.

shook her head.

      “I hope I shall see him before I go,” said Jean. “He must be a very interesting old gentleman.”

      It was Mr. Briggerland who first caught a glimpse of Lydia’s watchman. Mr. Briggerland had spent the greater part of the day sleeping. He was unusually wakeful at one o’clock in the morning, and sat on the veranda in a fur-lined overcoat, his gun lay across his knees. He had seen many mysterious shapes flitting across the lawn, only to discover on investigation that they were no more than the shadows which the moving treetops cast.

      At two o’clock he saw a shape emerge from the tree belt and move stealthily in the shadow of the bushes toward the house. He did not fire because there was a chance that it might have been one of the detectives who had promised to keep an eye upon the Villa Casa in view of the murderous threats which Jean had received.

      Noiselessly he rose and stepped in his rubber shoes to the darker end of the stoep. It was old Jaggs. There was no mistaking him. A bent man who limped cautiously across the lawn and was making for the back of the house. Mr. Briggerland cocked his gun and took aim…

      Both girls heard the shot, and Lydia, springing out of bed, ran on to the balcony.

      “It’s all right, Mrs. Meredith,” said Briggerland’s voice. “It was a burglar, I think.”

      “You haven’t hurt him?” she cried, remembering old Jaggs’s nocturnal habits.

      “If I have, he’s got away,” said Briggerland. “He must have seen me and dropped.”

      Jean flew downstairs in her dressing-gown and joined her father on the lawn.

      “Did you get him?” she asked in a low voice.

      “I could have sworn I shot him,” said her father in the same tone, “but the old devil must have dropped.”

      He heard the quick catch of her breath and turned apprehensively.

      “Now, don’t make a fuss about it, Jean, I couldn’t help it.”

      “You couldn’t help it!” she almost snarled. “You had him under your gun and you let him go. Do you think he’ll ever come again, you fool?”

      “Now look here, I’m not going to—” began Mr. Briggerland, but she snatched the gun from his hand, looked swiftly at the lock and ran across the lawn toward the trees.

      Somebody was hiding. She sensed that and all her nerves were alert. Presently she saw a crouching figure and lifted the gun, but before she could fire it was wrested from her hand.

      She opened her lips to cry out for help, but a hand closed over her mouth, and swung her round so that her back was toward her assailant, and then in a flash his arm came round her neck, the flex of the elbow against her throat.

      “Say one of them prayers of yours,” said a voice in her ear, and the arm tightened.

      She struggled furiously, but the man held her as though she were a child.

      “You’re going to die,” whispered the voice. “How do you like the sensation?”

      The arm tightened on her neck. She was suffocating, dying she thought, and her heart was filled with a wild, mad longing for life and a terror undreamt of. She could faintly hear her father’s voice calling her and then consciousness departed.

      When Jean came to herself she was in Lydia Meredith’s arms. She opened her eyes and saw the pathetic face of her father looming from the background. Her hand went up to her throat.

      “Hallo, people — how did I get here?” she asked as she struggled into a sitting position.

      “I came in search of you and found you lying on the ground,” quavered Mr. Briggerland.

      “Did you see the man?” she asked.

      “No. What happened to you, darling?”

      “Nothing,” she said with that composure which she could command. “I must have fainted. It was rather ridiculous of me, wasn’t it?” she smiled.

      She got unsteadily to her feet and again she felt her throat. Lydia noticed the action.

      “Did he hurt you?” she asked anxiously. “It couldn’t have been Jaggs.”

      “Oh no,” smiled Jean, “it couldn’t have been Jaggs. I think I’ll go to bed.”

      She did not expect to sleep. For the first time in her extraordinary life fear had come to her, and she had shivered on the very edge of the abyss. She felt the shudder she could not repress and shook herself impatiently. Then she extinguished the light and went to the window and looked out. Somewhere there in the darkness she knew her enemy was hidden, and again that sense of apprehension swept over her.

      “I’m losing my nerve,” she murmured.

      It was extraordinary to Lydia Meredith that the girl showed no sign of her night’s adventure when she came in to breakfast on the following morning. She looked bright. Her eyes were clear and her delicate irony as pointed as though she had slept the clock round.

      Lydia did not swim that day, and Mr. Stepney had his journey out to Cap Martin in vain. Nor was she inclined to go back with him to Monte Carlo to the Casino in the afternoon, and Mr. Stepney began to realise that he was wasting valuable time.

      Jean found her scribbling in the garden and Lydia made no secret of the task she was undertaking.

      “Making your will? What a grisly idea?” she said as she put down the cup of tea she had carried out to the girl.

      “Isn’t it,” said Lydia with a grimace. “It is the most worrying business, too, Jean. There is nobody I want to leave money to except you and Mr. Glover.”

      “For heaven’s sake don’t leave me any or Jack will think I am conspiring to bring about your untimely end,” said Jean. “Why make a will at all?”

      There was no need for her to ask that, but she was curious to discover what reply the girl would make, and to her surprise Lydia fenced with the question.

      “It is done in all the best circles,” she said good-humouredly. “And, Jean, I’m not interested in a single public institution! I don’t know by title the name of any home for dogs, and I shouldn’t be at all anxious to leave my money to one even if I did.”

      “Then you’d better leave it to Jack Glover,” said the girl, “or to the Lifeboat Institution.”

      Lydia threw down her pencil in disgust.

      “Fancy making one’s will on a beautiful day like this, and giving instructions as to where one should be buried. Brrr! Jean,” she asked suddenly, “was it Mr. Jaggs you saw in the wood?”

      Jean shook her head.

      “I saw nobody,” she said. “I went in to look for the burglar; the excitement must have been too much for me, and I fainted.”

      But Lydia was not satisfied.

      “I can’t understand Mr. Jaggs myself,” she said, but Jean interrupted her with a cry.

      Lydia looked up and saw her eyes shining and her lips parting in a smile.

      “Of course,” she said softly. “He used to sleep at your flat, didn’t he?”

      “Yes, why?” asked the girl in surprise.

      “What a fool I am, what a perfect fool!” said Jean, startled out of her accustomed self-possession.

      “I don’t quite know where your folly comes in, but perhaps you will tell me,” but Jean was laughing softly.

      “Go on and make your will,” she said mockingly. “And when you’ve finished we’ll go into the rooms and chase the lucky numbers. Poor dear Mrs. Cole-Mortimer