Rennett nodded.
“I thought that too,” he said quietly.
Jack sank down in a seat, his face screwed up into a hideous frown, and the elder man did not interrupt his thoughts. Suddenly Jack’s face cleared and he smiled.
“Jaggs!” he said softly.
“Jaggs?” repeated his puzzled partner.
“Jaggs,” said Jack, nodding, “he’s the fellow. We’ve got to meet strategy with strategy, Rennett, and Jaggs is the boy to do it.”
Mr. Rennett looked at him helplessly.
“Could Jaggs get us out of our trouble too?” he asked sarcastically.
“He could even do that,” replied Jack.
“Then bring him along, for I have an idea he’ll have the time of his life.”
Chapter VII
Miss Jean Briggerland reached her home in Berkeley Street soon after nine o’clock. She did not ring, but let herself in with a key and went straight to the diningroom, where her father sat eating his breakfast, with a newspaper propped up before him.
He was the 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 on to 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 bolted back to his hiding place where — er — had been located by — er — interested persons during the night, then seeing me by the shed — he committed the rash and fatal act. Somehow I thought he would run back to his dug-out.”
“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 goodlooking 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 through the garden gate to join the police. When I got there, I found they’d been attracted by the shot and had 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 Dulwich 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 drawer 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 endeavoured, 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 Cannes 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 Morden yesterday to take the new car across and meet us at Boulogne. He says that the new body is exquisite. There is a micraphonic 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. I’ll break 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, Jean, 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