other end of the Crescent appeared the lights of a car. At first Lydia thought it might be Mr. Briggerland’s, and she was going to make her excuses for she wanted to go home alone. The car was coming too, at a tremendous pace. She watched it as it came furiously toward her, and she did not notice that Mr. Briggerland and his daughter had left her standing alone on the sidewalk and had withdrawn a few paces.
Suddenly the car made a swerve, mounted the sidewalk and dashed upon her. It seemed that nothing could save her, and she stood fascinated with horror, waiting for death.
Then an arm gripped her waist, a powerful arm that lifted her from her feet and flung her back against the railings, as the car flashed past, the mudguard missing her by an inch. The machine pulled up with a jerk, and the white-faced girl saw Briggerland and Jean running toward her.
“I should never have forgiven myself if anything had happened. I think my chauffeur must be drunk,” said Briggerland in an agitated voice.
She had no words. She could only nod, and then she remembered her preserver, and she turned to meet the solemn eyes of a bent old man, whose pointed, white beard and bristling white eyebrows gave him a hawklike appearance. His right hand was thrust into his pocket. He was touching his battered hat with the other.
“Beg pardon, miss,” he said raucously, “name of Jaggs! And I have reported for dooty!”
Chapter X
Jack Glover listened gravely to the story which the girl told. He had called at her lodgings on the following morning to secure her signature to some documents, and breathlessly and a little shamefacedly, she told him what had happened.
“Of course it was an accident,” she insisted, “in fact, Mr. and Miss Briggerland were almost knocked down by the car. But you don’t know how thankful I am your Mr. Jaggs was on the spot.”
“Where is he now?” asked Jack.
“I don’t know,” replied the girl. “He just limped away without another word and I did not see him again, though I thought I caught a glimpse of him as I came into this house last night. How did he come to be on the spot?” she asked curiously.
“That is easily explained,” replied Jack. “I told the old boy not to let you out of his sight from sundown to sun up.”
“Then you think I’m safe during the day?” she rallied him.
He nodded.
“I don’t know whether to laugh at you or to be very angry,” she said, shaking her head reprovingly. “Of course it was an accident!”
“I disagree with you,” said Jack. “Did you catch a glimpse of the chauffeur?”
“No,” she said in surprise. “I didn’t think of looking at him.”
He nodded.
“If you had, you would probably have seen an old friend, namely, the gentleman who carried you off from the Erving Theatre,” he said quietly.
It was difficult for Lydia to analyse her own feelings. She knew that Jack Glover was wrong, monstrously wrong. She was perfectly confident that his fantastic theory had no foundation, and yet she could not get away from his sincerity. Remembering Jean’s description of him as “a little queer” she tried to fit that description into her knowledge of him, only to admit to herself that he had been exceptionally normal as far as she was concerned. The suggestion that his object was mercenary, and that he looked upon her as a profitable match for himself, she dismissed without consideration.
“Anyway, I like your Mr. Jaggs,” she said.
“Better than you like me, I gather from your tone,” smiled Jack. “He’s not a bad old boy.”
“He is a very strong old boy,” she said. “He lifted me as though I were a feather — I don’t know now how I escaped. The steering gear went wrong,” she explained unnecessarily.
“Dear me,” said Jack politely, “and it went right again in time to enable the chauffeur to keep clear of Briggerland and his angel daughter!”
She gave a gesture of despair.
“You’re hopeless,” she said. “These things happened in the dark ages; men and women do not assassinate one another in the twentieth century.”
“Who told you that?” he demanded. “Human nature hasn’t changed for two thousand years. The instinct to kill is as strong as ever, or wars would be impossible. If any man or woman could commit one coldblooded murder, there is no reason why he or she should not commit a hundred. In England, America, and France fifty coldblooded murders are detected every year. Twice that number are undetected. It does not make the crime more impossible because the criminal is good looking.”
“You’re hopeless,” she said again, and Jack made no further attempt to convince her.
On the Thursday of that week she exchanged her lodgings for a handsome flat in Cavendish Place, and Mrs. Morgan had promised to join her a week later, when she had settled up her own business affairs.
Lydia was fortunate enough to get two maids from one of the agencies, one of whom was to sleep on the premises. The flat was not illimitable, and she regretted that she had promised to place a room at the disposal of the aged Mr. Jaggs. If he was awake all night as she presumed he would be, and slept in the day, he might have been accommodated in the kitchen, and she hinted as much to Jack. To her surprise the lawyer had turned down that idea.
“You don’t want your servants to know that you have a watchman.”
“What do you imagine they will think he is?” she asked scornfully. “How can I have an old gentleman in the flat without explaining why he is there?”
“Your explanation could be that he did the boots.”
“It wouldn’t take him all night to do the boots. Of course, I’m too grateful to him to want him to do anything.”
Mr. Jaggs reported again for duty that night. He came at half-past nine, a shabby-looking old man, and Lydia, who had not yet got used to her new magnificence, came out into the hall to meet him.
He was certainly not a prepossessing object, and Lydia discovered that, in addition to his other misfortunes, he had a slight squint.
“I hadn’t an opportunity of thanking you the other day, Mr. Jaggs,” she said. “I think you saved my life.”
“That’s all right, miss,” he said, in his hoarse voice. “Dooty is dooty!”
She thought he was looking past her, till she realised that his curious slanting line of vision was part of his infirmity.
“I’ll show you to your room,” she said hastily.
She led the way down the corridor, opened the door of a small room which had been prepared for him, and switched on the light.
“Too much light for me, miss,” said the old man, shaking his head. “I like to sit in the dark and listen, that’s what I like, to sit in the dark and listen.”
“But you can’t sit in the dark, you’ll want to read, won’t you?”
“Can’t read, miss,” said Jaggs cheerfully. “Can’t write, either. I don’t know that I’m any worse off.”
Reluctantly she switched out the light.
“But you won’t be able to see your food.”
“I can feel for that, miss,” he said with a hoarse chuckle. “Don’t you worry about me. I’ll just sit here and have a big think.”
If she was uncomfortable before, she was really embarrassed now.