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He opened a door and she found herself in a big drawing-room, exquisitely furnished and lit by two silver electroliers suspended from the carved roof. To her relief an elderly woman rose to greet her. "This is my wife, Miss Beale," said Rennett. "I need hardly explain that this is also my home."
"To his wife absolutely," replied the other. "The poor old chap was so frantically keen on keeping the money out of the Briggerland exchequer, that he was prepared to entrust the whole of his money to a girl he had not seen." Jack was serious now. "And the Briggerlands are her heirs? Do you realise that, Rennett there's going to be hell!" Mr. Rennett nodded. "I thought that too," he said quietly.
How did your interview with the commissioner go on?" "We parted the worst of friends," said Jack, "and, Rennett, the next man who talks to me about Jean Briggerland's beautiful face is going to be killed dead through it, even though I have to take a leaf from her book and employ the grisly Jaggs to do it." That night the "grisly Jaggs" was later than usual.
Before luncheon Inspector Colhead came to the study. "We've had a good look round your place, Mr. Rennett," he said, "and I think we know where the deceased hid himself." "Indeed!" said Mr. Rennett. "That hut of yours in the garden is used, I suppose, for a tool house.
She caught a glimpse of him once as she was driving past the Law Courts in the Strand. He was standing on the pavement talking to a be-wigged counsel, so possibly Mr. Rennett had not stated more than the truth when he said that the young man's time was mostly occupied by the processes of litigation. She was curious enough to look through the telephone directory to discover where he lived.
"Better?" he asked anxiously. "I'm afraid you've had a trying time, and no sleep you said, Mrs. Rennett?" Mrs. Rennett shook her head. "Well, you'll sleep to-night better than I shall," he smiled, and then he turned to Rennett, a grave and anxious man, who stood nervously stroking his little beard, watching the bridegroom. "Mr.
"There are times, Glover, when you are insufferable!" But by this time Jack Glover was swinging along the Old Bailey, his hands in his pockets, his silk hat on the back of his head. Mr. Rennett sat down at the sight of his junior. "I heard the news by 'phone," he said.
"Well, Rennett, do you think we're going to get into hot water, or are we going to perjure our way to safety?" "There's no need for perjury, not serious perjury," said the other carefully. "By the way, Jack, where was Briggerland the night Bulford was murdered?"
"My dear," he turned to his wife, "I think we'll leave Jack Glover to talk to this young lady." "Doesn't she know?" asked Mrs. Rennett in surprise, and Lydia laughed, although she was feeling far from amused. The possible loss of her employment, the disquieting adventure of the evening, and now this further mystery all combined to set her nerves on edge.
She could only stare at him open-mouthed, and he went on. "The Briggerlands know he has escaped; they probably thought he was here, because we have had a police visitation this afternoon, and the interior of the house and grounds have been searched. They know, of course, that Mr. Rennett and I were his legal advisers, and we expected them to come.
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