Mr. Briggerland did not enthuse over any form of sport or exercise. Hishobbies were confined to the handsome motor-cycle, which not onlyprovided him with recreation, but had, on occasion, been of assistancein the carrying out of important plans, formulated by his daughter.
He stopped at Mentone for breakfast and climbed the hill to Grimaldiafter passing the frontier station at Pont St. Louis. He had all themorning before him, and there was no great hurry. At Ventimille he had asecond breakfast, for the morning was keen and his appetite was good. Heloafed through the little town, with a cigar between his teeth, boughtsome curios at a shop and continued his leisurely journey.
His objective was San Remo. There was a train at one o'clock which wouldbring him and his machine back to Monte Carlo, where it was hisintention to spend the remainder of the afternoon. At Pont St. Louis hehad had a talk with the Customs Officer.
"No, m'sieur, there are very few travellers on the road in themorning," said the official. "It is not until late in the afternoon thatthe traffic begins. Times have changed on the Riviera, and so manypeople go to Cannes. The old road is almost now deserted."
At eleven o'clock Mr. Briggerland came to a certain part of the road andfound a hiding-place for his motor-cycle--a small plantation of olivetrees on the hill side. Incidentally it was an admirable resting place,for from here he commanded an extensive view of the western road.
Lydia's journey had been no less enjoyable. She, too, had stopped atMentone to explore the town, and had left Pont St. Louis an hour afterMr. Briggerland had passed.
The road to San Remo runs under the shadow of steep hills through ableak stretch of country from which even the industrious peasantry ofnorthern Italy cannot win a livelihood. Save for isolated patches ofcultivated land, the hills are bare and menacing.
With these gaunt plateaux on one side and the rock-strewn seashore onthe other, there was little to hold the eye save an occasional glimpseof the Italian town in the far distance. There was a wild uncouthnessabout the scenery which awed the girl. Sometimes the car would berunning so near the sea level that the spray of the waves hit thewindows; sometimes it would climb over an out-jutting headland and shewould look down upon a bouldered beach a hundred feet below.
It was on the crest of a headland that the car stopped.
Here the road ran out in a semi-circle so that from where she sat shecould not see its continuation either before or behind. Ahead it slippedround the shoulder of a high and over-hanging mass of rock, throughwhich the road must have been cut. Behind it dipped down to a cove,hidden from sight.
"There is the Lovers' Chair, mademoiselle," said Mordon.
Half a dozen feet beneath the road level was a broad shelf of rock. Afew stone steps led down and she followed them. The Lovers' Chair wascarved in the face of the rock and she sat down to view the beauty ofthe scene. The solitude, the stillness which only the lazy waves broke,the majesty of the setting, brought a strange peace to her. Beyond theedge of the ledge the cliff fell sheer to the water, and she shivered asshe stepped back from her inspection.
Mordon did not see her go. He sat on the running board of his car, hispale face between his hands, a prey to his own gloomy thoughts. Theremust be a development, he told himself. He was beginning to get uneasy,and for the first time he doubted the sincerity of the woman who hadbeen to him as a goddess.
He did not hear Mr. Briggerland, for the dark man was light of foot,when he came round the shoulder of the hill. Mordon's back was towardhim. Suddenly the chauffeur looked round.
"M'sieur," he stammered, and would have risen, but Briggerland laid hishand on his shoulder.
"Do not rise, Francois," he said pleasantly. "I am afraid I was hastylast night."
"M'sieur, it was I who was hasty," said Mordon huskily, "it wasunpardonable...."
"Nonsense," Briggerland patted the man's shoulder. "What is that boatout there--a man o' war, Francois?"
Francois Mordon turned his head toward the sea, and Briggerland pointedthe ivory-handled pistol he had held behind his back and shot him dead.
The report of the revolver thrown down by the rocks came to Lydia like aclap of thunder. At first she thought it was a tyre burst and hurried upthe steps to see.
Mr. Briggerland was standing with his back to the car. At his feet wasthe tumbled body of Mordon.
"Mr.--Brig...!" she gasped, and saw the revolver in his hand. With a cryshe almost flung herself down the steps as the revolver exploded. Thebullet ripped her hat from her head, and she flung up her hands,thinking she had been struck.
Then the dark face showed over the parapet and again the revolver waspresented. She stared for a second into his benevolent eyes, and thensomething hit her violently and she staggered back, and dropped over theedge of the shelf down, straight down into the sea below.