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"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.
"I'm madame's courier," he said, and to Lydia's amazement he spoke in perfect French, "I am also the watchman of the house." "Yes, yes," said Lydia, after she had recovered from her surprise. "M'sieur is the watchman, also." "Bien, madame," said the gendarme. "Forgive my asking, but we have so many strangers here." They watched the gendarme out of sight. Then old Jaggs chuckled.
Lydia had not been out in the evening for several days, she remembered, as she began to undress for the night. The weather had been unpleasant, and to stay in the warm, comfortable flat was no great hardship. Even if she had gone out, Jaggs would have accompanied her, she thought ironically.
Beyond the fact that he hasn't the use of his right arm, and limps with his left leg, and that he likes beer and cheese, he seems an admirable watch dog," said Lydia humorously. "Jaggs?" repeated the girl. "I wonder where I've heard that name before. Is he a detective?" "No, I don't think so. But Mr.
She spoke to him that night when he came. "By the way, Mr. Jaggs, I am going to the South of France next week." "A pretty place by all accounts," volunteered Mr. Jaggs. "A lovely place by all accounts," repeated Lydia with a smile. "And you're going to have a holiday, Mr. Jaggs. By the way, what am I to pay you?" "The gentleman pays me, miss," said Mr. Jaggs with a sniff. "The lawyer gentleman."
"Good-morning, miss," he wheezed. "Why were you running away, Mr. Jaggs?" she asked, a little out of breath. "Not runnin' away, miss," he said, glancing at her sharply from under his heavy white eyebrows. "Just havin' a look round!" "Do you spend all your nights looking round?" she smiled at him. "Yes, miss." At that moment a cyclist gendarme came into view.
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.
"You can't know what you're saying," said Lydia in a low voice. "It is a dreadful charge to make, dreadful, against a girl whose very face refutes such an accusation." "Her face is her fortune," snapped Jack, and then penitently, "I'm sorry I'm rude, but somehow the very mention of Jean Briggerland arouses all that is worst in me. Now, you will accept Jaggs, won't you?" "Who is he?" she asked.
Presently he stopped directly under the balcony and looked up and she uttered an exclamation, as the faint light revealed the iron-grey hair and the grisly eyebrows of the intruder. "All right, miss," he said in a hoarse whisper, "it's only old Jaggs." "What are you doing?" she answered in the same tone. "Just lookin' round," he said, "just lookin' round," and limped again into the darkness.
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.
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