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Jean watched the car out of sight, then went back to the saloon. She was hardly seated before the telephone rang again, and she anticipated Mrs. Cole-Mortimer, and answered it. "Mrs. Meredith has not gone in to Monte Carlo," said the voice. "Her car has not been seen on the road." "Is that Mr. Jaggs?" asked Jean sweetly. "Yes, miss," was the reply. "Mrs. Meredith has come back now.
Jean did not put in an appearance until breakfast, and Lydia had an opportunity of talking to the French housekeeper whom Mrs. Cole-Mortimer had engaged when she took the villa. From her she learnt a bit of news, which she passed on to Jean almost as soon as she put in an appearance. "The gardener's little boy is going to get well, Jean." Jean nodded. "I know," she said.
Glover," she said, and there was a reproach in her tone for which she hated herself afterwards. Lydia had promised to go to the theatre that night with Mrs. Cole-Mortimer, and she was glad of the excuse to leave her tragic home. Mrs. It was during the last act that Mrs. Cole-Mortimer gave her an invitation which she accepted joyfully. "I've got a house at Cap Martin," said Mrs. Cole-Mortimer.
Cole-Mortimer, did not stir, until she saw, by the light of a shaded lamp in the roof, the dark head of Mr. Marcus Stepney droop more confidently towards his companion. Then she rose and strolled across. Marcus did not curse her because he did not express his inmost thoughts aloud. He gave her his chair and pulled another forward. "Does Miss Briggerland know?" asked Lydia. "No," said Mr.
Cole-Mortimer groaned her despair, not knowing that she was expected to do no more than stir the soil for the crop which Jean Briggerland would plant and reap. They went on to supper at one of the clubs, and Lydia thought with amusement of poor old Jaggs, who apparently took his job very seriously indeed.
Cole-Mortimer and Jean, who apparently never looked at him and yet observed his every movement, knew that he was merely waiting his opportunity. It came when the dinner was over and the party adjourned to the big stoep facing the sea. The night was chilly and Mr.
Cole-Mortimer had been very careful to avoid all mention of Jean on the journey. "Didn't I tell you they would be here?" she said in careless amazement. "Why, of course, dear Jean left two days before we did. It makes such a nice little party. Do you play bridge?" Lydia did not play bridge, but was willing to be taught.
She had expected to find a crowd at the house in Hyde Park Crescent, and she was surprised when she was ushered into the drawing-room to find only four people present. Mrs. Cole-Mortimer was a chirpy, pale little woman of forty-something. It would be ungallant to say how much that "something" represented. She came toward Lydia with outstretched hands.
Cole-Mortimer," grumbled Briggerland. "It is very foolish to ask for trouble. You take my advice, my dear, and keep away." "I had a talk with a gendarme this morning," said Lydia to change the subject. "When he stopped and got off his bicycle I thought he was going to speak about the shooting. I suppose it was reported to the police?" "Er yes," said Mr.
Jean was telling a funny story to the girl who sat by her, and did not pause for so much as a second in her narrative. The effect on Mr. Briggerland was, however, wholly satisfactory to Mrs. Cole-Mortimer. He pushed back his chair and blinked at his "hostess." "Smallpox?" he said in horror, "here in Cap Martin? Good God, did you hear that, Jean?"
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