,
but I don't see how we could have done anything else--Mordon was very
tiresome."

"Where did Glover come from?" asked Mr. Briggerland.

"He's been here all the time," said the girl.

"What?"

She nodded.

"He was old Jaggs. I had an idea he was, but I was certain when I
remembered that he had stayed at Lydia's flat."

He put down his tea cup and wiped his lips with a silk handkerchief.

"I wish this business was over," he said fretfully. "It looks as if we
shall have trouble."

"Of course we shall," she said coldly. "You didn't expect to get a
fortune of six hundred thousand pounds without trouble, did you? I dare
say we shall be suspected. But it takes a lot of suspicion to worry me.
We'll be in calm water soon, for the rest of our lives."

"I hope so," he said without any great conviction.

Mrs. Cole-Mortimer was prostrate and in bed, and Jean had no patience to
see her.

She herself ordered the dinner, and they had finished when a visitor in
the shape of Mr. Marcus Stepney came in.

It was unusual of Marcus to appear at the dinner hour, except in evening
dress, and she remarked the fact wonderingly.

"Can I have a word with you, Jean?" he asked.

"What is it, what is it?" asked Mr. Briggerland testily. "Haven't we had
enough mysteries?"

Marcus eyed him without favour.

"We'll have another one, if you don't mind," he said unpleasantly, and
the girl, whose every sense was alert, picked up a wrap and walked into
the garden, with Marcus following on her heels.

Ten minutes passed and they did not return, a quarter of an hour went
by, and Mr. Briggerland grew uneasy. He got up from his chair, put down
his book, and was half-way across the room when the door opened and Jack
Glover came in, followed by the detective.

It was the Frenchman who spoke.

"M'sieur Briggerland, I have a warrant from the Prefect of the Alpes
Maritimes for your arrest."

"My arrest?" spluttered the dark man, his teeth chattering. "What--what
is the charge?"

"The wilful murder of Francois Mordon," said the officer.

"You lie--you lie," screamed Briggerland. "I have no knowledge of
any----" his words sank into a throaty gurgle, and he stared past the
detective. Lydia Meredith was standing in the doorway.

Chapter XXXIX

The morning for Mr. Stepney had been doubly disappointing; again and
again he drew up an empty line, and at last he flung the tackle into the
well of the launch.

"Even the damn fish won'