 CHAPTER 1 The hush of the court, which had been broken when the foreman of the jury returned their verdict, was intensified as the judge with a quick glance over his pants-nay at the tall prisoner, marshalled his papers with the precision and method which old men display in tense moments such as these. He gathered them together, white paper and blue and buff, and stacked them in a neat heap on a tiny ledge to the left of his desk. Then he took his pen and wrote a few words on a printed paper before him. Another breathless pause and he groped beneath the desk and brought out a small square of black silk, and carefully laid it over his white wig. Then he spoke. James Meredith, you have been convicted after a long and patient trial of the awful crime of willful murder. With the verdict of the jury I am in complete agreement. There is little doubt after hearing the evidence of the unfortunate lady to whom you were engaged, and whose evidence you attempted in the most brutal manner to refute, the instigated by your jealousy you shot Ferdinand Bulford. The evidence of Miss Briggerland that you had threatened this poor young man and that you left her presence in a temper is unshaken. By a terrible coincidence Mr. Bulford was in the street outside your fiancee's door when you left, and maddened by your insane jealousy you shot him dead. To suggest as you have through your counsel that you called at Miss Briggerland's that night to break off your engagement and that the interview was a mild one and unattended by recriminations is to suggest that this lady has deliberately committed perjury in order to swear away your life. And when to that disgraceful charge you produced a motive, namely that by your death or imprisonment Miss Briggerland, who is your cousin, would benefit to a considerable extent, you merely add to your infamy. Nobody who saw the young girl in the box a pathetic, and if I may say a beautiful figure could accept for one moment your fantastic explanation. Who killed Ferdinand Bulford? A man without an enemy in the world. That tragedy cannot be explained away. It now only remains for me to pass the sentence which the law imposes. The jury's recommendation to mercy will be forwarded to the proper quarter. He then proceeded to pass sentence of death, and the tall man in the dock listened without a muscle of his face moving. So ended the Great Berkeley Street murder trial, and when a few days later it was announced that the sentence of death had been commuted to one of penal servitude for life, there were newspapers and people who hinted at mistake and leniency and suggested that James Meredith would have been hanged if he were a poor man instead of being, as he was, the master of vast wealth. That's that, said Jack Glover, between his teeth, as he came out of court with the eminent King's Council who had defended his friend and client. The little lady wins. His companion looked sideways at him and smiled. Honestly, Glover, do you believe that poor girl could do so dastardly a thing as lie about the man she loves? She loves? repeated Jack Glover witheringly. I think you are prejudiced, said the Council, shaking his head. Personally, I believe that Meredith is a lunatic. I am satisfied that all he told us about the interview he had with the girl was born of a diseased imagination. I was terribly impressed when I saw Jane Briggerland in the box. She, by Joe, there is the lady. They had reached the entrance of the court. A big car was standing by the curb and one of the attendants was holding open the door for a girl dressed in black. They had a glimpse of a pale, sad face of extraordinary beauty and then she disappeared behind the drawn blinds. The Council drew a long sigh. Mad, he said huskily, he must be mad. If ever I saw a pure soul in a woman's face it is in hers. You've been in the sun, Sir John. You're getting sentimental, said Jack Glover brutally and the eminent lawyer choked indignantly. Jack Glover had a trick of saying rude things to his friends even when those friends were twenty years his senior and by every rule of professional etiquette entitled to respectful treatment. Really! said the outraged Sir John. There are times, Glover, when you are insufferable. But by this time Jack Glover was swinging along the old Bailey his hands in his pockets, his silk hat on the back of his head. He found the grey-haired senior member of the firm of Renet Glover and Simpson, there had been no Simpson in the firm for ten years, on the point of going home. Mr. Renet sat down at the site of his junior. I heard the news by a phone, he said. Elbury says there's no ground for appeal, but I think the recommendation of mercy will save his life. Besides, it's a crime-passionale, and they don't hang for homicidal jealousy. I suppose it was the girl's evidence that turned the trick. Jack nodded. And she looked like an angel just out of the refrigerator, he said despairingly. Elbury did his poor best to shake her, but the old fool is half in love with her. I left him raving about her pure soul and her other celestial et cetera's. Mr. Renet stroked his iron-grey beard. She's won, he said, but the other turned on him with a snarl. Not yet, he said almost harshly. She hasn't won till Jimmy Meredith is dead or or, repeated his partner significantly, that or won't come off, Jack. He'll get a life sentence as sure as eggs as eggs. I go a long way to help, Jimmy. I risk my practice and my name. Jack Glover looked at his partner in astonishment. You old sportsman, he said admiringly. I didn't know you were so fond of Jimmy. Mr. Renet got up and began pulling on his gloves. He seemed a little uncomfortable at the sensation he had created. His father was my first client, he said apologetically. One of the best fellows that ever lived. He married late in life. That was why he was such a crank over the question of marriage. You might say that old Meredith founded our firm. Your father and Simpson and I were nearly at our last gasp. Meredith gave us his business. That was our turning point. Your father, God rest him, was never tired of talking about it. I wonder if he never told you. I think he did, said Jack thoughtfully. And you really would go a long way, Renet. I mean, to help Jim Meredith? All the way, said old Renet shortly. Jack Glover began whistling along the gooberish tune. I'm seeing the old boy tomorrow, he said. By the way, Renet, did you see that a fellow had been released from prison to a nursing home for a minor operation the other day? There was a question asked in Parliament about it. Is it usual? It can be arranged, said Renet. Why? Do you think in a few months time we could get Jim Meredith into a nursing home for say an appendix operation? Has he appendicitis? Asked the other in surprise. He can fake it, said Jack calmly. It's the easiest thing in the world to fake. Renet looked at the other under his heavy eyebrows. You're thinking of the oar, he challenged, and Jack nodded. It can be done, if he's alive, said Renet after a pause. He'll be alive, prophesized his partner. Now the only thing is, where shall I find the girl? End of chapter one. Chapter two 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 two. Lydia Beale gathered up the scraps of paper that littered her table, rolled them into a ball and tossed them into the fire. There was a knock at the door, and she half turned in her chair to meet with a smile her stout landlady who came in carrying a tray on which she took a large cup of tea and two thick and wholesome slices of bread and jam. Finished, Miss Beale, asked the landlady anxiously. For the day, yes, said the girl with a nod and stood up stretching herself stiffly. She was slender, a head taller than the dumpy Mrs. Morgan. The dark, violet eyes and a delicate spiritual face she owed to her Celtic ancestors. The grace of her movements no less than the perfect hands that rested on the drawing board spoke eloquently of breed. I'd like to see it, Miss, if I may, said Mrs. Morgan, wiping her hands on her apron in anticipation. Lydia pulled open a drawer of the table and took out a large sheet of Windsor board. She had completed her pencil sketch, and Mrs. Morgan gasped appreciatively. It was a picture of a masked man holding a villainous crowd at bay at the point of a pistol. That's wonderful, Miss, she said in awe. I suppose those sorts of things happen, too. The girl laughed as she put the drawing away. They happen in stories which I illustrate, Mrs. Morgan, she said dryly. The real brigands of life come in the shape of lawyers' clerks with rits and summonses. It's a relief from those mad fashion plates I draw, anyway. Do you know, Mrs. Morgan, that the sight of a dressmaker's shop window makes me positively ill? Mrs. Morgan shook her head sympathetically, and Lydia changed the subject. Has anybody been this afternoon, she asked? Only the young man from Spad and Newton replied to Stout Woman with a sigh. I told him you was out, but I'm a bad liar. The girl groaned. I wonder if I shall ever get to the end of those debts, she said in despair. I have enough rits in the drawer to paper the house, Mrs. Morgan. Three years ago Lydia Beale's father had died and she had lost the best friend and companion that any girl ever had. She knew he was in debt, but had no idea how extensively he was involved. A creditor had seen her the day after the funeral and made some uncouth reference to the convenience of a death which had automatically cancelled George Beale's obligations. It needed only that to spur the girl to an action which was as foolish as it was generous. She had written to all the people to whom her father owed money and had assumed full responsibility for debts amounting to hundreds of pounds. It was the keld in her that drove her to shoulder the burden which she was ill-equipped to carry, but she had never regretted her impetuous act. There were a few creditors who, realizing what had happened, did not bother her, and there were others. She earned a fairly good salary on the staff of the Daily Megaphone, which made a feature of fashion, but she would have had to have been the recipient of a cabinet minister's emoluments to have met the demands which flowed in upon her a month after she had accepted her father's obligations. Are you going out tonight, Miss?" asked the woman. Lydia roused herself from her unpleasant thoughts. Yes, I'm making some drawings of the dresses and curfew's new play. I'll be home somewhere around twelve. Mrs. Morgan was half way across the room when she turned back. One of these days you'll get out of all your troubles, Miss. You see if you don't. I'll bet you'll marry a rich young gentleman. Lydia sitting on the edge of the table laughed. You'd lose your money, Mrs. Morgan, she said. Rich young gentleman, only marry poor working girls in the kind of stories I illustrate. If I marry, it will probably be a very poor young gentleman who will become an incurable invalid and want nursing, and I shall hate him so much that I can't be happy with him and pity him so much that I can't run away from him. Mrs. Morgan sniffed her disagreement. There are things that happen, she began. Not to me. Not miracles, anyway, said Lydia, still smiling. And I don't know that I want to get married. I've got to pay all these bills first, and by the time they are settled I'll be a gray-haired old lady in a mobcap. Lydia had finished her tea and was standing somewhat scantily attired in the middle of her bedroom, preparing for her theatre engagement when Mrs. Morgan returned. I forgot to tell you, Miss, she said, there was a gentleman and a lady called. A gentleman and a lady? Who were they? I don't know, Miss Biel. I was lying down at the time, and the girl answered the door. I gave her strict orders to say that you were out. Did they leave any name? No, Miss. They just asked if Miss Biel lived here, and could they say her? Hmm, said Lydia with a frown. I wonder what we owe them. She dismissed the matter from her mind and thought no more of it until she stopped on her way to the theatre to learn from the office by telephone the number of drawings required. The chief sub-editor answered her. And by the way, he added, there was an inquiry for you at the office today. I found a note of it on my desk when I came in tonight. Some old friends of yours who want to see you. Bran told them you were going to do a show at the Irving Theatre tonight, so you'll probably see them. Who are they? She asked, puzzled. She had few friends, old or new. I haven't the foggiest idea, was the reply. At the theatre she saw nobody she knew, though she looked around interestingly, nor was she approached in any of the on-tracks. In the row ahead of her and a little to her right were two people who regarded her curiously as she entered. The man was about fifty, very dark and bald. The skin of his head was almost copper-coloured, though he was obviously a European, for the eyes which beamed benevolently upon her powerful spectacles were blue, but so light a blue that by contrast with the mahogany skin of his clean-shaven face they seemed almost white. The girl who sat with him was fair and to Lydia's artistic eyes singularly lovely. Her hair was a mop of fine gold. The colour was natural, Lydia was too sophisticated to make any mistake about that. Her features were regular and flawless. The young artist thought she had never seen so perfect a cupid mouth in her life. There was something so freshly, frequently innocent about the girl that Lydia's heart went out to her and she could hardly keep her eyes on the stage. The unknown seemed to take almost as much interest in her, for twice Lydia surprised her backward scrutiny. She found herself wondering who she was. The girl was beautifully dressed and about her neck was a platinum chain that must have hung to her waist, a chain which was broken every few inches by a big emerald. It required something of an effort of concentration to bring her mind back to the stage and her work. With a book on her knee she sketched the somewhat bizarre costumes which had aroused a mild public interest in the play and for the moment forgot her entrancing companion. She came through the vestibule at the end of the performance and drew her worn cloak more closely about her slender shoulders for the night was raw and a sour westerly wind blew the big wet snowflakes under the protecting glass awning into the lobby itself. The favored playgoers minced dankly through the slush to their waiting cars. Then taxis came into the procession of waiting vehicles. There was a banging of cab doors, a babble of orders to the screwing attendants until something like order was evolved from the chaos. Cab miss? Lydia shook her head. An omnibus would take her to Fleet Street but two had passed, packed with passengers, and she was beginning to despair when a particularly handsome taxi pulled up at the curb. The driver lent over the shining apron which partially protected him from the weather and shouted, Is Miss Beale there? The girl started in surprise taking a step toward the cab. I am Miss Beale, she said. Your editor has sent me for you, said the man briskly. The editor of the megaphone had been guilty of many eccentric acts. He had expressed views on her drawing, which she shivered to recall. He had aroused her in the middle of the night to sketch dresses at a fancy-dressed ball. But never before had he done anything so human as to send a taxi for her. Nevertheless, she would not look at the gift cab too closely, and she stepped into the warm interior. The windows were veiled with the snow and the sleet which had been falling all the time she had been in the theater. She saw blurred lights flash past and realized that the taxi was going at a good pace. She rubbed the windows and tried to look out after a while. Then she endeavored to lower one, but without success. Suddenly she jumped up and tapped furiously at the window to attract the driver's attention. There was no mistaking the fact that they were crossing a bridge, and it was not necessary to cross a bridge to reach Fleet Street. If the driver heard he took no notice, the speed of the car increased. She tapped at the window again furiously. She was not afraid, but she was angry. Presently fear came. It was when she tried to open the door and found that it was fastened from the outside that she struck a match to discover that the windows had been screwed tight. The edge of the hole where the screw had gone in was rawly new, and the screw's head was bright and shining. She had no umbrella, she never carried one to the theater, and nothing more substantial in the shape of a weapon than a fountain pen. She could smash the windows with her foot. She sat back in a seat and discovered that it was not so easy an operation as she had thought. She hesitated even to make the attempt. And then the panic sense left her, and she was her own calm self again. She was not being abducted. These things did not happen in the twentieth century, except in sensational books. She frowned. She had said almost the same thing to somebody that day. To Mrs. Morgan, who had hinted at a romantic marriage. Of course nothing was wrong. The driver had called her by name. Probably the editor wanted to see her at his home. He lived somewhere in South London, she remembered. That would explain everything. And yet her instinct told her that something unusual was happening, that some unpleasant experience was imminent. She tried to put the thought out of her mind, but it was too vivid, too insistent. Again she tried the door, and then conscious of a faint reflected glow on the cloth-lined roof of the cab, she looked backward through the peephole. She saw two great motor-car lamps within a few yards of the cab. The car was following. She glimpsed the outline of it as they ran past a street standard. They were in one of the roads of the outer suburbs. Looking through the window over the driver's shoulder she saw trees on one side of the road and a long gray fence. It was while she was so looking that the car behind shot suddenly past and ahead, and she saw its taillights moving away with a pang of hopelessness. Then, before she realized what had happened, the big car ahead slowed and swung sideways, moving the road, and the cab came to a jerky stop that flung her against the window. She saw two figures in the dim light of the taxi's headlamps, heard somebody speak, and the door was jerked open. "'Will you step out, Miss Biel?' said a pleasant voice, and though her legs seemed queery weak, she obliged. The second man was standing by the side of the driver. He wore a long raincoat, the collar of which was turned up to the tip of his nose. "'You may go back to your friends and tell them that Miss Biel is in good hands,' he was saying. "'You may also burn a candle or two before your favorite saint in Thanksgiving that you are alive.' "'I don't know what you're talking about,' said the driver's locally. "'I'm taking this young lady to her office.' "'Since when has the daily megaphone been published in the ghastly suburbs?' asked the other politely. He saw the girl and raised his hat. "'Come along, Miss Biel,' he said. "'I promise you a more comfortable ride, even if I cannot guarantee that the end will be less startling.'" End of Chapter 2 Chapter 3 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 3 The man who had opened the door was a short, stoutly built person of middle age. He took the girl's arm gently, and without questioning she accompanied him to the car ahead, the man in the raincoat following. No word was spoken, and Lydia was too bewildered to ask questions until the car was on its way. Then the younger man chuckled. "'Clever, Renet,' he said. "'I tell you those people are superhumanly brilliant.' "'I'm not a great admirer of villainy,' said the other gruffly, and the younger man who was sitting opposite the girl laughed. "'You must take a detached interest,' my dear chap. "'Personally, I admire them. "'I admit they gave me a fright when I realized that Miss Biel had not called the cab but that it had been carefully planted for her. "'But still, I can admire them.' "'What does it mean?' asked the puzzled girl. "'I'm so confused. Where are we going now to the office?' "'I fear you will not get to the office tonight,' said the young man calmly. "'And it is impossible to explain to you just while you were abducted.' "'Abducted?' said the girl incredulously. "'Do you mean to say that, man?' "'He was carrying you into the country,' said the other calmly. "'He would probably have traveled all night and have left you stranded in some un-get-adible place. "'I don't think he meant any harm. "'They never take unnecessary risks. All they wanted was to spirit you away for the night. "'How they came to know that we had chosen you baffles me,' he said. "'Can you advance any theory, Renet?' "'Chosen me?' repeated the startled girl. "'Really?' "'I feel I'm entitled to some explanation. "'And if you don't mind, I would like you to take me back to my office. "'I have a job to keep,' she added grimly. "'Six pounds, ten a week, and a few guineas extra for your illustrations,' said the man in the rank coat. "'Believe me, Miss Bill, you'll never pay off your debts on that salary. "'Not if you live to be a hundred.' She could only gasp. "'You seem to know a great deal about my private affairs,' she said when she had recovered her breath. "'A great deal more than you can imagine.' She guessed he was smiling in the darkness, and his voice was so gentle and apologetic that she could not take offense. "'In the past twelve months you've had thirty-nine judgments recorded against you, and in the previous year, twenty-seven. "'You are living on exactly thirty shillings a week, "'and all the rest is going to your father's creditors.' "'You're very impertinent,' she said hotly, and as she felt foolishly. "'I'm very pertinent, really. "'By the way, my name is Glover, John Glover, "'of the firm of Wrennett, Glover and Simpson. "'The gentleman at your side is Mr. Charles Wrennett, my senior partner. "'We're a firm of solicitors, but how long we shall remain a firm?' he added, pointedly. "'Depends rather upon you.' "'Upon me?' said the girl, in genuine astonishment. "'Well, I can't say that I have so much love for lawyers.' "'That I can well understand,' murmured Mr. Glover. "'But I certainly do not wish to dissolve your partnership,' she went on. "'It is rather more serious than that,' said Mr. Wrennett, "'who was sitting by her side. "'The fact is, Miss Bale, we are acting in a perfectly illegal manner, "'and we are going to reveal to you the particulars of an act we contemplate, "'which, if you pass on the information to the police, "'will result in our professional ruin. "'So, you see, this adventure is infinitely more important to us "'than at present it is to you.' "'And here we are,' he said, interrupting the girl's question. "'The car turned into a narrow drive "'and proceeded some distance through an avenue of trees "'before it pulled up at the pillar porch of a big house. "'Wrennett helped her to alight and ushered her through the door, "'which opened almost as they stopped, into a large, paneled hall. "'This is the way, let me show you,' said the younger man. "'He opened the door, and she found herself in a big drawing-room, "'exquisitely furnished, and lit by two silver electrolyirs suspended "'from the carved roof, to a relief an elderly woman rose to greet her. "'This is my wife, Miss Bale,' said Wrennett. "'I need hardly explain that this is also my home.' "'So you've found the young lady,' said the elderly lady, "'smiling her welcome. "'And what does Miss Bale think of your proposition?' "'The young man Glover came in at that moment "'and, divested of his long raincoat and hat, "'he proved to be of a type that the universities turn out by the hundred. "'He was good-looking, too,' Lydia noticed, with feminine inconsequence, "'and there was something in his eyes that inspired trust. "'He nodded with a smile to Mrs. Wrennett, then turned to the girl. "'Now, Miss Bale, I don't know whether I ought to explain "'or whether my learned and distinguished friend prefers to save me the trouble.' "'Not me,' said the elder man hastily. "'My dear,' he turned to his wife, "'I think we'll leave Jack Glover to talk to this young lady.' "'Doesn't she know?' asked Mrs. Wrennett in surprise, and Lydia laughed, although she was feeling far from amused. The possible loss of her employment, the disquieting adventure of the evening, and now this further mystery all combined to set her nerves on edge. The girl waited until the door closed on his partner and his wife, and seemed inclined to wait a little longer, for he stood with his back to the fire, biting his lips and looking down thoughtfully at the carpet. "'I don't know just how to begin, Miss Bale,' he said, "'and having seen you, my conscience is beginning to work overtime. "'But I might as well start at the beginning. "'I suppose you have heard of the Bulford murder?' The girl stared at him. "'The Bulford murder?' she said incredulously, and he nodded. "'Why, of course, everybody has heard of that.' "'Then happily it is unnecessary to explain all the circumstances,' said Jack Glover, with a little grimace of distaste. "'I only know,' interrupted the girl, that Mr. Bulford was killed by a Mr. Meredith who was jealous of him, and that Mr. Meredith, when he went into the witness box, behaved disgracefully to his fiance. "'Exactly,' nodded Glover with a twinkle in his eye. "'In other words, he repudiated the suggestion that he was jealous, swore that he had already told Miss Briggerland that he could not marry her, and he did not even know that Bulford was paying attention to the lady.' "'He did that to save his life,' said Lydia quietly. "'Miss Briggerland swore in the witness box that no such interview had occurred,' Glover nodded. "'What you do not know, Miss Bale,' he said gravely, is that Jean Briggerland was Meredith's cousin, and unless certain things happen, she will inherit the greater part of six hundred thousand pounds from Meredith's estate. Meredith, I might explain, is one of my best friends, and the fact that he is now serving out a life sentence does not make him any less a friend. I am as sure as I am sure of yours sitting there that he no more killed Bulford than I did. I believe the whole thing was a plot to secure his death or settlement. My partner thinks the same. The truth is that Meredith was engaged to this girl. He discovered certain things about her and her father which are not greatly to their credit. He was never really in love with her, beautiful as she is, and he was trapped into the proposal. When he found out how things were shaping and heard some of the queer stories which were told about Briggerland and his daughter, he broke off the engagement and went that night to tell herself. The girl had listened in some bewilderment to this recital. I don't exactly see what all this is to do with me, she said, and again Jack Glover nodded. I can quite understand, he said, but I will tell you yet another part of the story which is not public property. Meredith's father was an eccentric man who believed in early marriages and it was a condition of his will that if Meredith was not married by his thirtieth birthday the money should go to his sister, her heirs and successors. His sister was Mrs. Briggerland who is now dead, her heirs are her husband and Jean Briggerland. There was a silence. The girl stared thoughtfully into the fire. How old is Mr. Meredith? He is thirty next Monday, said Glover quietly, and it is necessary that he should be married before next Monday. In prison, she asked, he shook his head. If such things are allowed that could have been arranged, but for some reason the home secretary refuses to exercise his discretion in this matter and has resolutely refused to allow such a marriage to take place. He objects on the ground of public policy, and I dare say from his point of view he is right. Meredith has a twenty-year sentence to serve. Then how, began Lydia, let me tell this story more or less understandably, said Glover with that little smile of his. Believe me, Miss Beale, I am not so keen upon the scheme as I was. If by chance, he spoke deliberately, we could get James Meredith into this house tomorrow morning. Would you marry him? Me, she gasped. Marry a man I've not seen, a murderer? Not a murderer, he said gently. But it is preposterous, impossible, she protested. Why me? He was silent for a moment. When this scheme was mooted, we looked around for someone to whom such a marriage would be of advantage, he said, speaking slowly. It was Renet's idea that we should search the county court records of London to discover if there was a girl who was in urgent need of money. There is no sureer way of unearthing financial skeletons than by searching county court records. We found four, only one of whom was eligible, and that was you. Don't interrupt me for a moment, please, he said raising his hand warningly as she was about to speak. We have made thorough inquiries about you, too thorough, in fact, because the Brigolins have smelled a rat and have been on our trail for a week. We know that you are not engaged to be married, we know that you have a fairly heavy burden of debts, and we know, too, that you are unencumbered by relations or friends. What we offer you, Miss Beale, and believe me, I feel rather a cad in being the median through which the offer is made, is five thousand pounds a year for the rest of your life, a sum of twenty thousand pounds down, and the assurance that you will not be troubled by your husband from the moment you are married. Lydia listened like one in a dream. It did not seem real. She would wake up presently and find Mrs. Morgan with a cup of tea in her hand and a plate of her indigestible cakes. Such things did not happen, she told herself, and yet here was a young man standing with his back to the fire explaining in the most commonplace conversational tone an offer which belongs strictly to the realm of romance and not to convincing romance at that. You've rather taken my breath away, she said after a while. All this once, thinking about, and if Mr. Meredith is in prison, Mr. Meredith is not in prison, said Glover quietly. He was released two days ago to go to a nursing home for a slight operation. He escaped from the nursing home last night and at this particular moment is in this house. She could only stare at him open-mouthed and he went on. The Brigolins know he has escaped. They probably thought he was here because we have had a police visitation this afternoon and the interior of the house and grounds have been searched. They know, of course, that Mr. Renit and I were his legal advisors and we expected them to come. How he escaped their observation is neither here nor there. Now, Miss Beale, what do you say? I don't know what to say, she said, shaking her head helplessly. I know I'm dreaming and if I had the moral courage to pinch myself hard I should wake up. Somehow I don't want to wake. It's so fascinatingly impossible. He smiled. Can I see Mr. Meredith? Not till tomorrow. I might say that we've made every changement for your wedding. The license has been secured and, at eight o'clock tomorrow morning, marriages before eight or after three are not legal in this country, by the way, a clergyman will attend and the ceremony will be performed. There was a long silence. Lydia sat on the edge of her chair, her elbows on her knees, her face in her hands. Glover looked down at her, seriously, pityingly, cursing himself that he was the exponent of the ungrotesque scheme. Presently she looked up. I think I will, she said a little wearily, and you were wrong about the number of judgment summonses. There were seventy-five in two years, and I'm so tired of lawyers. Thank you, said Jack Glover politely. End of Chapter 3 Chapter 4 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 4 All night long she had sat in the little bedroom to which Mrs. Rennet had led her, thinking, and thinking, and thinking. She could not sleep, although she had tried hard, the most of the night she spent pacing up and down from window to door turning over the amazing situation in which she found herself. She had never thought of marriage seriously, and really a marriage such as this presented no tears and might had the prelude been a little less exciting than accepted by her with relief. The prospect of being a wife and name only, and the thought that her husband would be for the next twenty years behind prison walls, neither distressed, nor horrified her. Somehow she accepted Glover's statement that Meredith was innocent without reservation. She wondered what Mrs. Morgan would say and what explanation she would give at the office. She was not particularly in love with her work, and it would be no wrench for her to drop it and give herself up to the serious study of art. Five thousand pounds a year. She could live in Italy. Study under the best masters. Have a car of her own. The possibility seemed illimitable. And the disadvantages? She shrugged her shoulders as she answered the question for the twentieth time. What disadvantages were there? She could not marry, but then she did not want to marry. She was not the kind of fallen love, she told herself. She was too independent, too sophisticated, and understood men and their weaknesses only too well. The Lord designed me for an old maid, she said to herself. At seven o'clock in the morning, a gray cheerless morning it was, thought Lydia, looking out of the window, Mrs. Wrennick came in with some tea. I'm afraid you haven't slept, my dear, she said with a glance at the bed. It's very trying for you. She laid her hand upon the girl's arms and squeezed it gently. And it's very trying for all of us, she said with a whimsical smile. I expect we shall all get into fearful trouble. That had occurred to the girl, too, remembering the gloomy picture which a glover had painted in the car. Won't this be very serious for you if the authorities find that you have connived at the escape, she asked? Escape, my dear. Mrs. Wrennick's face became a mask. I have not heard anything of an escape. All that we know is that poor Mr. Meredith, anticipating that the home office would allow him to get married, had made arrangements for the marriage at this house. How Mr. Meredith comes here is quite a matter outside our knowledge, said the diplomatic lady and Lydia laughed in spite of herself. She spent half an hour making herself presentable for the forthcoming ordeal. As a church clock struck eight, there came another tap on the door. It was Mrs. Wrennick again. They are waiting, she said. Her face was a little pale and her lips trembled. Lydia, however, was calmness itself as she walked into the drawing-room ahead of her hostess. There were four men, Glover and Wrennick, she knew, a third man wearing a clerical collar she guessed was the officiating priest whose attention was concentrated upon the force. He was a gaunt, unshaven man, his hair cut short, his face and figure wasted so that the clothes he wore hung on him. Her first feeling was one of revulsion. Her second was an impulsive pity. James Meredith, for she guessed it was he, appeared wretchedly ill. He swung round as she came in and looked at her intently, then walking quickly towards her he held out his thin hand. Miss Beale, isn't it? He said. I'm sorry to meet you under such unpleasant circumstances. Glover has explained everything, has he not? She nodded. His deep-set eyes had a magnetic quality that fascinated her. You understand the terms. Glover has told you just why this marriage must take place. He said, lowering his voice. Believe me, deeply grateful to you for falling in with my wishes. Without preliminary, he walked over to where the parson stood. We will begin now, he said simply. The ceremony seems so unreal to the girl that she did not realize what it portended, not even when a ring, a loosely fitting ring for Jack Glover had made the wildest guess at the size, was slipped over her finger. She knelt to receive the solemn benediction and got slowly to her feet and looked at her husband, strangely. I think I'm going to faint, she said. It was Jack Glover who caught her and carried her to the sofa. She woke with a confused idea that somebody was trying to hypnotize her and she opened her eyes to look upon the somber face of James Meredith. Better? He asked anxiously. I'm afraid you've had a trying time and no sleep you said, Mrs. Rennett. Mrs. Rennett shook her head. Well, you'll sleep tonight. Better than I shall. He smiled and then he turned to Rennett a grave and anxious man who stood nervously stroking his little beard watching the bridegroom. Mr. Rennett, he said, I must tell you in the presence of witnesses that I have escaped from a nursing home to which I had been sent by the clemency of the Secretary of State. When I informed you that I had received permission to come to your house this morning to get married I told you that which was not true. I'm sorry to hear that, said Rennett politely, and of course it is my duty to hand you over to the police, Mr. Meredith. It was all part of the game. The girl watched the play knowing that this scene was carefully rehearsed in order to absolve Rennett and his partner from complicity in the escape. Rennett had hardly spoken when there was a loud wrap-tap at the front door and Jack Glover hastened into the hall to answer. But it was not the policeman he had expected. It was a girl in a big sable coat muffled up to her eyes. She pushed past Jack, crossed the hall and walked straight into the drawing-room. Lydia, standing shakily by Mrs. Rennett's side, saw the visitor come in and then as she unfastened her coat recognized her with a gasp. It was the beautiful girl she had seen in the stalls of the theatre the night before. And what can we do for you? It was Glover's voice again bland and bantering. I want Meredith, said the girl shortly and Glover chuckled. You have wanted Meredith for a long time, Miss Briggerland, she said, and you're likely to want. You have arrived just a little too late. The girl's eyes fell upon the parson. Too late, she said slowly. Then he is married. She bit her red lips and nodded. Then she looked at Lydia and the blue eyes were expressionless. Meredith had disappeared. Lydia looked round for him in her distress, but he had gone. She wondered if he had gone out to the police to make a surrender, and she was still wondering when there came the sound of a shot. It was from the outside of the house and at the sound Glover ran through the doorway, crossed the hall and flew into the open. It was still snowing and there was no sign of any human being. He raced along a path which ran parallel with the house, turned the corner and dived into a shrubbery. Here the snow had not laid and he followed the garden path that twisted and turned through the thick laurel bushes and ended at a roughly built tool-house. As he came inside of the shed he stopped. A man lay on the ground, his arm extended, his head in the pool of blood, clutching a revolver. Jack uttered an exclamation of horror and ran to the site of the fallen man. It was James Meredith and he was dead. End of Chapter 4 Chapter 5 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 5 Jack Glover heard footsteps coming down the path and turned to meet a man who had detective written largely all over him. Jack turned and looked down again at the body as the man came up. Who is this? asked the officer sharply. It is James Meredith, said Jack simply. Dead? said the officer startled. He is committed suicide. Jack did not reply and watched the inspector as he made his brief examination of the body. A bullet had entered just below the left temple and there was a mark of powder near the face. A very bad business, Mr. Glover, said the police officer seriously. Can you account for this man being here? He came to get married, said Jack listlessly. I dare say that startles you but it is the fact. He was married less than ten minutes ago. If you will come up to the house I will explain his presence here. The detective hesitated but just then another of his comrades came on the scene and Jack led the way back to the house through a back door into Wrennett's study. The lawyer was waiting for them and he was alone. If I'm not very much mistaken your inspector collared of Scotland Yards, said Glover. That is my name, nodded the officer. Between ourselves, Mr. Glover, do not make any statement which you are not prepared to verify publicly. Jack noted the significance of the warning with a little smile and proceeded to tell the story of the wedding. I can only tell you he said an answer to a further inquiry that Mr. Meredith came into this house at a quarter to eight this morning and surrendered himself to my partner. At eight o'clock exactly as you are well aware Mr. Wrennett telephoned to Scotland Yards to say that Mr. Meredith was here during the period of his waiting he was married. Did a parson happen to be staying here, sir? asked the police officer sarcastically. He happened to be staying here, said Jack calmly, because I had arranged for him to be here. I knew that if it was humanly possible Mr. Meredith would come to this house and that his desire was to be married for reasons which my partner will explain. Did you help him to escape? That is asking you a leading question, Jack smiled the detective. Jack shook his head. I can answer you with perfect truth that I did not any more than the home secretary helped him when he gave him permission to go to a nursing home. Soon after the detective returned to the shed and Jack and his partner were left alone. Well, said Wrennett in a shaking voice, what happened? He's dead, said Jack quietly. Suicide? Jack looked at him oddly. Did Bulfurg commit suicide? He asked. Where is the angel? I left her in the drawing room with Mrs. Wrennett and Mrs. Beale. Mrs. Meredith corrected Jack quietly. This complicates matters, said Wrennett, but I think we can get out of our share of the trouble. Though it is going to look a little black. They found the three women in the drawing room. Jack, looking very white, came to meet them. What happened? She asked and then she gassed from his face. He's not dead, she gassed. Jack nodded. All the time his eyes were on the other girl. Her beautiful lips were drooped a little. There was a look of pain and sorrow in her eyes that caught his breath. Did he shoot himself? She asked in a low voice. Jack regarded her coldly. The only thing that I am certain about, and Lydia winced at the cruelty in his voice, is that you did not shoot him, Miss Briggerland. How dare you, flamed Jean Briggerland! The quick flush that came to her cheek was the only other evidence of emotion she betrayed. I dare say a lot, said Jack curtly. You asked me if it is a case of suicide and I tell you that it is not. It is a case of murder. James Meredith was found with revolver clutched in his right hand. He was shot through the left temple. And if you'll explain to me how any man holding a pistol in a normal way can perform that feat, I will accept your theory of suicide. There is a dead silence. Besides Jack went on with a little shrug, poor Jimmy had no pistol. Jean Briggerland had dropped her eyes and stood there with downcast head and compressed lips presently she looked up. I know how you feel, Mr. Glover, she said gently. I can well understand believing such dreadful things about me as you do that you must hate me. Her mouth quivered and her voice grew husky with sorrow. I loved James Meredith, she said, and he loved me. He loved you well enough to marry somebody else, so Jack Glover and Lydia was shocked. Mr. Glover, she said reproachfully, do you think it is right to say these things with poor Mr. Meredith lying dead? He turned slowly toward her and she saw in his humorous eyes a hardness that she had not seen before. Miss Briggerland has told us that I hate her, he said in an even voice, and she spoke nothing but the truth. I hate her perhaps beyond understanding. Mrs. Meredith, he emphasized the words and the girl winced, and one day, if the circumstantialists spare me, the circumstantialists, said Jean Briggerland slowly, I don't quite understand you. Jack Glover laughed and it was not a pleasant laugh. Perhaps you will, he said shortly, as to your loving poor Jim. Well, you know best. I am trying to be polite to you, Miss Briggerland, and not to gloat over the fact that you arrived too late to stop this wedding. And shall I tell you why you arrived too late? His eyes were laughing again. It was because I had arranged with the Vicar of St. Peter's to be here at nine o'clock this morning, while knowing that you and your little army of spies would discover the hour of the wedding and would take care to be here before. And then I secretly sent for an old Oxford friend of mine to be here at eight. He was here last night. Still she stood regarding him without visible evidence of the anger which Lydia thought would have been justified. I had no desire to stop the wedding, said the girl in a low, soft voice. If Jim preferred to be married in this way to somebody who does not know him, I can only accept his choice. She turned to the girl and held out her hand. I am very sorry that this tragedy has come to you, Mrs. Meredith, she said. May I wish you a greater happiness than any you have found. Lydia was touched by the sincerity, hurt a little by Glover's uncoothness, and could only warmly grip the little hand that was held out to her. I am sorry too, she said a little unsteadily, for you more than for anything else. The girl lowered her eyes and again her lips quivered, and then without a word she walked out of the room, pulling her sable wrap about her throat. It was noon before Rennet's car deposited Lydia Meredith at the door of her lodging. She found Mrs. Morgan in a great state of anxiety, and the stout little woman almost shed tears of joy at the sight of her. Oh, Miss, you've no idea how worried I've been, she babbled, and they've been around here from your newspaper office asking where you are. I thought you had been run over or something, and a daily megaphone has sent to all the hospitals. I have been run over, said Lydia wearily. My poor mind has been under the wheels of a dozen motor-buses, and my soul has been in a hundred collisions. Mrs. Morgan gaped at her. She had no sense of metaphor. It's all right, Mrs. Morgan laughed her lodger over her shoulder as she went up the stairs. I haven't really, you know. Only I've had a worrying time. And, by the way, my name is Meredith. Mrs. Morgan collapsed onto a hall chair. Meredith, Miss! She said incredulously, Why, I knew your father. I've been married, that's all, said Lydia grimly. He told me yesterday that I should be married romantically, but even in the wildest flights of your imagination, Mrs. Morgan, you could never have supposed that I should be married in such a violent, desperate way. I'm going to bed. She paused on the landing and looked down at the dumbfounded woman. If anybody calls for me, I am not at home. Oh, yes, you can tell the megaphone that I came home very late and that I've gone to bed and I'll call to-morrow to explain. But, Miss! stammered the woman. Your husband! My husband is dead, said the girl calmly. She felt a brute, but somehow she could not raise any note of sorrow. And if that lawyer man comes, will you please tell him that I shall have twenty thousand pounds in the morning? And with that last staggering statement she went through her room, leaving her landlady speechless. End of Chapter 5 Chapter 6 The police search of the house and grounds at Dulloch Grange, Mr. Renet's residence, occupied the whole of the morning and neither Renet's nor Jack's assistance was invited or offered. Before long, the police were asked to come and visit the house. They were asked to come and visit the house. They were asked to come and visit the house. They were asked to come and visit the house. The whole of the morning and neither Renet's nor Jack's assistance was invited or offered. Before luncheon Inspector Colleague came to the study. We've had a good look round your place, Mr. Renet, he said. And I think we know where the deceased hid himself. Indeed, said Mr. Renet. That hut of yours in the garden is used, I suppose, for a tool-house. There are no tools there now, and one of my men discovered that you can pull up the whole of the floor. Mr. Renet knotted. I believe it was used as a wine cellar by a former tenant of the house, he said coolly. We have no cellars at the Grange, you know. I do not drink wine, and I've never had occasion to use it. That's where he was hidden. We found a blanket and pillows down there, and as you say, it has obviously been a wine cellar, because there is a ventilating shaft leading up into the bushes. We should never have found the trap, but one of my men felt one of the corners of the floor give under his feet. The two men said nothing. Another thing, the detective went on slowly, is that I am inclined to agree that Meredith did not commit suicide. We found footmarks quite fresh leading round to the back of the hut. A big foot or a little foot, asked Jack quickly. It is rather a big foot, said the detective, and it has rubber heels. We traced it to a gate at the back of your premises. And the gate has been opened recently. Probably by Mr. Meredith when he came to the house. It's a queer case, Mr. Renet. What is the pistol? That's new, too, said Cullard. Belgian make an impossible to trace, I should imagine. You can't keep track of these Belgian weapons. You can buy them in any shop, in any town, in Austin or Brussels, and I don't think it is the practice for the cellars to keep any record of the numbers. In fact, said Jack quietly, it is the same kind of pistol that killed Bullford. Cullard raised his eyebrows. So it was, but wasn't it established that that was Mr. Meredith's own weapon? Jack shook his head. The only thing that was established was that he had seen the body and he picked up the pistol which was lying near the dead man. The shop was fired as he opened the door of Mr. Briggerland's house. Then he saw the figure on the pavement and picked up the pistol. He was in that position when Miss Briggerland, who testified against him, came out of the house and saw him. The detective nodded. I had nothing to do with the case, he said, but I remember seeing the weapon. And it was identical with this. I'll talk to the chief and let you know what he says about the whole affair. You'll have to give evidence at the inquest, of course. When he had gone the two men looked at one another. Well, Renet, do you think we're going to get into hot water or are we going to perjure our way to safety? There is no need for perjury. Not serious perjury, said the other carefully. By the way, Jack, where was Briggerland when not Bulford was murdered? When Miss Jean Briggerland had recovered from her whore, she went upstairs and aroused her father, who, despite the early hour, was in bed and asleep. When the police came, or rather when the detective in charge of the case arrived, which must have been some time after the policeman on point duty put in an appearance, Mr. Briggerland was discovered in a picturesque dressing-gown. And I presume no less picturesque pajamas. Horrified to, I suppose, said Renet dryly. Jack was silent for a long time then. Renet, he said, do you know, I am more rattled about this girl than I am about any consequences to ourselves. Which girl are you talking about? About Mrs. Meredith. Whilst poor Meredith was alive she was in no particular danger. But do you realize that what were advantages from our point of view, namely the fact that she had no relations in the world, are to-day a source of considerable peril to this unfortunate lady? I had forgotten that, said Renet thoughtfully. What makes matters a little more complicated is the will which Meredith made this morning before he was married. Jack whistled. Did he make a will, he said in surprise. His partner nodded. You remember he was here with me for half an hour. Well, he insisted upon writing out a will and my wife and Bolton the butler witnessed it. And he has left his money. To his wife, absolutely, replied the other. The poor old chap was so frantically keen on keeping the money out of the Briggerlundix-chacker that he was prepared to entrust the whole of his money to a girl he had not seen. Jack was serious now. And the Briggerlunds are her heirs. Do you realize that, Renet? There's going to be hell. Mr. Renet nodded. I thought that, too, he said quietly. Jack sank down. Jack sank down in a seat. His face screwed up into a hideous frown and the elder man did not interrupt his thought. Suddenly Jack's face cleared and he smiled. Jags, he said softly. Jags, repeated his puzzled partner. Jags, said Jack nodding. He's the fellow. We've got to meet strategy with strategy, Renet. And Jags is the boy to do it. Mr. Renet looked at him helplessly. Could Jags get us out of our trouble, too? He asked sarcastically. He could even do that, replied Jack. And bring him along. For I have an idea he'll have the time of his life. End of chapter 6 Chapter 7 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 7 Miss Jean Briggerland reached her home in Berkeley Street soon after 9 o'clock. She did not rang but let herself in with a key and went straight to the dining room where her father sat eating his breakfast with a newspaper propped up before him. He was a dark-skinned man whom Lydia had seen at the theatre, and he looked up over his gold-rimmed spectacles as the girl came in. You have been out very early, he said. She did not reply but slowly divesting herself of her sable coat she threw it onto a chair, took off the toque that graced her shapely head and flung it after the coat. Then she drew out a chair and sat down at the table, her chin on her palms, her blue eyes fixed upon her parent. Nature had so favoured her that her face needed no artificial embellishment. The skin was clear and fine of texture, and the cold morning had brought only a faint pink to the beautiful face. Well, my dear, Mr. Briggerland looked up and beamed through his glasses. So poor Meredith has committed suicide! She did not speak, keeping her eyes fixed on him. Very sad, very sad, Mr. Briggerland shook his head. How did it happen, she asked quietly. Mr. Briggerland shrugged his shoulders. I suppose at the sight of you he bolded back to his hiding-place where, uh, had been located by, um, interested persons during the night, then seeing me by the shed he committed the rash and fatal act. Somehow I thought it would run back to his dugout. And you were prepared for him, she said. He smiled. A clear case of suicide, my dear, he said. Shot through the left temple and the pistol was found in his right hand, said the girl. Mr. Briggerland started. Damn it, he said. Who noticed that? That good-looking young lawyer Glover. Did the police notice? I suppose they did when Glover called their attention to the fact, said the girl. Mr. Briggerland took off his glasses and wiped them. It was done in such a hurry. I had to get back to the garden gate to join the police. When I got there I found they'd been attracted by the shot and it entered the house. Still, nobody would know I was in the garden. And anyway, my association with the capture of an escaped convict would not get into the newspapers. But a case of suicide would, said the girl. Though I don't suppose the police will give away the person who informed them that James Meredith would be at Dillich Grange. Mr. Briggerland sat back in his chair, his thick lips pursed, and he was not a beautiful sight. One can't remember everything, he grumbled. He rose from his chair, went to the door, and locked it. Then he crossed to a bureau, pulled open a door, and took out a small revolver. He threw out the cylinder, glanced along the barrel and the chambers to make sure it was not loaded, then clicked it back in position, and standing before a glass he endeavored the pistol in his right hand to bring the muzzle to bear on his left temple. He found this impossible and signified his annoyance with a grunt. Then he tried the pistol with his thumb on the trigger and his hand clasping the back of the butt. Here he was more successful. That's it, he said, with satisfaction. It could have been done that way. She did not shudder at the dreadful sight, but watched him with the keenest interest, her chin still in the palm of her hand. He might have been explaining a new way of serving a tennis ball for all the emotion he evoked. Mr. Briggerland came back to the table, toyed with a piece of toast, and buttered it leisurely. Everybody is going to can this year, he said, but I think I shall stick to Monte Carlo. There is a quiet about Monte Carlo, which is very restful, especially if one can get a villa on the hill away from the railway. I told Morton yesterday to take the new car across and meet a set balloon. He says that the new body is its squizzet. There is a microphonic attachment for telephoning to the driver. The electrical heating apparatus is splendid, and Meredith was married. If she had thrown a bomb at him she could not have produced a more tremendous sensation. He gaped at her and pushed himself back from the table. Married? His voice was a squeak, she nodded. It's a lie, he roared. All his suavity dropped away from him. His face was distorted and puckered with anger, and grew a shade darker. Married! You lying little beast! He couldn't have been married. It was only a few minutes after eight, and the parson didn't come till nine. Brick your neck if you try to scare me! I've told you about that before! He raved on and she listened unmoved. He was married at eight o'clock by a man they brought down from Oxford and who stayed the night in the house. She repeated with great calmness. There's no sense in lashing yourself into a rage. I've seen the bride and spoken to the clergyman. From the bullying, raging madman he became a whimpering, pitiable thing. His chin trembled, the big hands he laid on the tablecloth shook with a fever. What are we going to do? he wailed. My God-gene, what are we going to do? She rose and went to the sideboard, poured out a stiff dose of brandy from a decanter and brought it across to him without a word. She was used to these tantrums and to their inevitable ending. She was neither hurt, surprised, nor disgusted. This pale, ethereal being was the dominant partner of the combination. Nerves she did not possess. Fears she did not know. She had acquired the precise sense of a great surgeon in whom pity was a detached emotion and one which never intruded itself into the operating chamber. She was no more phenomenal than they, save that she did not feel bound by the conventions and laws which govern them as members of an ordered society. It requires no greater nerve to slay than to cure. She had had that matter out with herself and had settled it to her own satisfaction. You will have to put off your trip to Monte Carlo, she said as he drank the brandy greedily. We've lost everything now, he stuttered. Everything! This girl has no relations, said the daughter steadily. Her heirs at law are ourselves. He put down the glass and looked at her and became almost immediately his old self. My dear, he said admiringly, you are really wonderful. Of course. It was childish of me. Now, what do you suggest? Unlock that door, she said in a low voice. I want to call the maid. As he walked to the door she pressed the foot-bell and soon after the fated woman who attended her came into the room. Heart, she said, I want you to find my emerald ring, the small one, the little pearl necklace and the diamond scarf pin. Pack them carefully in a box with cotton wool. Yes, madam, said the woman and went out. Now what are you going to do, Jean? asked her father. I am returning them to Mrs. Meredith, said the girl coolly. They were presents given to me by her husband and I feel after this tragic ending of my dream that I can no longer bear the sight of them. He didn't give you those things, he gave you the chain. Besides, you're throwing away good money. I know he never gave them to me and I am not throwing away good money, she said patiently. Mrs. Meredith will return them and she will give me an opportunity of throwing a little light upon James Meredith. An opportunity which I very much desire. Later she went up to her pretty little sitting-room on the first floor and wrote a letter. Dear Mrs. Meredith, I am sending you the few trinkets which James gave to me in happier days. They are all that I have of his and you as a woman will realize that whilst the possession of them brings me many unhappy memories, yet they have been a certain comfort to me. I wish I could dispose of memory as easily as I send these to you, for I feel they are really your property, but more do I wish that I could recall and obliterate the occasion which has made Mr. Glover so bitter an enemy of mine. Thinking over the past, I see that I was at fault, but I know that you will sympathize with me when the truth is revealed to you. A young girl, unused to the ways of men, perhaps I attached too much importance to Mr. Glover's attentions and resented them too crudely. In those days I thought it was unpardonable that a man who professed to be poor James's best friend should make love to his fiancee, though I suppose that such things happen and are endured by the modern girl. A man does not readily forgive a woman for making him feel a fool. It is the one unpardonable offense that a girl can commit. Therefore I do not resent his enmity as much as you might think. Believe me, I feel for you very much in these trying days. Let me say again that I hope your future will be bright. She blotted the letter, put it in an envelope, and addressed it, and, taking down a book from one of the well-stocked shells, drew her chair to the fire and began reading. Mr. Briggerland came in an hour after, looked over her shoulder at the title, and made a sound of disapproval. I can't understand your liking for that kind of book, he said. The book was one of the two volumes of Chronicles of Crime, and she looked up with a smile. Can't you? It's very easily explained. It is the most encouraging work in my collection. Sit down for a minute. A record of vulgar criminals, he growled, their infernal last dying speeches, their processions to Tyburn. Fuck! She smiled again and looked down at the book. The wide margins were covered with penciled notes in her writing. Their splendid mental exercise, she said. In every case I have written down how the criminal might have escaped arrest, but they were all so vulgar and so stupid. Really the police of the time deserve no credit for catching them. It is the same with modern criminals. She went to the shelf and took down two large scrapbooks, carried them across to the fire, and opened one on her knees. Vulgar and stupid, every one of them, she repeated as she turned the leaves rapidly. The clever ones get caught at times, said Briggerland gloomily. Never, she said, enclosed the book with a snap. In England, in France, in America, and in almost every civilized country there are murderers walking about today, respected by their fellow citizens. Murderers of whose crimes the police are ignorant. Look at these! She opened the book again. Here is the case of Rel, who poisons a troublesome creditor with weed-killer. Everybody in the town knew he bought the weed-killer. Everybody knew that he was in debt to this man. What chance had he of escaping? Here's Jewelville. He kills his wife, buries her in the cellar, and then calls attention to himself by running away. Here's Morton, who kills his sister-in-law for the sake of her insurance money, and who also buys the poison in broad daylight, and is found with a bottle in his pocket. Such people deserve hanging. I wish to heaven you wouldn't talk about hanging, said Briggerland tremulously. You're inhuman, Jean, by God! I'm an angel, she smiled, and I have press-cuttings to prove it. The Daily Recorder had half a column on my appearance in the box at Jim's trial. He looked over toward the writing-table, saw the letter, and picked it up. So you've written to the lady. Are you sending her the jewels? She nodded. He looked at her quickly. You haven't been up to any funny business with them, have you? He asked suspiciously, and she smiled. My dear parent, Droll Jean Briggerland, after my lecture on the stupidity of the average criminal, do you imagine I should do anything so... gauche? End of Chapter 7. Chapter 8 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 8. And now, Mrs. Meredith, said Jack Glover, what are you going to do? He had spent the greater part of the morning with the new heiress, and Lydia Head listened speechless as he recited a long and meaningless list of securities, of estates, of ground rents, balances, and the like which she had inherited. What am I going to do, she said, shaking her head hopelessly? I don't know. I haven't the slightest idea, Mr. Glover. It is so bewildering. Do I understand that all this property is mine? Not yet, said Jack with a smile, but it is so much yours that on the strength of the will we are willing to advance you money to almost any extent. The will has to be proved and probate must be taken, but when these legal formalities are settled and we have paid the very heavy death duties, you will be entitled to dispose of your fortune as you wish. As a matter of fact, he added, you could do that now. At any rate, you cannot live here and bring some street, and I have taken the liberty of hiring a furnished flat on your behalf. One of our clients has gone away to the Continent and left the flat for me to dispose of. The rent is very low, about twenty guineas a week. Why, I can't. And then she realized that she could. Twenty guineas a week was as nothing to her. This fact more than anything else brought her to an understanding of her fortune. I suppose I had better move, she said dubiously. Mrs. Morgan is giving up this house and she asked me whether I had any plans. I think she'd be willing to come as my housekeeper. Excellent, not a Jack. You'll want a maid as well, and of course you will have to put up Jags for the night. Jags? She said in astonishment. Jags, repeated Jack solemnly. You see, Miss—I beg your pardon, Mrs. Meredith, I'm rather concerned about you and I want you to have somebody on hand I can rely on, sleeping in your flat at night. I daresay you think I am an old woman, he said, as he saw her smile, and that my fears are groundless, but you will agree that your own experience of last week will support the theory that anything may happen in London. But really, Mr. Glover, you don't mean that I'm in any serious danger. From whom? From a lot of people, he said diplomatically. From poor Miss Briggerland, she challenged, and his eyes narrowed. Poor Miss Briggerland, he said softly. She certainly is poorer than she expected to be. Nonsense, scoffed the girl. She was irritated, which was unusual in her. My dear Mr. Glover, why do you pursue your vendetta against her? Do you think it is playing the game honestly now? Isn't it a case of wounded vanity on your part? He stared at her in astonishment. Wounded vanity? Do you mean peak? She nodded. Why should I be peaked, he said slowly? You know best, replied Lydia, and then a light dawned on him. Have I been making love to Miss Briggerland by any chance, he asked? You know best, she repeated. Good Lord! And then he began to laugh, and she thought he would never stop. I suppose I made love to her, and she was angry because I dared to commit such an act of treachery to her fiance. Yes, that was it. I made love to her behind poor Jim's back, and she ticked me off, and that's why I'm so annoyed with her. You have a very good memory, said Lydia, with a scornful little smile. My memory isn't as good as Miss Briggerland's power of invention, said Jack. Doesn't it strike you, Mrs. Meredith, that if I had made love to that young lady I should not be seen here today? What do you mean, she asked? I mean, said Jack Glover soberly, that it would not have been Bulford, but I, who would have been lured from his club by a telephone message and told to wait outside the door on Berkeley Street. It would have been I, who would have been shot dead by Miss Briggerland's father from the drawing-room window. The girl looked at him in amazement. What a preposterous charge to make, she said at last indignantly. Do you suggest that this girl has connived at a murder? I not only suggest that she connived at it, but I stake my life that she planned it, said Jack carefully. But the pistol was found near Mr. Bulford's body, said Lydia almost triumphantly, as she conceived this unanswerable argument. Jack nodded. From Bulford's body to the drawing-room window was exactly nine feet. It was possible to pitch the pistol so that it fell near him. Bulford was waiting there by the instructions of Jean Briggerland. We have traced the telephone call that came through to him from the club. It came from the Briggerland's house in Berkeley Street, and the attendant at the club was sure it was a woman's voice. We didn't find that out till after the trial. Poor Meredith was in the hall when the shot was fired. The signal was given when he turned the handle to let himself out. He heard the shot, rushed down the steps, and saw the body. Whether he picked up the pistol or not, I do not know. Jean Briggerland swears he had it in his hand. But of course Jean Briggerland is a hopeless liar. You can't know what you're saying, said Lydia, in a low voice. It's a dreadful charge to make dreadful against a girl whose very face refutes such an accusation. Her face is her fortune, snapped Jack, and then penitently. I'm sorry I'm rude, but somehow the very mention of Jean Briggerland arouses all that is worse to me. Now, you will accept Jags, won't you? Who is he, she asked? He's an old army pensioner, a weird bird as shrewd as a dickens, in spite of his age a pretty powerful old fellow. Oh, he's old, she said with some relief. He's old, and in some ways incapacitated. He hasn't the use of his right arm, and he's a bit groggy in one of his ankles as a result of a bore bullet. She laughed in spite of herself. He doesn't sound a very attractive kind of guardian. He's a perfectly clean old bird, though. I confess he doesn't look it, and he won't bother you or your servants. You can give him a room where he can sit, and you can give him a bit of bread and cheese and a glass of beer, and he'll not bother you. Lydia was amused now. It was absurd that Jack Glover should imagine she needed a guardian at all, but if he insisted, as he did, it would be better to have somebody as harmless as the unattractive Jags. What time will he come? About ten o'clock every night, and he'll leave you at about seven in the morning, unless you wish you need never see him, said Jack. How did you come to know him, she asked curiously. I know everybody, said the boastful young man. You mustn't forget that I am a lawyer and have to meet very queer people. He gathered up his papers and put them into his little bag. And now, what are your plans for today, he demanded. She resented the self-imposed guardianship which he had undertaken, yet she could not forget what she owed him. By some extraordinary means he had kept her out of the Meredith case, and she had not been called as a witness at the inquest. Incidentally, in his mysterious away, he had managed to whitewash his partner and himself, although the Law Society were holding an inquiry of their own. Although the girl did not know, it seemed likely that he would escape the consequence of an act which was a flagrant breach of the law. I am going to Mrs. Cole Mortimer's to tea, she said. Mrs. Cole Mortimer, he said quickly? How do you come to know that, lady? Really, Mr. Glover, you are almost impertinent! She smiled in spite of her annoyance. She came to call on me two or three days after that dreadful morning. She knew Mr. Meredith and was an old friend of the families. As a matter of fact, said Jack Isley, she did not know Meredith except to say how do you do to him, and she was certainly not a friend of the family. She is, however, a friend of Jean Briggerland. Jean Briggerland, said the exasperated girl. Can't you forget her? You are like the man in Dickens' books, she's your King Charles' head. Really, for a respectable and responsible lawyer, you're simply eaten up with prejudices. Of course she was a friend of Mr. Meredith's. Why, she brought me a photograph of him, take him when he was at Eaton. Supplied by Jean Briggerland, said the umpire, Jack Comley, and if she brought you a pair of socks he wore when he was a baby, I suppose you would have accepted those, too. Now you are being really abominable, said the girl, and I've got a lot to do. Don't forget you can move into Cavendish mansion's to-morrow. I'll send the key round, and the day you move in, Jags will turn up for duty, bright and smiling. He doesn't talk a great deal. I don't suppose you ever give the poor man a chance, she said cuttingly. End of chapter 8 CHAPTER 9 Mrs. Cole Mortimer was a representative of a numerous class of women who lived so close to the borderline, which separates good society from society which is not quite as good, that the members of either set thought she was in the other. She had a small house where she gave big parties, and nobody quite knew how this widow of an Indian colonel made both ends meet. It was the fact that her menage was an expensive one to maintain. She had a car, she entertained in London in the season, and disappeared from the metropolis when it was the correct thing to disappear, a season of exile which comes between the Goodwood race meeting in the south and the Doncaster race meeting in the north. Lydia had been surprised to receive a visit from this elegant lady, and had readily accepted the story of her friendship with James Meredith. Mrs. Cole Mortimer's invitation she had welcomed. She needed some distraction, something which would smooth out the ravelled threads of life which were now even more tangled than she had ever expected they could be. Mr. Rennett had handed to her a thousand pounds a day after the wedding, and, when she had recovered from the shock of possessing such a large sum, she hired a taxicab and indulged herself in a wild orgy of shopping. The relief she experienced when he informed her he was taking charge of her affairs, and settling the debts which had worried her for three years was so great that she felt as though a heavy weight had been lifted from her heart. It was in one of her new frocks that Lydia, feeling more confident than usual, made her call. She had expected to find a crowd at the house in Hyde Park Crescent, and she was surprised when she was ushered into the drawing-room to find only four people present. Mrs. Cole Mortimer was a chirpy, pale little woman of forty-something. It would be un-gallant to say how much that something represented. She came toward Lydia without stretched hands. "'My dear,' she said, with extravagant pleasure. "'I am glad you were able to come. You know Miss Briggerland and Mr. Briggerland.' Lydia looked up at the tall figure of the man she had seen in the stalls the night before her wedding and recognized him instantly. "'Mr. Marcus Stepney, I don't think you have met.' Lydia bowed to a smart-looking man of thirty, immaculately attired. He was a very handsome, she thought, in a dark way, but he was just a little too new to please her. She did not like fashion-plate men, and although the most captious of critics could not have found fault with his correct attire, he gave her the impression of being overdressed.' Lydia had not expected to meet Miss Briggerland and her father, although she had a dim recollection that Mrs. Cole Mortimer had mentioned her name. Then, in a flash, she recalled the suspicions of Jack Glover which she had covered with ridicule. The association made her feel a little uncomfortable, and Jean Briggerland, whose intuition was a little short of uncanny, must have read the doubt in her face. "'Mrs. Meredith expected to see us, didn't she, Margaret?' she said, addressing the twittering hostess. "'Surely you told her we were great friends.' "'Of course I did, my dear. Knowing your dear cousin and his dear father, it is not remarkable that I should know the whole of the family.' And she smiled wisely from one to the other.' Of course! How absurd she was, thought Lydia! She had almost forgotten, and probably Jack Glover had forgotten, too, that the Briggerlands in the Merediths were relighted. She found herself talking in a corner of the room with a girl and fell to studying her face anew. A closer inspection merely consolidated her earlier judgment. She smiled inwardly as she remembered Jack Glover's ridiculous warning. It was like killing a butterfly with a steam hammer to lose so much vengeance against this frail piece of china. "'And how do you feel now that you're very rich?' asked Jean kindly. "'I haven't realized it yet, smiled Lydia.' Jean nodded. "'I suppose you have yet to settle with the lawyers. Who are they?' "'Oh yes, of course, Mr. Glover was poor Jim Solicitor.' She sighed. "'I dislike lawyers,' she said with a shiver. They are so heavily paternal. They feel that they and they only are qualified to direct your life and your actions. I suppose it is second nature with them.' Then, of course, they make an awful lot of money out of commissions and fees, though I'm sure Jack Glover wouldn't worry about that. "'He's really a nice boy,' she said earnestly, and I don't think you could have a better friend.' Lydia glowed at the generosity of this girl whom the man had so maligned. "'He has been very good to me,' she said, although, of course, he is a little fussy.' Jean's lips twitched with amusement. "'Has he warned you against me?' she asked solemnly. "'Has he told you what a terrible ogre I am?' And then, without waiting for a reply, I sometimes think poor Jack is just a little—' Well, I wouldn't say mad, but a little queer. His dislikes are so violent, he positively loathes Margaret, though why I have never been able to understand.' "'He doesn't hate me,' laughed Lydia, and Jean looked at her strangely.' "'No, I suppose not,' she said. I can't imagine anybody hating you, Lydia. May I call you by your Christian name?' "'I wish you would,' said Lydia warmly. "'I can't imagine anybody hating you,' repeated the girl thoughtfully. "'And, of course, Jack wouldn't hate you because you're his client—a very rich and attractive client, too, my dear.' She tapped the girl's cheek, and Lydia, for some reason, felt foolish. But as though unconscious of the embarrassment she had caused, Jean went on. "'I don't really blame him, either. I've assured suspicion that all these warnings against me and against other possible enemies will furnish a very excellent excuse for seeing you every day and acting as your personal bodyguard.' Lydia shook her head. "'That part of it he has relegated already,' she said, giving smile for smile. He has appointed Mr. Jags as my bodyguard.' "'Mr. Jags?' The tone was even. The note of inquiry was not strained.' "'He's an old gentleman in whom Mr. Glover is interested—an old army pensioner. Beyond the fact that he hasn't the use of his right arm and limbs with his left leg, and that he likes beer and cheese, he seems an admirable watchdog,' said Lydia humorously. "'Jaggs,' repeated the girl, "'I wonder where I've heard that name before. Is he a detective?' "'No, I don't think so. But Mr. Glover thinks I ought to have some sort of man sleeping in my new flat, and Jags was duly engaged.' Soon after this Mr. Marcus Stepney came over, and Lydia found him rather uninteresting. Less boring was Briggerland, for he had a fund of stories and experiences to relate, and he had, too, one of those soft soothing voices that are so rare in men. It was dark when she came out with Mr. and Miss Briggerland, and she felt that the afternoon had not been unprofitably spent, for she had a clearer conception of the girl's character, and was getting Jagg Glover's interest into better perspective. The mercenary part of it made her just a little sick. There was something so mysterious, so ugly in his outlook on life, and there might not be a little self-interest in his care for her. She stood on the step of the house, talking to the girl, whilst Mr. Briggerland lit a cigarette with a patent lighter. Hyde Park Crescent was deserted, save for a man who stood near the railings which protected the area of Mrs. Cole Mortimer's house. He was apparently tying his shoelaces. They went down on the sidewalk, and Mr. Briggerland looked for his car. I'd like to take you home. My chauffeur promised to be here at four o'clock. These men are most untrustworthy. From the other end of the Crescent appeared the lights of a car. At first Lydia thought it might be Mr. Briggerland, and she was going to make her excuses for she wanted to go home alone. The car was coming, too, at a tremendous pace. She watched it as it came furiously toward her, and she did not notice that Mr. Briggerland and his daughter had left her standing alone on the sidewalk and had withdrawn a few paces. Suddenly the car made a swerve, mounted the sidewalk, and dashed upon her. It seemed that nothing could save her, and she stood fascinated with horror, waiting for death. Then an arm gripped her waist, a powerful arm that lifted her from her feet and flung her back against the railings as a car flashed past the mudguard missing her by an inch. The machine pulled up with a jerk, and the white-faced girl saw Briggerland and Jean running toward her. I should never have forgiven myself if anything had happened. I think my chauffeur must be drunk," said Briggerland in an agitated voice. She had no words. She could only nod, and then she remembered her preserver, and she turned to meet the solemn eyes of a bent old man whose pointed white beard and bristling white eyebrows gave him a hawk-like appearance. His right hand was thrust into his pocket. He was touching his battered hat with the other. "'Beg pardon, miss,' he said rockously. "'Name a Jaggs, and I have reported for duty.' CHAPTER X Jack Glover listened gravely to the story which the girl told. He had called at her lodgings on the following morning to secure her signature to some documents, and breathlessly, in a little shame-face, at least she told him what had happened. Of course it was an accident, she insisted. In fact, Mr. and Miss Briggerland were almost knocked down by the car. But you don't know how thankful I am your Mr. Jaggs was on the spot. "'Where is he now?' asked Jack. "'I don't know,' replied the girl. He just limped away without another word, and I did not see him again, though I thought I caught a glimpse of him as I came into this house last night.' "'How did he come to be on the spot?' she asked curiously. "'That is easily explained,' replied Jack. "'I told the old boy not to let you out of his sight from sundown to sun-up.' "'Then you think I'm safe during the day,' she rallied him. He nodded. "'I don't know whether to laugh at you or to be very angry,' she said, shaking her head reprovingly. "'Of course it was an accident.' "'I disagree with you,' said Jack. "'Did you catch a glimpse of this chauffeur?' "'No,' she said in surprise. "'I didn't think of looking at him.' He nodded. "'If you had, you would probably have seen an old friend, namely the gentleman who carried you off from the Irving Theatre,' he said quietly. It was difficult for Lydia to analyze her own feelings. She knew that Jack Glover was wrong, monstrously wrong. She was perfectly confident that his fantastic theory had no foundation, and yet she could not get away from his sincerity. Remembering Jean's description of him as a little queer, she tried to fit that description into her knowledge of him, only to admit to herself that he had been exceptionally normal as far as she was concerned. The suggestion that his object was mercenary, and that he looked upon her as a profitable match for himself, she dismissed without consideration. "'Anyway, I like you, Mr. Jags,' she said. "'Better than you like me, I gather from your tone,' smiled Jack. "'He's not a bad old boy.' "'He's a very strong old boy,' she said. He lifted me as though I were a feather. I don't know how I escaped. The steering-gear went wrong,' she explained unnecessarily. "'Dear me,' said Jack politely, and it went right again in time to enable the chauffeur to keep clear of Briggerland and his angel daughter.' She gave a gesture of despair. "'You're hopeless,' she said. "'These things happened in the dark ages. Men and women do not assassinate one another in the twentieth century.' "'Who told you that?' he demanded. "'Human nature hasn't changed for two thousand years. The instinct to kill is as strong as ever, or wars would be impossible. If any man or woman could commit one cold-blooded murder, there is no reason why he or she should not commit a hundred.' In England, America, and France fifty cold-blooded murders are detected every year. Twice that number are undetected. It does not make the crime more impossible because the criminal is good-looking.' "'You're hopeless,' she said again, and Jack made no further attempt to convince her.' On the Thursday of that week she exchanged her lodgings for a handsome flat in Cavendish Place, and Mrs. Morgan had promised to join her a week later when she had settled up her own business affairs. Lydia was fortunate enough to get two maids from one of the agencies, one of whom was to sleep on the premises. The flat was not illimitable, and she regretted that she had promised to place a room at the disposal of the aged Mr. Jags. If he was awake all night, as she presumed he would be, and slept in the day, he might have been accommodated in the kitchen, and she hinted as much to Jack. To her surprise the lawyer had turned down that idea. "'You don't want your servants to know that you have a watchman?' "'What do you imagine they will think he is?' she asked gormfully. "'How can I have an old gentleman in the flat without explaining why he is there?' Your explanation could be that he did the boots. It wouldn't take him all night to do the boots. Of course I'm too grateful to him to want him to do anything!' Mr. Jags reported again for duty that night. He came at half-past nine a shabby-looking old man, and Lydia, who had not yet got used to her new magnificence, came out into the hall to meet him. He was certainly not a prepossessing object, and Lydia discovered that, in addition to his other misfortunes, he had a slight squint. "'I hadn't an opportunity of thanking you the other day, Mr. Jags,' she said. "'I think you saved my life.' "'That's all right, Miss,' he said in his hoarse voice. "'Duty is duty!'' She thought he was looking past her till she realized that his curious slanting line of vision was part of his infirmity. "'I'll show you to your room,' she said hastily. She led the way down the corridor, opened the door of a small room which had been prepared for him, and switched on the light. "'Too much light for me, Miss,' said the old man shaking his head. "'I like to sit in the dark and listen. That's what I like—to sit in the dark and listen.' "'But you can't sit in the dark. You'll want to read, won't you?' "'Can't read, Miss,' said Jags carefully. "'Can't ride, either. I don't know that I'm any worse off.' Reluctantly she switched out the light. "'But you won't be able to see your food.' "'I can feel for that, Miss,' he said with a hoarse chuckle. "'Don't you worry about me. I'll just sit here and have a big thank.' If she was uncomfortable before, she was really embarrassed now. The very sight of the door behind which old Jags sat having his big thank was an irritation to her. She could not sleep for a long time that night for thinking of him sitting in the darkness and listening, as he put it, and had firmly resolved on ending a condition of affairs which was particularly distasteful to her when she fell asleep. She woke when the maid brought her tea to learn that Jags had gone. The maid, too, had her views on the old gentleman. She hadn't slept all night for the thought of him, she said, though probably this was an exaggeration. The arrangement must end, thought Lydia, and she called at Jack Glover's office that afternoon to tell him so. Jack listened without comment until she had finished. "'I'm sorry he is worrying you, but you'll get used to him in time, and I should be obliged if you kept him for a month. You would relieve me of a lot of anxiety.' At first she was determined to have her way, but he was so persistent, so pleading, that eventually she surrendered. Lucy, the new maid, however, was not so easily convinced. "'I don't like it, Miss,' she said. "'He's just like an old tramp, and I'm sure we shall be murdered in our beds.' "'How cheerful you are, Lucy,' laughed Lydia. "'Of course there is no danger for Mr. Jags, and he really was very useful to me.' The girl grumbled and assented a little sulkily, and Lydia had a feeling that she was going to lose a good servant. In this she was not mistaken. Old Jags called at half-past nine that night, and was admitted by the maid who stalked in front of him and opened his door. "'There's your room,' she snapped, and I'd rather have your room than your company.' "'Would you miss?' wheezed Jags, and Lydia, attracted by the sound of voices, came to the door and listened with some amusement. "'Lord, bless me, life. It ain't a bad room, either. Put the light out, my dear. I don't like light.' "'I like them dark. Lock them little cells in Holloway Prison, where you were took two years ago for robbing your misses.' Lydia's smile left her face. She heard the girl gasp. "'You old liar,' she hissed. "'Lucy Jones,' she called herself. "'It used to be merry welts in them days,' chuckled old Jags. "'I'm not going to be insulted,' almost screamed Lucy, though there was a note of fear in her strident voice. "'I'm going to leave tonight.' "'No, you ain't, my dear,' said old Jags complacently. "'You're going to sleep here tonight, and you're going to leave in the morning. If you try to get out of that door before I let you, you'll be pinched.' "'They've got nothing against me,' the girl was betrayed into saying. "'Boss characters, my dear, pretending to come from the agency when you didn't. That's another crime. Lord bless your heart. I've got enough against you to put you in jail for a year.' Lydia came forward. "'What is this you're saying about my maid?' "'Good evening, ma'am,' the old man knuckled his forehead. "'I'm just having an argument with your young lady.' "'Did you say she's a thief?' "'Of course she is, miss,' said Jags scornfully. "'You ask her.' But Lucy had gone into her room, slammed the door, and locked it. The next morning, when Lydia woke, the flat was empty, safe for herself. But she had hardly finished dressing when there came a knock at the door, and a trim, fresh-looking country girl with an expansive smile and a look of good cheer that warmed Lydia's heart appeared. "'You're the lady that once a maid, ma'am, aren't you?' "'Yes,' said Lydia, in surprise. "'But who sent you?' "'I was telegraphed for yesterday, ma'am, from the country.' "'Come in,' said Lydia helplessly. "'Isn't it right?' asked the girl, a little disappointedly. "'They sent me my fare. I came up by the first train.' "'It is quite all right,' said Lydia. "'Only I'm wondering who is running this flat, me or Mr. Jags.' CHAPTER X Jean Briggerland had spent a very busy afternoon. There had been a string of callers at the handsome house in Berkeley Street. Mr. Briggerland was of a philanthropic bent and had instituted a club in the east end of London which was intended to raise the moral tone of Limehouse, Wapping, Poplar, and the adjacent districts. It was started without ostentation with a man named Fair as general manager. Mr. Fair had had in his lifetime several hectic contests with the police in which he had been invariably the loser, and it was in his role as a reformed character that he undertook the management of this social uplift club. Well-meaning police officials had warned Mr. Briggerland that Fair had a bad character. Mr. Briggerland listened, was grateful for the warning, but explained that Fair had come under the influence of the new uplift movement and from hence forward he would be an exemplary citizen. Later the police had occasion to extend their warning to its founder. The club was being used by known criminal characters, men who had already been in jail and were qualifying for a return visit. Again Mr. Briggerland pointed to the object of the institution which was to bring bad men into the society of good men and women and to arousen them a desire for better things. He quoted a famous text with great effect, but still the police were unconvinced. It was the practice of Miss Jean Briggerland to receive selective members of the club and to entertain them at T. in Berkeley Street. Her friends thought it was very sweet and very daring and wondered whether she wasn't afraid of catching some kind of disease peculiar to the East End of London. But Jean did not worry about such things. On this afternoon after the last of her callers had gone she went down to the little morning room where such entertainment occurred and found two men who rose awkwardly as she entered. The gentle influence of the club had not made them look anything but what they were. Jailbird was written all over them. I'm very glad you men have come, said Jean sweetly. Mr. Hogan's? That's me, Miss, said one with a grin. And Mr. Talmet, the second man, showed his teeth. I'm always glad to see members of the club, said Jean, busy with the teapot, especially men who have had so bad a time as you have. You have only just come out of prison, haven't you, Mr. Hogan? she asked innocently. Hogan's went red and coughed. Yes, Miss, he said huskily and added inconsequently. I didn't do it. I'm sure you were innocent, she said, with a smile of sympathy. And really, if you were guilty, I don't think you meant her so much to blame. Look what a bad time you have. What disadvantages you suffer whilst here in the West End people are wasting money that really ought to go to your wives and children. That's right, said Mr. Hogan's. There's a girl I know who is tremendously rich, Jean prattled on. She lives at eighty-four Cavendish mansions just on the top floor. And of course she's very foolish to sleep with her windows open, especially as people could get down from the roof. There's a fire escape there. She always has a lot of jewelry, keeps it under her pillow, I think, and there is generally a few hundred pounds scattered about the bedroom. Now that is what I call putting temptation in the way of the weak. She lifted her blue eyes, saw the glitter in the man's eyes, and went on. I've told her lots of times that there is danger, but she only laughs. There is an old man who sleeps in the house. Quite a feeble old man who has only the use of one arm. Of course, if she cried out, I suppose he would come to her rescue, but then a real burglar wouldn't let her cry out, would he? She asked. The two men looked at one another. No, breathed one. Especially as they could get clean away if they were clever, said Jean, and it isn't likely that they would leave her in a condition to betray them, is it? Mr. Hogan's cleared his throat. It's not very likely, Miss, he said. Jean shrugged her shoulders. Women do these things, and then they blame the poor man to whom a thousand pounds would be a fortune because he comes and takes it. Personally, I should not like to live at eighty-four Cavendish mansions. Eighty-four Cavendish mansions, murmured Mr. Hogan's absentmindedly. His last sentence had been one of ten years' penal servitude. His next sentence would be for a life. Nobody knew this better than Jean Briggerland as she went on to talk of the club and of the wonderful work which it was doing. She dismissed her visitors and went back to her sitting-room as she turned to go up the stairway her maid intercepted her. Mary is in your room, Miss, she said in a low voice. Jean frowned but made no reply. The woman who stood awkwardly in the center of the room awaiting the girl greeted her with an apologetic smile. I'm sorry, Miss, she said, but I lost my job this morning. That old man spotted me. He's a split, a detective. Jean Briggerland regarded her with an unmoved face, save that her beautiful mouth took on the pathetic little droop which had excited the pity of a judge and an army of lawyers. When did this happen, she asked. Last night, Miss, he came and I got a bit cheeky to him, and he turned on me the old devil and told me my real name and that I got the job by forging recommendations. Jean sat down slowly in the pad of Venetian chair before her writing-table. Jags, she asked. Yes, Miss. And why didn't you come here at once? I thought I might be followed, Miss. The girl bit her lip and nodded. You did quite right, she said, and then after a moment's reflection, we shall be in Paris next week. You had better go by the night train and wait for us at the flat. She gave the maid some money, and after she had gone, sat for an hour before the fire, looking into its red depths. She rose at last, a little stiffly, pulled the heavy silk and curtain across the windows and switched on the light, and there was a smile on her face that was very beautiful.