"You look as if you've still got it," he said. He eyed her keenly. She shook her head. "Father, you must understand that this adventure may end disastrously. There are ninety-nine chances against the truth being known, but it is the extra chance that is worrying me. We ought to have settled Lydia more quietly, more naturally. There was too much melodrama and shooting, 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 Préfect 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 François 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.