"What am I to do with the money? Reinvest it?" "Exactly," said Jack, "but the most important thing is to make your will." He looked along the deserted veranda. They were the only guests present who had come early. From the veranda two curtained doors led into the _salon_ of the hotel and it struck him that one of these had not been ajar when he looked at it before, and it was the door opposite to the table where they were sitting. He noted this idly without attaching any great importance to the fact. "Suppose somebody were to present a cheque to the bank in my name?" she asked. "What would happen?" "If it were for a large sum? The manager would call us up and one of us would probably go round to your bank. It is only a block from our office. If Rennett or I said it was all right the cheque would be honoured. You may be sure that I should make very drastic inquiries as to the origin of the signature." And then she saw him stiffen and his eyes go to the door. He waited a second, then rising noiselessly, crossed the wooden floor of the veranda quickly and pushed open the door, to find himself face to face with the smiling Jean Briggerland. Chapter XXVIII "However did you get here?" asked Lydia in surprise. "I went into Nice," said the girl carelessly. "The detectives were going there and I gave them a lift." "I see," said Jack, "so you came into Turbie by the back road? I wondered why I hadn't seen your car." "You expected me, did you?" she smiled, as she sat down at the table and selected a peach from its cotton-wool bed. "I only arrived a second ago, in fact I was opening the door when you almost knocked my head off. What a violent man you are, Jack! I shall have to put you into my story." Glover had recovered his self-possession by now. "So you are adding to your other crimes by turning novelist, are you?" he said good-humouredly. "What is the book, Miss Briggerland?" "It is going to be called 'Suspected,'" she said coolly. "And it will be the Story of a Hurt Soul." "Oh, I see, a humorous story," said Jack, wilfully dense. "I didn't know you were going to write a biography." "But do tell me about this, it is very thrilling, Jean," said Lydia, "and it is the first I've heard of it." Jean was skinning the peach and was smiling as at an amusing thought. "I've been two years making up my mind to write it," she said, "and I'm going to dedicate it to Jack. I started work on it three or four days ago. Look at my wrist!" She held out her beautiful hand for the girl's inspection. "It is a very pretty wrist," laughed Lydia, "but why did you want me to see it?" "If you had a professional eye," said the girl, resuming her occupation, "you would have noticed the swelling, the result of writers' cramp." "The yarn about your elderly admirer ought to provide a good chapter," said Jack, "and isn't there a phrase 'A Chapter of Accidents'--_that_ ought to go in?" She did not raise her eyes.