He thought at first she was dead, but listening intently he heard the beating of her heart, and searched the luncheon basket for a small flask of liqueurs, which Alphonse, the head waiter, had packed. He put the bottle to her lips and poured a small quantity into her mouth. She choked convulsively, and presently opened her eyes. "You're amongst friends," said Marcus unnecessarily. She sat up and covered her face with her hands. It all came back to her in a flash, and the horror of it froze her blood. "What has happened to you?" asked Marcus. "I don't know exactly," she said faintly. And then: "Oh, it was dreadful, dreadful!" Marcus Stepney offered her the flask of liqueurs, and when she shook her head, he helped himself liberally. Lydia was conscious of a pain in her left shoulder. The sleeve was torn, and across the thick of the arm there was an ugly raw weal. "It looks like a bullet mark to me," said Marcus Stepney, suddenly grave. "I heard a shot. Did somebody shoot at you?" She nodded. "Who?" She tried to frame the word, but no sound came, and then she burst into a fit of weeping. "Not Jean?" he asked hoarsely. She shook her head. "Briggerland?" She nodded. "Briggerland!" Mr. Stepney whistled, and as he whistled he shivered. "Let's get out of here," he said. "We shall catch our death of cold. The sun will warm us up." He started the engines going, and safely navigated the narrow passage to the open sea. He had to get a long way out before he could catch a glimpse of the road, then he saw the car, and a cycling policeman dismounting and bending over something. He put away his telescope and turned to the girl. "This is bad, Mrs. Meredith," he said. "Thank God I wasn't in it." "Where are you taking me?" she asked. "I'm taking you out to sea," said Marcus with a little smile. "Don't get scared, Mrs. Meredith. I want to hear that story of yours, and if it is anything like what I fear, then it would be better for you that Briggerland thinks you are dead." She told the story as far as she knew it and he listened, not interrupting, until she had finished. "Mordon dead, eh? That's bad. But how on earth are they going to explain it? I suppose," he said with a smile, "you didn't write a letter saying that you were going to run away with the chauffeur?" She sat up at this. "I did write a letter," she said slowly. "It wasn't a real letter, it was in a story which Jean was dictating." She closed her eyes. "How awful," she said. "I can't believe it even now." "Tell me about the story," said the man quickly. "It was a story she was writing for a London magazine, and her wrist hurt, and I wrote it down as she dictated. Only about three pages, but one of the pages was a letter supposed to have been written by the heroine saying that she was going away, as she loved somebody who was beneath her socially." "Good God!" said Marcus, genuinely shocked. "Did Jean do that?"