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"François," she repeated calmly. "It is right that you should know that François and I will be married next week." Mr. Briggerland's jaw dropped. "What?" he almost shrieked. She nodded. "We are going to be married next week," she said, "and the little scene you witnessed has nothing whatever to do with you." The effect of these words on Mordon was magical.
Meredith. I want to hear that story of yours, and if it is anything like what I fear, then it would be better for you that Briggerland thinks you are dead." She told the story as far as she knew it and he listened, not interrupting, until she had finished. "Mordon dead, eh? That's bad. But how on earth are they going to explain it?
No man had roused the love of Jean Briggerland, but at least one had succeeded in bringing to life a consuming hate which, for the time being, absorbed her. From the moment she drew her wet handkerchief across her red lips and flung the dainty thing as though it were contaminated through the open window, François Mordon was a dead man. A letter from Jack Glover arrived the next morning.
Here the road ran out in a semi-circle so that from where she sat she could not see its continuation either before or behind. Ahead it slipped round the shoulder of a high and over-hanging mass of rock, through which the road must have been cut. Behind it dipped down to a cove, hidden from sight. "There is the Lovers' Chair, mademoiselle," said Mordon.
A fellow I picked out of the gutter? You're mad! The fellow is a rascal who has earned the guillotine time and time again." "Who hasn't?" she asked, looking up. "It is incredible! It's madness!" he said. "I had no idea " he stopped for want of breath. Mordon was becoming troublesome. She had known that better than her father.
Mordon knew a French girl in London, and she it was who carried the letter to Charles Rennett a letter that made him scratch his head many times before he took a sheet of paper, and addressing the manager of Lydia's bank, wrote: "This cheque is in order. Please honour." "Desperate diseases," said Jean Briggerland, "call for desperate remedies." Mr. Briggerland looked up from his book.
"The great Bersac is dead," she said coldly. "He was a man of such great attainments that he came to the knife. Besides, it is not necessary that you should understand my plans, François." She knew quite well what was troubling him, but she waited. "I cannot understand the letter which I wrote for you," said Mordon. "The letter in which I say Madame Meredith loved me.
"No, my dear, if you want that thrill, and, seriously, it is worth while, because the scenery is the most beautiful of any along the coast, you must go alone." Lydia nodded. "I'll try it. Is it too far to walk?" she asked. "Much too far," said Jean. "Mordon will drive you out. He knows the road very well and you ought not to take anybody but an experienced driver.
François Mordon turned his head toward the sea, and Briggerland pointed the ivory-handled pistol he had held behind his back and shot him dead. The report of the revolver thrown down by the rocks came to Lydia like a clap of thunder. At first she thought it was a tyre burst and hurried up the steps to see. Mr. Briggerland was standing with his back to the car.
"The wilful murder of François Mordon," said the officer. "You lie you lie," screamed Briggerland. "I have no knowledge of any " his words sank into a throaty gurgle, and he stared past the detective. Lydia Meredith was standing in the doorway. The morning for Mr.
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