The Essential Edgar Wallace Collection. Edgar Wallace

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      She looked at him reproachfully.

      "We all went into Monte Carlo," she said severely. "Now, please don't be horrid, Mr. Glover, you aren't suggesting that Jean wrote this awful letter to herself, are you?"

      "Was it an awful letter?" asked Jack.

      "A terrible letter, threatening to kill her. Do you know that Mr. Briggerland thinks that the person who nearly killed me was really shooting at Jean."

      "You don't say," said Jack politely. "I haven't heard about people shooting at you--but it sounds rather alarming."

      She told him the story, and he offered no comment.

      "Go on with your thrilling story of Jean's mortal enemy. Who is he?"

      "She doesn't know his name," said Lydia. "She met him in Egypt--an elderly man who positively dogged her footsteps wherever she went, and made himself a nuisance."

      "Doesn't know his name, eh?" said Jack with a sniff. "Well, that's convenient."

      "I think you're almost spiteful," said Lydia hotly. "Poor girl, she was so distressed this morning; I have never seen her so upset."

      "And are the police going to keep guard and follow her wherever she goes? And is that impossible person, Mr. Marcus Stepney, also in the vendetta? I saw him wandering about this morning like a wounded hero, with his arm in a sling."

      "He hurt his hand gathering wild flowers for me on the--"

      But Jack's outburst of laughter checked her, and she glared at him.

      "I think you're boorish," she snapped angrily. "I'm sorry I came out with you."

      "And I'm sorry I've been such a fool," apologised the penitent Jack, "but the vision of the immaculate Mr. Stepney gathering wild flowers in a top hat and a morning suit certainly did appeal to me as being comical!"

      "He doesn't wear a top hat or a morning suit in Monte Carlo," she said, furious at his banter. "Let us talk about somebody else than my friends."

      "I haven't started to talk about your friends yet," he said. "And please don't try to tell your chauffeur to turn round--the road is too narrow, and he'd have the car over the cliff before you knew where you were, if he were stupid enough to try. I'm sorry, deeply sorry, Mrs. Meredith, but I think that Jean was right when she said that the southern air had got into my blood. I'm a little hysterical--yes, put it down to that. It runs in the family," he babbled on. "I have an aunt who faints at the sight of strawberries, and an uncle who swoons whenever a cat walks into the room."

      "I hope you don't visit him very much," she said coldly.

      "Two points to you," said Jack, "but I must warn Jaggs, in case he is mistaken for the elderly Lothario. Obviously Jean is preparing the way for an unpleasant end to poor old Jaggs."

      "Why do you think these things about Jean?" she asked, as they were running into La Turbie.

      "Because I have a criminal mind," he replied promptly. "I have the same type of mind as Jean Briggerland's, wedded to a wholesome respect for the law, and a healthy sense of right and wrong. Some people couldn't be happy if they owned a cent that had been earned dishonestly; other people are happy so long as they have the money--so long as it is real money. I belong to the former category. Jean--well, I don't know what would make Jean happy."

      "And what would make you happy--Jean?" she asked.

      He did not answer this question until they were sitting on the stoep of the National, where a light luncheon was awaiting them.

      "Jean?" he said, as though the question had just been asked. "No, I don't want Jean. She is wonderful, really, Mrs. Meredith, wonderful! I find myself thinking about her at odd moments, and the more I think the more I am amazed. Lucretia Borgia was a child in arms compared with Jean--poor old Lucretia has been maligned, anyway. There was a woman in the sixteenth century rather like her, and another girl in the early days of New England, who used to denounce witches for the pleasure of seeing them burn, but I can't think of an exact parallel, because Jean gets no pleasure out of hurting people any more than you will get out of cutting that cantaloup. It has just got to be cut, and the fact that you are finally destroying the life of the melon doesn't worry you."

      "Have cantaloups life?" She paused, knife in hand, eyeing the fruit with a frown. "No, I don't think I want it. So Jean is a murderess at heart?"

      She asked the question in solemn mockery, but Jack was not smiling.

      "Oh yes--in intention, at any rate. I don't know whether she has ever killed anybody, but she has certainly planned murders."

      Lydia sighed and sat back in her chair patiently.

      "Do you still suggest that she harbours designs against my young life?"

      "I not only suggest it, but I state positively that there have been four attempts on your life in the past fortnight," he said calmly.

      "Let us have this out," she said recklessly. "Number one?"

      "The nearly-a-fatal accident in Berkeley Street," said Jack.

      "Will you explain by what miracle the car arrived at the psychological moment?" she asked.

      "That's easy," he said with a smile. "Old man Briggerland lit his cigar standing on the steps of the house. That light was a brilliant one, Jaggs tells me. It was the signal for the car to come on. The next attempt was made with the assistance of a lunatic doctor who was helped to escape by Briggerland, and brought to your house by him. In some way he got hold of a key--probably Jean manoeuvred it. Did she ever talk to you about keys?"

      "No," said the girl, "she----" She stopped suddenly, remembering that Jean had discussed keys with her.

      "Are you sure she didn't?" asked Jack, watching her.

      "I think she may have done," said the girl defiantly; "what was the third attempt?"

      "The third attempt," said Jack slowly, "was to infect your bed with a malignant fever."

      "Jean did it?" said the girl incredulously. "Oh no, that would be impossible."

      "The child was in your bed. Jaggs saw it and threw two buckets of water over the bed, so that you should not sleep in it."

      She was silent.

      "And I suppose the next attempt was the shooting?"

      He nodded.

      "Now do you believe?" he asked.

      She shook her head.

      "No, I don't believe," she said quietly. "I think you have worked up a very strong case against poor Jean, and I am sure you think you're justified."

      "You are quite right there," he said.

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