LITMIR.BIZ

       CHAPTER IV.

      WEAVING THE NET.

      Hetty rubbed her eyes with the feeling that it had all been a dream. It was not yet very late, only a little after midnight, and the brilliant saloons were still crowded with guests. Down below in the dining-rooms people were supping, there was the dreamy music of a band somewhere. As if nothing in the world had happened Countess Lalage sat smiling brilliantly and chatting with not the least distinguished of her guests, Mr. Gilbert Lawrence, the famous novelist.

      Hetty's uncle was evidently flattered. He liked talking of his own work, for his heart was in it, and he had for audience one of the most brilliant and beautiful women in London. His voice was something high pitched and it carried easily to Hetty's ears. Apparently, Bruce was gone, for the girl could see nothing of him anywhere. She was only too glad for a chance to sit down quietly and ponder over the disturbing events of the evening. Nobody was likely to be particularly interested in Leona Lalage's governess.

      The little man with the keen restless eyes and the pince-nez did not suggest the popular idea of the novelist. He chattered on with frank egotism. The world made much of him, and he took it for granted that all the world was interested in his work. And he was talking eagerly to Leona Lalage about the Corner House.

      Hetty caught her breath eagerly. That dark and evil place seemed to have suddenly become part and parcel of her life. Instinctively she half hid herself behind a great dragon vase full of palms.

      "Fact is I used to know the man who lived there," Gilbert Lawrence was saying in his quick staccato way. "And I was once in the house. No, I never met the wife. A depressing, gloomy house, like Tom Hood's haunted mansion. Just the place to plan a murder in, and never be found out. After the scandal I worked out a novel on the subject."

      Leona Lalage's eyes gleamed like points of fire. They seemed to be burnt into her face. Hetty could see the restless play of the jewelled hands.

      "Did you ever publish it?" she asked, eagerly.

      "Never had the chance to write it," Lawrence cried. "But I worked it all out. Wicked woman, revenge, plot to bring hero within the grip of the law. It's pigeonholed in my writing desk, and labelled 'The Corner House.' But I don't suppose it will ever be written."

      "Worth stealing," a Society journalist lounging by remarked. "I could write a novel, only I can never think of a plot. Your old housekeeper is asleep long ago. Where do you carry your latchkey?"

      "Ticket pocket of my overcoat," laughed Lawrence. "But you'll be found out, Stead. Being a critic, the public would never take you seriously."

      The Countess's eyes flamed again suddenly. Hetty, watching, was utterly puzzled. What was there in this trivial conversation that held this woman almost breathless? She had the air of one who has taken a great resolution. She seemed like a man face to face with death, who sees a way out.

      A great many of the guests had by this time departed. It was growing very quiet in the streets now, the jingle of harness and the impatient pawing of horses had almost ceased. A soldierly-looking man came up to Leona Lalage, and held out his hand.

      "But you are not going to Aldershot tonight. Captain Gifford?" Leona asked. "A cab? How extravagant!"

      "Motor car," the stolid dragoon replied. "I've got a fifteen horsepower Daimler that I can knock seventy miles an hour out of at a pinch. And no danger of being picked up for scorching on a dark night like this."

      The Countess put her hand to her throat as if she had found some trouble with her breathing. Those wonderful eyes of hers were gleaming like electric flashes. Her face was white, but her lips were drawn narrow with resolution. She rose, and sauntered carelessly to the door.

      "I dote on motors," she said. "Nothing pleases me better than to go out in my own alone. I am coming to see your steed, Captain. The rooms are so hot here that I have a great mind to run away with it."

      Gifford murmured something about the honour and pleasure. There was no vehicle to be seen in the dark street besides the gleaming mass of brass and steel that quietly simmered by the pavement.

      "A beauty!" the Countess exclaimed, "And the same action as my own. I believe I know as much about it as my chauffeur. Captain Gifford, let me try it alone, do. Harris, give me a coat. No, one of the gentlemen's overcoats--that grey one will do. Do let me go round the square alone!"

      Gifford consented with outward urbanity. Few men could say no when Leona Lalage asked for a favour. With a man's coat over her gleaming black dress and ivory shoulders she sprang into the car, and the next moment she was flying round the corner. She laughed recklessly as she passed out of sight, a laugh with a ring of insolent triumph in it.

      Ten minutes, twenty minutes passed, whilst Gifford fidgeted with a half-chewed cigarette in his teeth. Then there was a distant whirr, two flaming eyes and the gleam of brass and steel.

      "An adventure!" the Countess cried gaily. "I have been dodging a couple of policemen, or I should have been back before. Beware of the high road. Goodbye, Captain, and if ever you wish to dispose of your

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