“There must have been cave women, too, Marcus,” she said coolly, as she rose. “They had their methods — give me your handkerchief, I want to wipe this knife.”
His face was grey now. He was looking at her like a man bereft of his senses.
He did not move when she took his handkerchief from his pocket, wiped the knife, closed and slipped it into her bag, before she replaced the handkerchief tidily. And all the time he stood there with his hand streaming with blood, incapable of movement. It was not until she had disappeared round the corner of the house that he pulled out the handkerchief and wrapped it about his hand.
“A devil,” he whimpered, almost in tears, “a devil!”
Chapter XXVI
Jean Briggerland discovered a new arrival on her return to the house.
Jack Glover had come unexpectedly from London, so Lydia told her, and Jack himself met her with extraordinary geniality.
“You lucky people to be in this paradise!” he said. “It is raining like the dickens in London, and miserable beyond description. And you’re looking brown and beautiful, Miss Briggerland.”
“The spirit of the warm south has got into your blood, Mr. Glover,” she said sarcastically. “A course at the Riviera would make you almost human.”
“And what would make you human?” asked Jack blandly.
“I hope you people aren’t going to quarrel as soon as you meet,” said Lydia.
Jean was struck by the change in the girl. There was a colour in her cheeks, and a new and a more joyous note in her voice, which was unmistakable to so keen a student as Jean Briggerland.
“I never quarrel with Jack,” she said. She assumed a proprietorial air toward Jack Glover, which unaccountably annoyed Lydia. “He invents the quarrels and carries them out himself. How long are you staying?”
“Two days,” said Jack, “then I’m due back in town.”
“Have you brought your Mr. Jaggs with you?” asked Jean innocently.
“Isn’t he here?” asked Jack in surprise. “I sent him along a week ago.”
“Here?” repeated Jean slowly. “Oh, he’s here, is he? Of course.” She nodded. Certain things were clear to her now; the unknown drencher of beds, the stranger who had appeared from nowhere and had left her father senseless, were no longer mysteries.
“Oh, Jean,” it was Lydia who spoke. “I’m awfully remiss, I didn’t give you the parcel I brought back from the hospital.”
“From the hospital?” said Jean. “What parcel was that?”
“Something you had sent to be sterilized. I’ll get it.”
She came back in a minute or two with the parcel which she had found in the car.
“Oh yes,” said Jean carelessly, “I remember. It is a rug that I lent to the gardener’s wife when her little boy was taken ill.”
She handed the packet to the maid.
“Take it to my room,” she said.
She waited just long enough to find an excuse for leaving the party, and went upstairs. The parcel was on her bed. She tore off the wrapping — inside, starched white and clean, was the dust coat she had worn the night she had carried Xavier from the cottage to Lydia’s bed. The rubber cap was there, discoloured from the effects of the disinfectant, and the gloves and the silk handkerchief, neatly washed and pressed. She looked at them thoughtfully.
She put the articles away in a drawer, went down the servants’ stairs and through a heavy open door into the cellar. Light was admitted by two barred windows, through one of which she had thrust her bundle that night, and she could see every corner of the cellar, which was empty — as she had expected. The clothing she had thrown down had been gathered by some mysterious agent, who had forwarded it to the hospital in her name.
She came slowly up the stairs, fastened the open door behind her, and walked out into the garden to think.
“Jaggs!” she said aloud, and her voice was as soft as silk. “I think, Mr. Jaggs, you ought to be in heaven.”
Chapter XXVII
“Who were the haughty individuals interviewing Jean in the saloon?” asked Jack Glover, as Lydia’s car panted and groaned on the stiff ascent to La Turbie.
Lydia was concerned, and he had already noted her seriousness.
“Poor Jean is rather worried,” she said. “It appears that she had a love affair with a man three or four years ago, and recently he has been bombarding her with threatening letters.”
“Poor soul,” said Jack dryly, “but I should imagine she could have dealt with that matter without calling in the police. I suppose they were detectives. Has she had a letter recently?”
“She had one this morning — posted in Monte Carlo last night.”
“By the way, Jean went into Monte Carlo last night, didn’t she?” asked Jack.
She looked at him reproachfully.
“We all went into Monte Carlo,” she said severely. “Now, please don’t be horrid, Mr. Glover, you aren’t suggesting that Jean wrote this awful letter to herself, are you?”
“Was it an awful letter?” asked Jack.
“A terrible letter, threatening to kill her. Do you know that Mr. Briggerland thinks that the person who nearly killed me was really shooting at Jean.”
“You don’t say,” said Jack politely. “I haven’t heard about people shooting at you — but it sounds rather alarming.”
She told him the story, and he offered no comment.
“Go on with your thrilling story of Jean’s mortal enemy. Who is he?”
“She doesn’t know his name,” said Lydia. “She met him in Egypt — an elderly man who positively dogged her footsteps wherever she went, and made himself a nuisance.”
“Doesn’t know his name, eh?” said Jack with a sniff. “Well, that’s convenient.”
“I think you’re almost spiteful,” said Lydia hotly. “Poor girl, she was so distressed this morning; I have never seen her so upset.”
“And are the police going to keep guard and follow her wherever she goes? And is that impossible person, Mr. Marcus Stepney, also in the vendetta? I saw him wandering about this morning like a wounded hero, with his arm in a sling.”
“He hurt his hand gathering wild flowers for me on the—”
But Jack’s outburst of laughter checked her, and she glared at him.
“I think you’re boorish,” she snapped angrily. “I’m sorry I came out with you.”
“And I’m sorry I’ve been such a fool,” apologised the penitent Jack, “but the vision of the immaculate Mr. Stepney gathering wild flowers in a top hat and a morning suit certainly did appeal to me as being comical!”
“He doesn’t wear a top hat or a morning suit in Monte Carlo,” she said, furious at his banter. “Let us talk about somebody else than my friends.”
“I haven’t started to talk about your friends