. He was silent. She is worth six hundred thousand pounds, and I happen to know that she has nearly two hundred thousand pounds in cash on deposit at the bank, said Gene. Why do you want me to marry her, yes, significantly? Is there a rake off for you? A big rake off, she said. The two hundred thousand on deposit should be easily get at it, Marcus, and she'd even give you more. Why, he asked. To agree to a separation, she said coolly. I know you, no woman could live very long with you and preserve her reason. He chuckled. And I'm to hand it all over to you. Oh no, she corrected. I'm not greedy. It is my experience that the greedy people get into bad trouble. The man or woman who wants it all usually gets the dress in case the all was kept in. No, I'd like to take a half. He sat down on a garden seat and she followed his example. What is there to be, he asked, in agreement between you and me? Something signed and sealed and delivered, eh? Her sad eyes caught his and held them. I trust you, Marcus, she said softly. If I help you in this, and I will, if you will do all that I tell you to do, I will trust you to give me my share. Mr. Marcus Stepney fingered his collar a little importantly. I've never let a pal down in my life, he said with a cough. I'm as straight as they make him to people who play the game with me. And you are wise so far as I am concerned, said the gentle gene. For if you double-cross me, I would hand the police the name and address of your other wife who is still living. His jaw dropped. What? he stammered. Let us join the ladies, mocked gene, as she rose and put her arm in his. It pleased her immensely to feel this big man trembling. End of Chapter 20 Chapter 21 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 21 It seemed to Lydia that she had been abroad for years, though in reality she had been three days in Cap Martin when Mr. Marcus Stepney became a regular caller. Even the most objectionable people improve on acquaintance and give the lie to first impressions. Mr. Stepney never bored her. He had an inexhaustible store of antidotes and reminiscences, none of which was in the slightest degree offensive. He was something of a sportsman, too, and he called by arrangement the next morning after his introduction to the Cap Martin household and conducting her to a sheltered cove containing two bathing huts, he introduced her to the exhilarating Mediterranean. Sea bathing is not permitted in Monte Carlo until May, and the water was much colder than Lydia had expected. They swam out to a floating platform when Mr. Brigoland and Jean put in an appearance. Jean had come straight from the house in her bathing gown, over which she wore a light wrap. Lydia watched her with amazement for the girl was an expert swimmer. She could dive from almost any height and could remain under water in alarming time. I never thought you had so much energy and strength in your little body, said Lydia, as Jean, with a shriek of enjoyment, drew herself on the raft and wiped the water from her eyes. There's a man up there looking at us through glasses, said Brigoland, suddenly. I saw the flash of the sun on them. He pointed to the rising ground beyond the seashore, but they could see nothing. Presently there was a glitter of light amongst the green, and Lydia pointed. I thought that sort of thing was never done, except in comic newspapers, she said, but Jean did not smile. Her eyes were focused on the point where the unseen observer lay or sat and she shaded her eyes. Some visitor from Monte Carlo, I expect. People at Cap Martin are much too respectable to do anything so vulgar. Mr. Brigoland, at a glance from his daughter, slipped into the water and with strong, heavy strokes made his way to the shore. Father is going to investigate, said Jean, and the water really is the warmest place, and with that she fell sideways into the blue sea like a seal. Dived down into its depths and presently Lydia saw her walking along the white floor of the ocean, her little hands keeping up an almost imperceptible motion. Presently she shot up again, shook her head, and looked around, only to dive again. In the meantime, though Lydia, who was fascinated by the maneuver of the girl, did not notice the fact, Mr. Brigoland had reached the shore, pulled on a pair of rubber shoes, and with his Macintosh buttoned over his bathing dress, had begun to climb through the underbrush towards the spot where the glasses had glistened. When Lydia looked up he had disappeared. Where is your father? she asked the girl. He went into the bushes. Mr. Stepney volunteered the information. I suppose he's looking for the Paul Pry. Mr. Stepney had been unusually glum and silent, for he was peaked by the tactless appearance of the Brigoland. Come into the water, Marcus, said Jean peremptorily, as she put her foot against the edge of the raft and pushed herself backward. I want to see Mrs. Meredith dive. Me? said Lydia, in surprise. Good heavens, no! After watching you I don't intend making an exhibition of myself. I want to show you the proper way to dive, said Jean. Stand up on the edge of the raft. Lydia obeyed. Straight up, said Jean. Now put your arms out wide. Now there was a sharp crack from the shore, something whistled past Lydia's head, struck an upright post, splintering the edge, and with a whine went ricocheting into the sea. Lydia's face went white. What—what was that, she gasped? She had hardly spoken before there was another shot. This time the bullet must have gone very high, and immediately afterwards came a yell of pain from the shore. Jean did not wait. She struck out for the beach swimming furiously. It was not the shot but the cry which had alarmed her, and without waiting to put on coat or sandals, she ran up the little road where her father had gone following the path through the undergrowth. Presently she came to a grassy plot in the center of which two tall pines grew side by side, and lying against one of the trees was the huddled figure of Briggerland. She turned him over. He was breathing heavily and was unconscious. An ugly wound gaped at the back of his head and his Macintosh and bathing-dress were smothered with blood. She looked round quickly for his assailant, but there was nobody in sight, and nothing to indicate the presence of a third person, but two shining brass cartridges which lay on the grass. End of Chapter 21 Chapter 22 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 22 Lydia Meredith only remembered swimming twice in her life, and both these occasions had happened within a few weeks. She never felt quite so unprepared to carry on as she did when, with an effort she threw herself into the water at Marcus Stepney's side and swam slowly toward the shore. She dare not let her mind dwell upon the narrowness of her escape. Whoever had fired that shot had done so deliberately and with the intention of killing her. She had felt the wind of the bullet in her face. What do you suppose it was, asked Marcus Stepney as he assisted her up the beach? Do you think it was soldiers practicing? She shook her head. Oh, said Mr. Stepney thoughtfully, and then, if you don't mind, I'll run up and see what has happened. He wrapped himself in the dressing gown he had brought with him and followed Jean's trail, coming up with her as Mr. Brigoland opened his eyes and stared around. Help me to hold him, Marcus, said Jean. Wait a moment, said Mr. Stepney, feeling in his pocket and producing a silk handkerchief. Bandage him with that. She shook her head. He's lost all the blood he's going to lose, she said quietly, and I don't think there's a fracture. I felt the skull very carefully with my finger. Mr. Stepney shivered. Hello, said Brigoland drowsily. Gee, he gave me a whack. Who did it? asked the girl. Mr. Brigoland shook his head and moanced with the pain of it. I don't know, he moaned. Help me up, Stepney. With the man's assistance he rose unsteadily to his feet. What happened? asked Stepney. Don't ask him any questions now, said the girl sharply. Help him back to the house. A doctor was summoned and stitched the wound. He gave an encouraging report and was not too inquisitive as to how the injury had occurred. Foreign visitors get extraordinary things in the regions of Monte Carlo, and medical men lose nothing by their discretion. It was not until that afternoon, propped up with pillows in a chair, the center of a sympathetic audience that Mr. Brigoland told his story. I had a feeling that something was wrong, he said, and I went up to investigate. I heard a shot fired almost within a few yards of me, and dashing through the bushes I saw the fellow taking aim for the second time and seized him. You remember the second shot went high. What sort of a man was he, asked Stepney? He was an Italian, I should think, answered Mr. Brigoland. At any rate, he caught me an awful whack with the back of his rifle, and I knew no more until Jean found me. Do you think he was firing at me, asked Lydia in horror? I am certain of it, said Brigoland. I realized at the moment I saw the fellow. How am I to thank you, said the girl impulsively? Really, it was wonderful of you to tackle an armed man with your bare hands. Mr. Brigoland closed his eyes inside. It was nothing, he said, modestly. Before dinner, he and his daughter were left alone for the first time since the accident. What happened, she asked. It was going to be a little surprise for you, he said. A little scheme of my own, my dear. You're always calling me a funke, and I want it to prove. What happened, she asked, tersely. Well, I went out yesterday morning and fixed it all. I bought the rifle, an old English rifle, at Amiens, from a peasant. I thought it might come in handy, especially as the man threw in a packet of ammunition. Yesterday morning, lying awake before daybreak, I thought it out. I went up the hill. The land belongs to an empty house, by the way, and I located the spot, put the rifle where I could find it easily, and fixed a pair of glass goggles onto one of the bushes where the sun would catch it. The whole scheme was not without its merit as a piece of strategy, my dear, he said complacently. And then, she said, I thought we'd go bathing yesterday, but we didn't. But today, it was a long time before anybody spotted the glasses, but once I had the excuse for going ashore and investigating, the rest was easy. She nodded. So that was why you asked me to keep her on the raft and make her stand up. He nodded. Well, she demanded. I went up to the spot, got the rifle, and took aim. I've always been a pretty good shot. He didn't advertise it today, she said sardonically. Then I suppose somebody hit you on the head. He nodded and made a grimace, but any movement of his injured cranium was excessively painful. Who was it? She asked. He shrugged his shoulders. Don't ask full questions, he said petulantly. I know nothing. I didn't even feel the blow. I just remember taking aim, and then everything went dark. And how would you have explained it all supposing you had succeeded? That was easy, he said. I should have said that I went in search of the man we had seen. I heard a shot and rushed forward and found nothing but the rifle. She was silent, pinching her lips absently. And you took the risk of some peasant or visitor seeing you, took the risk of bringing the police to the spot and turning what might easily have been a case of accidental death into an obvious case of willful murder. I think you called yourself a strategist, she asked politely. I did my best, he growled. Well, don't do it again, father, she said. You're foolhardiness appalls me, and heaven knows I never expected that I should be in a position to call you foolhardy. And with this she left him to bask in the hero worship, which the approaching Mrs. Cole Mortimer would lavish upon him. The accident kept them at home that night, and Lydia was not sorry, as a tea is not a very comfortable sleeping-place, and she was ready for a real bed that night. Mr. Stepney found her yawning surreptitiously, and went home early and disgust. The night was warmer than the morning had been, the fern wind was blowing, and she found her room with its radiator a little oppressive. She opened the long French windows and stepped out onto the balcony. The last quarter of the moon was high in the sky, and though the light was faint it gave shadows to trees in an eerie illumination to the lawn. She leaned her arms on the rail and looked across the sea to the lights of Monte Carlo glistening in the purple night. Her eyes wandered idly to the ground as she started. She could have sworn she had seen a figure moving in the shadow of the tree. Nor was she mistaken. Presently it left the tree-belt and stepped cautiously across the lawn, holding now and again to look around. She thought at first that it was Marcus Stepney who had returned, but something about the walk of the man seemed familiar. Presently he stopped directly under the balcony and looked up, and she uttered an exclamation, as the faint light revealed the iron gray hair and the grisly eyebrows of the intruder. All right, Miss, he said in a hoarse whisper. It's only old Jags. What are you doing? She answered in the same tone. Just looking round, he said. Just looking round. And limped again into the darkness. End of Chapter 22 Chapter 23 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 23 So old Jags was in Monte Carlo. Whatever was he doing, and how was he getting on with these people who spoke nothing but French, she wondered. She had something to think about before she went to sleep. She opened her eyes singularly awake as the dawn was coming up over the gray sea. She looked at her watch. It was a quarter to six. Why she had wakened so thoroughly she could not tell, but remembered with a little shiver another occasion she had wakened, this time before the dawn, to face death in a most terrifying shape. She got up out of bed, put on a heavy coat, and opened the wire doors that led to the balcony. The morning was colder than she imagined, and she was glad to retreat to the neighborhood of the warm radiator. The fresh clean hours of the dawn when the mind is clear, and there is neither sound nor movement to distract the thoughts, are favorable to sane thinking. Lydia reviewed the past few weeks in her life, and realized for the first time the miracle which had happened. It was like a legend of old. The slave had been lifted from the king's anti-room. The struggling artist was now a rich woman. She twiddled the gold ring on her hand, absentmindedly, and she was married, and a widow. She had an uncomfortable feeling that in spite of her riches she had not yet found her niche. She was an odd quantity as yet. The coal mortemers in the Briggerlands did not belong to her ideal world, and she could find no place where she fitted. She tried in this state of mind so favorable to the consideration of such a problem to analyze Jack Glover's antagonism toward Jean Briggerland and her father. It seemed unnatural that a healthy young man should maintain so bitter a feud with a girl whose beauty was almost of a transcendent quality, and all because she had rejected him. Jack Glover was a public schoolboy, a man with a keen sense of honor. She could not imagine him being guilty of a mean action, and such men did not pursue vendettas without good reason. If they were rejected by a woman they accepted their congee with good grace, and it was almost unthinkable that Jack should have no other reason for his hatred. Yet she could not bring herself even to consider the possibility that the reason was the one he had advanced. She came again to the dead end of conjecture. She could believe in Jack's judgment up to a point. Beyond that she could not go. She had her bath dressed and was in the garden when the eastern horizon was golden with the light of the rising sun. Nobody was about, the most energetic of the servants had not yet risen, and she strolled through the avenue to the main road. As she stood there, looking up and down, a man came out from the trees that fringe the road and began walking rapidly in the direction of Monte Carlo. Mr. Jaggs, she called. He took no notice, but seemed to increase his limping pace, and after a moment's hesitation she went flying down the road after him. He turned at the sound of her footsteps, and in his furtive way drew into the shadow of a bush. He looked more than usually grimy. On his hands were an odd pair of gloves, and a soft slouch hat that had seemed better days covered his head. Good morning, miss! he wheezed. Why are you running away, Mr. Jaggs? she asked, a little out of breath. Not running away, miss! he said, glancing at her sharply from under his heavy white eyebrows. Just having on the ground. Do you spend all your nights looking around? she smiled at him. Yes, miss. At that moment a cyclist Shundarm came into view. He slowed down as he approached the two and dismounted. Good morning, madame, he said politely, and then looking at the man. Is this man in your employ? I have seen him coming out of your house every morning. Oh, yes, said Lydia hastily. He's my—she was at a loss to describe him, but old Jaggs saved her the trouble. I'm a dam's courier, he said, and to Lydia's amazement he spoke imperfect French. I am also the watchman of the house. Yes, yes, said Lydia, after she had recovered from her surprise. But sure is the watchman also. Ben, madame, said the Jundarm. Forgive my asking, but we have so many strangers here. They watched the Jundarm out of sight, then old Jaggs chuckled. Pretty good French, miss, wouldn't it? he said, and without another word turned and limped in the trail of the police. She looked after him in bewilderment. So he spent every night in the grounds or somewhere about the house? The knowledge gave her a queer sense of comfort and safety. When she went back to the villa she found the servants were up. Jean did not put in an appearance until breakfast, and Lydia had an opportunity of talking to the French housekeeper, who Mrs. Cole Mortimer had engaged when she took the villa. From her she learned a bit of news which she passed on to Jean almost as soon as she put in an appearance. The gardener's little boy is going to get well, Jean. Jean nodded. I know, she said. I telephoned to the hospital yesterday. It was so unlike her conception of the girl that Lydia stared. The mother is in isolation, Lydia went on, and Madame Suviette says that the poor woman has no money and no friends. I thought of going down to the hospital to-day to see if I could do anything for her. You better not, my dear, warned Mrs. Cole Mortimer nervously. Let us be thankful we've got the little brat out of the neighborhood without R catching the disease. One doesn't want to seek trouble. Keep away from the hospital. Rubbish! said Jean briskly. If Lydia wants to go there's no reason why she shouldn't. The isolation people are never allowed to come into contact with visitors, so there is really no danger. I agree with Mrs. Cole Mortimer, grumble Briggerland. It is very foolish to ask for trouble. You take my advice, my dear, and keep away. I had a talk with a John Darn this morning, said Lydia, to change the subject. When he stopped and got off his bicycle I thought he was going to speak about the shooting. I suppose it was reported to the police. Um, yes, said Mr. Briggerland, not looking up from his plate. Of course. Have you been into Monte Carlo? Lydia shook her head. No, I couldn't sleep, and I was taking a walk along the road when he passed. She said nothing about Mr. Jaggs. The police at Monaco are very sociable. Mr. Briggerland sniffed. Very, he said. Have they any theories, she asked? In her innocence she was persisting in a subject which was wholly distasteful to Mr. Briggerland. About the shooting, I mean. Yes, they have theories, but, my dear, I should advise you not to discuss the matter with the police. The fact is, invented Mr. Briggerland, I told them that you were unaware of the fact that you had been shot at, and if you discussed it with the police you would make me look rather foolish. When Lydia and Mrs. Cole Mortimer had gone, Jean seized an opportunity which the absence of the maid offered. I hope you are beginning to see how perfectly insane your scheme was, she said. You have to support your act with a whole series of bungling lies. Possibly Marcus, like a fool, has mentioned it in Monte Carlo, and we shall have the detectives out here asking why you have not reported the matter. If I were as clever as you, he growled. You are not, said Jean, rolling her surveyet. You are the most un-clever man I know. End of Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Lydia went up to her bedroom to put away her clothes and found the maid making the bed. Oh, Madame, said the girl, I forgot to speak to you about a matter. I hope Madame will not be angry. I am hardly likely to be angry in a morning like this, said Lydia. It is because of this matter, said the girl. She groped in her pocket and brought out a small, shining object, and Lydia took it from her hand. This matter was a tiny, silver cross, so small that a five-frank piece would have covered it easily. It was brightly polished and apparently had seen service. When we took her bed after the atrocious and mysterious happening, said the maid rapidly, this was found in the sheets. It was not so thick it could possibly be Madame's, because it was so poor, until this morning when it was suggested that it might be a souvenir that Madame values. You found it in the sheets? Asked Lydia in surprise. Yes, Madame. It doesn't belong to me, said Lydia. Perhaps it belongs to Madame Cole Mortimer. I'll show it to her. Mrs. Cole Mortimer was a devout Catholic, and it might easily be some cherished keepsake of hers. The girl carried the cross to the window, and X had been scrawled by some sharp-pointed instrument at the junction of the bars. There was no other mark to identify the trinket. She put the cross in her bag, and when she saw Mrs. Cole Mortimer again, she forgot to ask her about it. The car drove her into Nice alone. Jean did not feel inclined to make the journey, and Lydia rather enjoyed the solitude. The isolation hospital was at the top of the hill, and she found some difficulty in obtaining admission at this hour. The arrival of the chief medical officer, however, saved her from making the journey in vain. The report he gave about the child was very satisfactory. The mother was in the isolation ward. Can she be seen? Yes, Madame, said the urbane Frenchman in charge. You understand you will not be able to get near her. It will be rather like interviewing a prisoner, for she will be behind one set of bars and you behind another. Lydia was taken to a room which was, she imagined, very much like a room in which prisoners interviewed their distressed relations. There were not exactly bars, but two large mesh nets of steel separated the visitor from the patient under observation. After a time a nun brought in the gardener's wife, a tall, gaunt woman, who was a native of Marseille, and spoke the confusing patois of that city with great rapidity. It was some time before Lydia could accustom her ear to the queer dialect. Her boy was getting well, she said, but she herself was in terrible trouble. She had no money for the extra food, she required. Her husband, who was away in Paris when the child had been taken, had not troubled to write to her. It was terrible being in a place amongst other fever cases, and she was certain that her days were numbered. Lydia pushed a five hundred frank note through the grading to the nun to settle her material needs. And, oh, madame, wailed the gardener's wife, my poor little boy has lost the gift of the Reverend Mother of San surplus, his own cross which has been blessed by his holiness the Pope. It is because I left his cross in his little shirt that he is getting better, but now it is lost and I am sure those thieving doctors have taken it. A cross, said Lydia. What sort of a cross? It was a silver cross, madame. The value in money was nothing. It was priceless. Little Xavier. Xavier, repeated Lydia, remembering the X on the trinket that had been found in her bed. Wait a moment, madame. She opened her bag and took out the tiny silver symbol, and at the sight of it the woman burst into a volley of joyful thanks. It is the same, the same, madame. It has a small X which the Reverend Mother scratched with her own blessed scissors. Lydia pushed the cross through the net and the nun handed it to the woman. It is the same, it is the same, she cried. Thank you, madame. Now my heart is glad. Lydia came out of the hospital and walked through the gardens by the doctor's side, but she was not listening to what he was saying. Her mind was fully occupied with a mystery of the silver cross. It was Little Xavier's. It had been tucked inside his bed when he lay as his mother thought dying, and it had been found in her bed. Then Little Xavier had been in her bed. Her foot was on the step of the car when it came to her, the meaning of that drenched couch and the empty bottle of peroxide. Xavier had been put there, and somebody who knew that the bed was infected had so soaked it with water that she could not sleep in it. But who? Old Jags. She got into the car slowly and went back to Kat Martin along the Grand Corniche. Who had put the child there? He could not have walked from the cottage. That was impossible. She was halfway home when she noticed a parcel lying on the floor of the car, and she let down the front window and spoke to the chauffeur. It was not Morton, but a man whom she had hired with the car. It came from the hospital, madame, he said. The porter asked me if I came from Villa Casa. It was something sent to the hospital to be disinfected. There was a charge of seven francs for the service, madame, and this I paid. She nodded. She picked up the parcel. It was addressed to mademoiselle Jean Briggerland and bore the label of the hospital. Lydia sat back in the car with her eyes closed, tired of turning over this problem, yet determined to get to the bottom of the mystery. Jean was out when she got back and she carried the parcel to her own room. She was trying to keep out of her mind the very possibility that such a hideous crime could have been conceived as that which all the evidence indicated had been attempted. Very resolutely she refused to believe that such a thing could have happened. There must be some explanation for the presence of the cross in her bed. Possibly it had been found after the wet sheets had been taken to the servants part of the house. She rang the bell and the maid who had given her the drink it came. Tell me, said Lydia, where was this cross found? In your bed, mademoiselle. But where? Was it before the clothing was removed from this room, or after? It was before, madame, said the maid. When the sheets were turned back we found it lying exactly in the middle of the bed. Lydia's heart sank. Thank you, that will do, she said. I have found the owner of the cross and have restored it. Should she tell Jean? Her first impulse was to take the girl into her confidence and reveal the state of her mind. Her second thought was to seek out old Jags. But where could he be found? He evidently lives somewhere in Monte Carlo, but his name was hardly likely to be in the visitor's list. She was still undecided when Marcus Stetny called to take her to lunch at the Café de Paris.