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. Rennett 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.
Glover 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 just know how to begin, Miss Beale,” 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 witnessbox, behaved disgracefully to his fiancée.”
“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 witnessbox that no such interview had occurred.”
Glover nodded.
“What you do not know, Miss Beale,” 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 your sitting there, that he no more killed Bulford than I did. I believe the whole thing was a plot to secure his death or imprisonment. 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 her so.”
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-years 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’m 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 round for some one to whom such a marriage would be of advantage,” he said, speaking slowly. “It was Rennett’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 surer 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 Briggerlands have smelt 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 medium 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 belonged strictly to the realm of romance, and not too convincing romance at that.
“You’ve rather taken my breath away,” she said after a while. “All this wants 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 openmouthed, and he went on.
“The Briggerlands 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. Rennett and I were his legal advisers, 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 is so fascinatingly impossible.”
He smiled.
“Can I see Mr. Meredith?”
“Not till tomorrow. I might say that we’ve made every arrangement for your wedding, the licence 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