Chapter IX
Mrs. Cole-Mortimer was a representative of a numerous class of women wholive so close to the border-line which separates good society fromsociety which is not quite as good, that the members of either setthought she was in the other. She had a small house where she gave bigparties, and nobody quite knew how this widow of an Indian colonel madeboth ends meet. It was the fact that her menage was an expensive one tomaintain; she had a car, she entertained in London in the season, anddisappeared from the metropolis when it was the correct thing todisappear, a season of exile which comes between the Goodwood RaceMeeting in the south and the Doncaster Race Meeting in the north.
Lydia had been surprised to receive a visit from this elegant lady, andhad readily accepted the story of her friendship with James Meredith.Mrs. Cole-Mortimer's invitation she had welcomed. She needed somedistraction, something which would smooth out the ravelled threads oflife which were now even more tangled than she had ever expected theycould be.
Mr. Rennett had handed to her a thousand pounds the day after thewedding, and when she had recovered from the shock of possessing such alarge sum, she hired a taxicab and indulged herself in a wild orgy ofshopping.
The relief she experienced when he informed her he was taking charge ofher affairs and settling the debts which had worried her for three yearswas so great that she felt as though a heavy weight had been lifted fromher heart.
It was in one of her new frocks that Lydia, feeling more confident thanusual, made her call. She had expected to find a crowd at the house inHyde Park Crescent, and she was surprised when she was ushered into thedrawing-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. Shecame toward Lydia with outstretched hands.
"My dear," she said with extravagant pleasure, "I am glad you were ableto come. You know Miss Briggerland and Mr. Briggerland?"
Lydia looked up at the tall figure of the man she had seen in the stallsthe night before her wedding and recognised him instantly.
"Mr. Marcus Stepney, I don't think you have met."
Lydia bowed to a smart looking man of thirty, immaculately attired. Hewas very handsome, she thought, in a dark way, but he was just a littletoo "new" to please her. She did not like fashion-plate men, andalthough the most captious of critics could not have found fault withhis correct attire, he gave her the impression of being over-dressed.
Lydia had not expected to meet Miss Briggerland and her father, althoughshe had a dim recollection that Mrs. Cole-Mortimer had mentioned hername. Then in a flash she recalled the suspicions of Jack Glover, whichshe had covered with ridicule. The association made her feel a littleuncomfortable, and Jean Briggerland, whose intuition was a little shortof uncanny, must have read the doubt in her face.
"Mrs. Meredith expected to see us, didn't she, Margaret?" she said,addressing the twittering hostess. "Surely you told her we were greatfriends?"
"Of course I did, my dear. Knowing your dear cousin and his dear father,it was not remarkable that I should know the whole of the family," andshe smiled wisely from one to the other.
Of course! How absurd she was, thought Lydia. She had almost forgotten,and probably Jack Glover had forgotten too, that the Briggerlands andthe Merediths were related.
She found herself talking in a corner of the room with the girl, andfell to studying her face anew. A closer inspection merely consolidatedher earlier judgment. She smiled inwardly as she remembered JackGlover's ridiculous warning. It was like killing a butterfly with asteam hammer, to loose so much vengeance against this frail piece ofchina.
"And how do you feel now that you're very rich?" asked Jean kindly.
"I haven't realised it yet," smiled Lydia.
Jean nodded.
"I suppose you have yet to settle with the lawyers. Who are they? Ohyes, of course Mr. Glover was poor Jim's solicitor." She sighed. "Idislike lawyers," she said with a shiver, "they are so heavily paternal!They feel that they and they only are qualified to direct your life andyour actions. I suppose it is second nature with them. Then, of course,they make an awful lot of money out of commissions and fees, though I'msure Jack Glover wouldn't worry about that. He's really a nice boy," shesaid earnestly, "and I don't think you could have a better friend."
Lydia glowed at the generosity of this girl whom the man had somaligned.
"He has been very good to me," she said, "although, of course, he is alittle fussy."
Jean's lips twitched with amusement.
"Has he warned you against me?" she asked solemnly. "Has he told youwhat a terrible ogre I am?" And then without waiting for a reply: "Isometimes think poor Jack is just a little--well, I wouldn't say mad,but a little queer. His dislikes are so violent. He positively loathesMargaret, though why I have never been able to understand."
"He doesn't hate me," laughed Lydia, and Jean looked at her strangely.
"No, I suppose not," she said. "I can't imagine anybody hating you,Lydia. May I call you by your Christian name?"
"I wish you would," said Lydia warmly.
"I can't imagine anybody hating you," repeated the girl thoughtfully."And, of course, Jack wouldn't hate you because you're his client--avery rich and attractive client too, my dear." She tapped the girl'scheek and Lydia, for some reason, felt foolish.
But as though unconscious of the embarrassment she had caused, Jean wenton.
"I don't really blame him, either. I've a shrewd suspicion that allthese warnings against me and against other possible enemies willfurnish a very excellent excuse for seeing you every day and acting asyour personal bodyguard!"
Lydia shook her head.
"That part of it he has relegated already," she said, giving smile forsmile. "He has appointed Mr. Jaggs as my bodyguard."
"Mr. Jaggs?" The tone was even, the note of inquiry was not strained.
"He's an old gentleman in whom Mr. Glover is interested, an old armypensioner. Beyond the fact that he hasn't the use of his right arm, andlimps with his left leg, and that he likes beer and cheese, he seems anadmirable 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. Glover thinks I ought to have some sortof man sleeping in my new flat and Jaggs was duly engaged."
Soon after this Mr. Marcus Stepney came over and Lydia found him ratheruninteresting. Less boring was Briggerland, for he had a fund of storiesand experiences to relate, and he had, too, one of those soft soothingvoices that are so rare in men.
It was dark when she came out with Mr. and Miss Briggerland, and shefelt that the afternoon had not been unprofitably spent.
For she had a clearer conception of the girl's character, and wasgetting Jack Glover's interest into better perspective. The mercenarypart of it made her just a little sick. There was something somysterious, so ugly in his outlook on life, and there might not be alittle self-interest in his care for her.
She stood on the step of the house talking to the girl, whilst Mr.Briggerland lit a cigarette with a patent lighter. Hyde Park Crescentwas deserted save for a man who stood near the railings which protectedthe area of Mrs. Cole-Mortimer's house. He was apparently tying his shoelaces.
They went down on the sidewalk, and Mr. Briggerland looked for his car.
"I'd like to take you home. My chauffeur promised to be here at fouro'clock. These men are most untrustworthy."
From the other end of the Crescent appeared the lights of a car. Atfirst Lydia thought it might be Mr. Briggerland's, and she was going tomake her excuses for she wanted to go home alone. The car was comingtoo, at a tremendous pace. She watched it as it came furiously towardher, and she did not notice that Mr. Briggerland and his daughter hadleft her standing alone on the sidewalk and had withdrawn a few paces.
Suddenly the car made a swerve, mounted the sidewalk and dashed uponher. It seemed that not
hing could save her, and she stood fascinatedwith horror, waiting for death.
Then an arm gripped her waist, a powerful arm that lifted her from herfeet and flung her back against the railings, as the car flashed past,the mud-guard missing her by an inch. The machine pulled up with a jerk,and the white-faced girl saw Briggerland and Jean running toward her.
"I should never have forgiven myself if anything had happened. I thinkmy chauffeur must be drunk," said Briggerland in an agitated voice.
She had no words. She could only nod, and then she remembered herpreserver, and she turned to meet the solemn eyes of a bent old man,whose pointed, white beard and bristling white eyebrows gave him ahawk-like appearance. His right hand was thrust into his pocket. He wastouching his battered hat with the other.
"Beg pardon, miss," he said raucously, "name of Jaggs! And I havereported for dooty!"
The Angel of Terror Page 9