"Because I didn't know till Margaret relieved her mind at our expense," said his daughter coolly. "I had to say something. Besides, I'd heard one of the maids say that somebody's mother had deserted him--I fitted it in. What a funk you are, father!" "I hate the very thought of disease," he growled. "Why aren't you coming with us--there is nothing the matter with your ankle?" "Because I prefer to stay at home." He looked at her suspiciously. "Jean," he said in a milder voice, "hadn't we better let up on the girl for a bit--until that lunatic doctor affair has blown over?" She reached out and took a gold case from his waistcoat pocket, extracted a cigarette and replaced the case before she spoke. "We can't afford to 'let up' as you call it, for a single hour. Do you realise that any day her lawyer may persuade her to make a will leaving her money to a--a home for cats, or something equally untouchable? If there was no Jack Glover we could afford to wait months. And I'm less troubled about him than I am about the man Jaggs. Father, you will be glad to learn that I am almost afraid of that freakish old man." "Neither of them are here--" he began. "Exactly," said Jean, "neither are here--Lydia had a telegram from him just before dinner asking if he could come to see her next week." At this moment Lydia returned and Jean Briggerland eyed her critically. "My dear, you look lovely," she said and kissed her. Mr. Briggerland's nose wrinkled, as it always did when his daughter shocked him. Chapter XVIII Jean Briggerland waited until she heard the sound of the departing car sink to a faint hum, then she went up to her room, opened the bureau and took out a long and tightly fitting dust-coat that she wore when she was motoring. She had seen a large bottle of peroxide in Mrs. Cole-Mortimer's room. It probably contributed to the dazzling glories of Mrs. Cole-Mortimer's hair, but it was also a powerful germicide. She soaked a big silk handkerchief in a basin of water, to which she added a generous quantity of the drug, and squeezing the handkerchief nearly dry, she knotted it loosely about her neck. A rubber bathing cap she pulled down over her head, and smiled at her queer reflection in the glass. Then she found a pair of kid gloves and drew them on. She turned out the light and went softly down the carpeted stairs. The servants were at their dinner, and she opened the front door and crossed the lawn into a belt of trees, beyond which she knew, for she had been in the house two days, was the gardener's cottage.