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Before she could reach the head of the stairs his arm was round her and he had dragged her back. "My friend," he said between his teeth, "there is something in this matter which is bad for me." "Let me go," she breathed and struck at his face. For a full minute they struggled, and then the door opened and Mr. Briggerland came in, and at the sight of his livid face, Mordon released his hold.
That afternoon Mordon, the chauffeur, motored into Nice, and by nine o'clock that night an aeroplane deposited him in Paris. He was in London the following morning, a bearer of an urgent letter to Mr. Rennett, the lawyer, which, however, he did not present in person.
"M'sieur," he stammered, and would have risen, but Briggerland laid his hand on his shoulder. "Do not rise, François," he said pleasantly. "I am afraid I was hasty last night." "M'sieur, it was I who was hasty," said Mordon huskily, "it was unpardonable...." "Nonsense," Briggerland patted the man's shoulder. "What is that boat out there a man o' war, François?"
At his feet was the tumbled body of Mordon. "Mr. Brig...!" she gasped, and saw the revolver in his hand. With a cry she almost flung herself down the steps as the revolver exploded. The bullet ripped her hat from her head, and she flung up her hands, thinking she had been struck. Then the dark face showed over the parapet and again the revolver was presented.
He could not have walked from the cottage; that was impossible. She was half-way home when she noticed a parcel lying on the floor of the car, and she let down the front window and spoke to the chauffeur. It was not Mordon, but a man whom she had hired with the car. "It came from the hospital, madame," he said. "The porter asked me if I came from Villa Casa.
Can it be that Mordon but no, I must not think so evilly of him." "What were you going to suggest?" asked Jack. "That Mordon fired at Mrs. Meredith when she was on the swimming raft? If you are, I can save you the trouble of telling that lie. It was you who fired, and it was I who knocked you out." Mr. Briggerland's face was a study.
It is true that the taxi-driver had a moustache and that this man was clean-shaven, and moreover, had tiny side whiskers, but there was a resemblance. "Have you had your driver long?" she asked as they were running through Monte Carlo, along the sea road. "Mordon? Yes, we have had him six or seven years," said Jean carelessly. "He drives us when we are on the continent, you know.
The car was at the door, and Mordon, looking unusually spruce in his white dust coat, stood by the open door. "How long shall I be away?" asked Lydia. "About two hours, dear, you'll be very hungry when you come back," said Jean, kissing her. "Now, mind you think of the right man," she warned her in mockery. "I wonder if I shall," said Lydia quietly.
"These things do happen, I know," she said, "but I am happy to say that nothing of that sort has come into my experience, and, of course, Mordon is a good-looking man and she is young " "What are you talking about?" His tone was dictatorial and commanding. "I mean," she said, "that I fear poor Lydia is in love with Mordon." He sprang to his feet.
"If Mordon has been such a scoundrel, he must suffer the consequence. I'm sure that you are too clever to have made any mistake. Poor Mordon. I wonder what made him do it, because he is such a good friend of Lydia's, and seriously, Mr. Glover, I do think Lydia is being indiscreet." "You made that remark before," he said quietly. "Now perhaps you'll explain what you mean."
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