LITMIR.BIZ

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is the one unpardonable offence that a girl can commit. Therefore, I do not resent his enmity as much as you might think. Believe me, I feel for you very much in these trying days. Let me say again that I hope your future will be bright."

      She blotted the letter, put it in an envelope, and addressed it, and taking down a book from one of the well-stocked shelves, drew her chair to the fire, and began reading.

      Mr. Briggerland came in an hour after, looked over her shoulder at the title, and made a sound of disapproval.

      "I can't understand your liking for that kind of book," he said.

      The book was one of the two volumes of "Chronicles of Crime," and she looked up with a smile.

      "Can't you? It's very easily explained. It is the most encouraging work in my collection. Sit down for a minute."

      "A record of vulgar criminals," he growled. "Their infernal last dying speeches, their processions to Tyburn—phaugh!"

      She smiled again, and looked down at the book. The wide margins were covered with pencilled notes in her writing.

      "They're a splendid mental exercise," she said. "In every case I have written down how the criminal might have escaped arrest, but they were all so vulgar, and so stupid. Really the police of the time deserve no credit for catching them. It is the same with modern criminals...."

      She went to the shelf, and took down two large scrap-books, carried them across to the fire, and opened one on her knees.

      "Vulgar and stupid, every one of them," she repeated, as she turned the leaves rapidly.

      "The clever ones get caught at times," said Briggerland gloomily.

      "Never," she said, and closed the book with a snap. "In England, in France, in America, and in almost every civilised country, there are murderers walking about to-day, respected by their fellow citizens. Murderers, of whose crimes the police are ignorant. Look at these." She opened the book again. "Here is the case of Rell, who poisons a troublesome creditor with weed-killer. Everybody in the town knew he bought the weed-killer; everybody knew that he was in debt to this man. What chance had he of escaping? Here's Jewelville—he kills his wife, buries her in the cellar, and then calls attention to himself by running away. Here's Morden, who kills his sister-in-law for the sake of her insurance money, and who also buys the poison in broad daylight, and is found with a bottle in his pocket. Such people deserve hanging."

      "I wish to heaven you wouldn't talk about hanging," said Briggerland tremulously, "you're inhuman, Jean, by God—"

      "I'm an angel," she smiled, "and I have press cuttings to prove it! The Daily Recorder had half a column on my appearance in the box at Jim's trial."

      He looked over toward the writing-table, saw the letter, and picked it up.

      "So you've written to the lady. Are you sending her the jewels?"

      She nodded.

      He looked at her quickly.

      "You haven't been up to any funny business with them, have you?" he asked suspiciously, and she smiled.

      "My dear parent," drawled Jean Briggerland, "after my lecture on the stupidity of the average criminal, do you imagine I should do anything so gauche?"

      Chapter VIII

      "And now, Mrs. Meredith," said Jack Glover, "what are you going to do?"

      He had spent the greater part of the morning with the new heiress, and Lydia had listened, speechless, as he recited a long and meaningless list of securities, of estates, of ground rents, balances and the like, which she had inherited.

      "What am I going to do?" she said, shaking her head, hopelessly. "I don't know. I haven't the slightest idea, Mr. Glover. It is so bewildering. Do I understand that all this property is mine?"

      "Not yet," said Jack with a smile, "but it is so much yours that on the strength of the will we are willing to advance you money to almost any extent. The will has to be proved, and probate must be taken, but when these legal formalities are settled, and we have paid the very heavy death duties, you will be entitled to dispose of your fortune as you wish. As a matter of fact," he added, "you could do that now. At any rate, you cannot live here in Brinksome Street, and I have taken the liberty of hiring a furnished flat on your behalf. One of our clients has gone away to the Continent and left the flat for me to dispose of. The rent is very low, about twenty guineas a week."

      "Twenty guineas a week!" gasped the horrified girl, "why, I can't–"

      And then she realised that she "could."

      Twenty guineas a week was as nothing to her. This fact more than anything else, brought her to an understanding of her fortune.

      "I suppose I had better move," she said dubiously. "Mrs. Morgan is giving up this house, and she asked me whether I had any plans. I think she'd be willing to come as my housekeeper."

      "Excellent," nodded Jack. "You'll want a maid as well and, of course, you will have to put up Jaggs for the nights."

      "Jaggs?" she said in astonishment.

      "Jaggs," repeated Jack solemnly. "You see, Miss—I beg your pardon, Mrs. Meredith, I'm rather concerned about you, and I want you to have somebody on hand I can rely on, sleeping in your flat at night. I dare say you think I am an old woman," he said as he saw her smile, "and that my fears are groundless, but you will agree that your own experience of last week will support the theory that anything may happen in London."

      "But really, Mr. Glover, you don't mean that I am in any serious danger—from whom?"

      "From a lot of people," he said diplomatically.

      "From poor Miss Briggerland?" she challenged, and his eyes narrowed.

      "Poor Miss Briggerland," he said softly. "She certainly is poorer than she expected to be."

      "Nonsense," scoffed the girl. She was irritated, which was unusual in her. "My dear Mr. Glover, why do you pursue your vendetta against her? Do you think it is playing the game, honestly now? Isn't it a case of wounded vanity on your part?"

      He stared at her in astonishment.

      "Wounded vanity? Do you mean pique?"

      She nodded.

      "Why should I be piqued?" he asked slowly.

      "You know best," replied Lydia, and then a light dawned on him.

      "Have I been making love to Miss Briggerland by any chance?" he asked.

      "You know best," she repeated.

      "Good Lord!" and then he began to laugh, and she thought he would never stop.

      "I suppose I made love to her, and she was angry because I dared to commit such an act of treachery to her fiancé! Yes, that was it. I made love to her behind poor Jim's back, and she 'ticked me off,' and that's why I'm so annoyed with her?"

      "You have a very good memory," said Lydia, with a scornful little smile.

      "My memory isn't as good as Miss Briggerland's power of invention," said Jack. "Doesn't it strike you, Mrs. Meredith, that if I had made love to that young lady, I should not be seen here to-day?"

      "What do you mean?" she asked.

      "I mean," said Jack Glover soberly, "that it would not have been Bulford, but I, who would have been lured from his club by a telephone message, and told to wait outside the door in Berkeley Street. It would have been I, who would have been shot dead by Miss Briggerland's father from the drawing-room window."

      The girl looked at him in amazement.

      "What a preposterous charge to make!" she said at last indignantly. "Do you suggest that this girl has connived at a murder?"

      "I not only suggest that she connived at it, but I stake my life that she planned it," said Jack carefully.

      "But the pistol was found near Mr. Bulford's body," said Lydia almost triumphantly, as she conceived this unanswerable argument.

      Jack nodded.

      "From Bulford's body to the drawing-room

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