Chapter XXVIII
"However did you get here?" asked Lydia in surprise.
"I went into Nice," said the girl carelessly. "The detectives were goingthere and I gave them a lift."
"I see," said Jack, "so you came into Turbie by the back road? Iwondered why I hadn't seen your car."
"You expected me, did you?" she smiled, as she sat down at the table andselected a peach from its cotton-wool bed. "I only arrived a second ago,in fact I was opening the door when you almost knocked my head off. Whata violent man you are, Jack! I shall have to put you into my story."
Glover had recovered his self-possession by now.
"So you are adding to your other crimes by turning novelist, are you?"he said good-humouredly. "What is the book, Miss Briggerland?"
"It is going to be called 'Suspected,'" she said coolly. "And it will bethe Story of a Hurt Soul."
"Oh, I see, a humorous story," said Jack, wilfully dense. "I didn't knowyou were going to write a biography."
"But do tell me about this, it is very thrilling, Jean," said Lydia,"and it is the first I've heard of it."
Jean was skinning the peach and was smiling as at an amusing thought.
"I've been two years making up my mind to write it," she said, "and I'mgoing to dedicate it to Jack. I started work on it three or four daysago. Look at my wrist!" She held out her beautiful hand for the girl'sinspection.
"It is a very pretty wrist," laughed Lydia, "but why did you want me tosee it?"
"If you had a professional eye," said the girl, resuming her occupation,"you would have noticed the swelling, the result of writers' cramp."
"The yarn about your elderly admirer ought to provide a good chapter,"said Jack, "and isn't there a phrase 'A Chapter of Accidents'--_that_ought to go in?"
She did not raise her eyes.
"Don't discourage me," she said a little sadly. "I have to make moneysomehow."
How much had she heard? Jack was wondering all the time, and he groanedinwardly when he saw how little effect his warning had upon the girl hewas striving to protect. Women are natural actresses, but Lydia was notacting now. She was genuinely fond of Jean and he could see that she hadaccepted his warnings as the ravings of a diseased imagination. Heconfirmed this view when after a morning of sight-seeing and theexploration of the spot where, two thousand years before, the EmperorAugustine had erected his lofty "trophy," they returned to the villa.There are some omissions which are marked, and when Lydia allowed him todepart without pressing him to stay to dinner he realised that he hadlost the trick.
"When are you going back to London?" she asked.
"To-morrow morning," said Jack. "I don't think I shall come here againbefore I go."
She did not reply immediately. She was a little penitent at her lack ofhospitality, but Jack had annoyed her and the more convincing he hadbecome, the greater had been the irritation he had caused. One questionhe had to ask but he hesitated.
"About that will----" he began, but her look of weariness stopped him.
It was a very annoyed young man that drove back to the Hotel de Paris.He had hardly gone before Lydia regretted her brusqueness. She likedJack Glover more than she was prepared to admit, and though he had onlybeen in Cap Martin for two days she felt a little sense of desolation athis going. Very resolutely she refused even to consider hisextraordinary views about Jean. And yet----
Jean left her alone and watched her strolling aimlessly about thegarden, guessing the little storm which had developed in her breast.Lydia went to bed early that night, another significant sign Jean noted,and was not sorry, because she wanted to have her father to herself.
Mr. Briggerland listened moodily whilst Jean related all that she hadlearnt, for she had been in the _salon_ at the National for a goodquarter of an hour before Jack had discovered her.
"I thought he would want her to make a will," she said, "and, of course,although she has rejected the idea now, it will grow on her. I think wehave the best part of a week."
"I suppose you have everything cut and dried as usual," growled Mr.Briggerland. "What is your plan?"
"I have three," said Jean thoughtfully, "and two are particularlyappealing to me because they do not involve the employment of any thirdperson."
"Had you one which brought in somebody else?" asked Briggerland insurprise. "I thought a clever girl like you----"
"Don't waste your sarcasm on me," said Jean quietly. "The third personwhom I considered was Marcus Stepney," and she told him the gist of herconversation with the gambler. Mr. Briggerland was not impressed.
"A thief like Marcus will get out of paying," he said, "and if he canstall you long enough to get the money you may whistle for your share.Besides, a fellow like that isn't really afraid of a charge of bigamy."
Jean, curled up in a big arm-chair, looked up under her eyelashes at herfather and laughed.
"I had no intention of letting Marcus marry Lydia," she said coolly,"but I had to dangle something in front of his eyes, because he mayserve me in quite another way."
"How did he get those two slashes on his hand?" asked Mr. Briggerlandsuddenly.
"Ask him," she said. "Marcus is getting a little troublesome. I thoughthe had learnt his lesson and had realised that I am not built formatrimony, especially for a hectic attachment to a man who gains hislivelihood by cheating at cards."
"Now, now, my dear," said her father.
"Please don't be shocked," she mocked him. "You know as well as I do howMarcus lives."
"The boy is very fond of you."
"The boy is between thirty and thirty-six," she said tersely. "And he'snot the kind of boy that I am particularly fond of. He is useful andmay be more useful yet."
She rose, stretched her arms and yawned.
"I'm going up to my room to work on my story. You are watching for Mr.Jaggs?"
"Work on what?" he said.
"The story I am writing and which I think will create a sensation," shesaid calmly.
"What's this?" asked Briggerland suspiciously. "A story? I didn't knowyou were writing that kind of Stuff."
"There are lots of important things that you know nothing about,parent," she said and left him a little dazed.
For once Jean was not deceiving him. A writing table had been put in herroom and a thick pad of paper awaited her attention. She got into herkimono and with a little sigh sat down at the table and began to write.It was half-past two when she gathered up the sheets and read them overwith a smile which was half contempt. She was on the point of gettinginto bed when she remembered that her father was keeping watch below.She put on her slippers and went downstairs and tapped gently at thedoor of the darkened dining-room.
Almost immediately it was opened.
"What did you want to tap for?" he grumbled. "You gave me a start."
"I preferred tapping to being shot," she answered. "Have you heardanything or seen anybody?"
The French windows of the dining-room were open, her father was wearinghis coat and on his arm she saw by the reflected starlight from outsidehe carried a shot-gun.
"Nothing," he said. "The old man hasn't come to-night."
She nodded.
"Somehow I didn't think he would," she said.
"I don't see how I can shoot him without making a fuss."
"Don't be silly," said Jean lightly. "Aren't the police well aware thatan elderly gentleman has threatened my life, and would it be remarkableif seeing an ancient man prowl about this house you shot him on sight?"
She bit her lips thoughtfully.
"Yes, I think you can go to bed," she said. "He will not be hereto-night. To-morrow night, yes."
She went up to her room, said her prayers and went to bed and was asleepimmediately.
Lydia had forgotten about Jean's story until she saw her writingindustriously at a small table which had been placed on the lawn. It wasFebruary, but the wind and the sun were warm and Lydia thought she hadnever seen a more beautiful picture than the girl presented sitt
ingthere in a garden spangled with gay flowers, heavy with the scent ofFebruary roses, a dainty figure of a girl, almost ethereal in herloveliness.
"Am I interrupting you?"
"Not a bit," said Jean, putting down her pen and rubbing her wrist."Isn't it annoying. I've got to quite an exciting part, and my wrist isgiving me hell."
She used the word so naturally that Lydia forgot to be shocked.
"Can I do anything for you?"
Jean shook her head.
"I don't exactly see what you can do," she said, "unless you could--but,no, I would not ask you to do that!"
"What is it?" asked Lydia.
Jean puckered her brows in thought.
"I suppose you could do it," she said, "but I'd hate to ask you. Yousee, dear, I've got a chapter to finish and it really ought to go off toLondon to-day. I am very keen on getting an opinion from a literaryfriend of mine--but, no, I won't ask you."
"What is it?" smiled Lydia. "I'm sure you're not going to ask theimpossible."
"The thought occurred to me that perhaps you might write as I dictated.It would only be two or three pages," said the girl apologetically. "I'mso full of the story at this moment that it would be a shame if Iallowed the divine fire of inspiration--that's the term, isn't it--togo out."
"Of course I'll do it," said Lydia. "I can't write shorthand, but thatdoesn't matter, does it?"
"No, longhand will be quick enough for me. My thoughts aren't so fast,"said the girl.
"What is it all about?"
"It is about a girl," said Jean, "who has stolen a lot of money----"
"How thrilling!" smiled Lydia.
"And she's got away to America. She is living a very full and joyouslife, but the thought of her sin is haunting her and she decides todisappear and let people think she has drowned herself. She is reallygoing into a convent. I've got to the point where she is saying farewellto her friend. Do you feel capable of being harrowed?"
"I never felt fitter for the job in my life," said Lydia, and sittingdown in the chair the girl had vacated, she took up the pencil which theother had left.
Jean strolled up and down the lawn in an agony of mental composition andpresently she came back and began slowly to dictate.
Word by word Lydia wrote down the thrilling story of the girl's remorse,and presently came to the moment when the heroine was inditing a letterto her friend.
"Take a fresh page," said Jean, as Lydia paused half-way down onesheet. "I shall want to write something in there myself when my handgets better. Now begin:
"MY DEAR FRIEND."
Lydia wrote down the words and slowly the girl dictated.
"_I do not know how I can write you this letter. I intended to tell you when I saw you the other day how miserable I was. Your suspicion hurt me less than your ignorance of the one vital event in my life which has now made living a burden. My money has brought no joy to me. I have met a man I love, but with whom I know a union is impossible. We are determined to die together--farewell--_"
"You said she was going away," interrupted Lydia.
"I know," Jean nodded. "Only she wants to give the impression----"
"I see, I see," said Lydia. "Go on."
"_Forgive me for the act I am committing, which you may think is the act of a coward, and try to think as well of me as you possibly can. Your friend----_"
"I don't know whether to make her sign her name or put her initials,"said Jean, pursing her lips.
"What is her name?"
"Laura Martin. Just put the initials L.M."
"They're mine also," smiled Lydia. "What else?"
"I don't think I'll do any more," said Jean. "I'm not a good dictator,am I? Though you're a wonderful amanuensis."
She collected the papers tidily, put them in a little portfolio andtucked them under her arm.
"Let us gamble the afternoon away," said Jean. "I want distraction."
"But your story? Haven't you to send it off?"
"I'm going to wrestle with it in secret, even if it breaks my wrist,"said Jean brightly.
She took the portfolio up to her room, locked the door and sorted overthe pages. The page which held the farewell letter she put carefullyaside. The remainder, including all that part of the story she hadwritten on the previous night, she made into a bundle, and when Lydiahad gone off with Marcus Stepney to swim, she carried the paper to aremote corner of the grounds and burnt it sheet by sheet. Again sheexamined the "letter," folded it and locked it in a drawer.
Lydia, returning from her swim, was met by Jean half-way up the hill.
"By the way, my dear, I wish you would give me Jack Glover's Londonaddress," she said as they went into the house. "Write it here. Here isa pencil." She pulled out an envelope from a stationery rack and Lydia,in all innocence, wrote as she requested.
The envelope Jean carried upstairs, put into it the letter signed "L.M.," and sealed it down. Lydia Meredith was nearer to death at thatmoment than she had been on the afternoon when Mordon the chauffeurbrought his big Fiat on to the pavement of Berkeley Street.