As she fell, Lois clutched wildly, and her fingers caught a
projecting ridge of stone an inch wide; the jerk nearly pulled her
arms from their sockets, but for the moment she hung.
She heard the frightened scream of Lizzy.
“Are you there? Oh, for God’s sake hold on, Lois! I’ll get them!”
And then, looking up, she saw the girl jerked violently backwards. She
was falling; she could not hold on a second longer. There was a
terrible, unendurable pain in her shoulders and her head was swimming.
And then, just as her fingers were slipping, a big hand grasped her
wrist, and she felt herself drawn upwards until another hand caught
her under the arm and pulled her into the room. She looked up into the
unpleasant face of Braime, the butler.
He laid her on the bed, then, going to the window, knelt and peered
down. The crash of falling masonry had attracted one of those small
crowds which gather from nowhere at any hour of the day or night in
London. Braime saw a policeman running across the street, and, rising,
dusted his knees carefully, closed the window door and latched it. He
said not a word to the girl, but went out of the room.
Lois, on the very verge of collapse, lay white of face, as pale as
death. But her distress was as nothing to Lizzy Smith’s, who was
paralysed by all the tragic happening, until the girl’s moan aroused
her to action.
Lois came from semi-consciousness to a clearer understanding, with a
sense that she had been drowned, then, as out of a haze, loomed the
white-faced Lizzy with a water-jug in her hand.
“That was a close call!” breathed the girl.
Something in the words was reminiscent; Lois had heard them before.
Then in a flash she remembered the motor-car which had nearly killed
her and Michael Dorn’s words. She struggled up to a sitting position
and found that the sensation of drowning was not altogether illusory,
for Lizzy had been very lavish in her use of the water-jug.
She had hardly got to her feet when there was a tap at the door and
the butler came in, followed by a policeman.
“The officer wishes to see the balcony,” said Braime, and opened the
door for the policeman’s inspection.
With the aid of his lamp the officer made a cursory examination and
brought his head back into the room. He looked strangely at Lois.
“You’ll never get nearer to trouble than that, miss,” he said.
“There’s an old crack in the slab that you trod on, and the balustrade
doesn’t support the flooring at all. I’d like to see some of the other
balconies,” he said, and disappeared with the butler.
This was the second accident in a few days; her spine crept at the
thought. What malign influence was following her? For the first time
she wished she was returning to her humble little room in Charlotte
Street, and she said good-bye to Lizzy with real reluctance.
The countess arrived home soon after the girl had gone, and came
immediately up to Lois’ room as she was undressing.
“I knew that balcony was unsafe,” she said, “and I told that fool of a
butler to keep the gate fixed. Where is the gate?”
“It was here this afternoon; I did not notice it before I went down to
dinner, Lady Moron,” said Lois. “I thought it had been moved to allow
the windows to be closed.”
The countess bit her red lip thoughtfully.
“There is more in this than I care to think about,” she said. “I hope
you’re not going to have a sleepless night, Miss Reddle. I cannot tell
you how distressed I am. How were you saved?”
Lois told her and Lady Moron nodded.
“Braime?” she said. “But what was he doing on the third floor at that
time?”
She looked searchingly at the girl and then, without another word,
went to her own room.
It was two o’clock in the morning before sleep came to Lois; and by
that time her nerves were on edge, so that she started at every sound.
Something was keeping her awake--something she was trying to remember.
Some thought was working insistently at the back of her mind,
demanding revelation. As she tossed from side to side, consciousness
of this inhibited memory made her grow wider and wider awake. And
then, as she came back to bed, after the second tramp to the washstand
for a glass of water, it flashed upon her.
“Keep your door locked--even in the palatial home of the Countess of
Moron!”
Michael Dorn’s warning! It was that. She went to the door and felt for
the key. But there was none, nor was there any bolt. Turning on the
light, she lifted one of the smaller arm-chairs, carried it to the
door, and pushed the back beneath the handle. Then she went back to
bed and was asleep in a few seconds.
She awoke the next morning to find the sun streaming past the edge of
the blind. There was a gentle tap-tapping at the door. She jumped out
of bed and pulled away the chair to admit the maid.
“Good morning, miss,” said the maid cheerfully, and was inclined to
discuss the accident of the night before, but that Lois was most
anxious to forget.
“Her ladyship’s very much upset. She hasn’t had any sleep all night,
miss,” said Jean. “She asked me if I’d warned you about the balcony.
Of course I told her I did, but only in the daytime--I didn’t know it
was unsafe. I’ve only been here a fortnight. Her ladyship was in the
country until then.”
She drew the blinds, and, crossing to the window, Lois looked out. The
jagged edge of the broken balcony was there to remind her of her
narrow escape and she shuddered as she recalled that dreadful moment
when she had hung in space.
“It was the butler’s fault,” said Jean maliciously. “I shouldn’t be
surprised if he got the sack.”
“If it hadn’t been for the butler I should have been killed.”
“If it hadn’t been for the butler, miss, you wouldn’t have been in
danger,” said the girl, and there seemed some truth in her remark.
“Her ladyship told me to move you to-day to his lordship’s room on the
floor below.”
“But surely she’s not turning out Lord Moron?” asked Lois, aghast.
Apparently the household staff entertained towards his lordship
something of the contempt which his mother displayed, in public and
private.
“Oh, him!” said the girl with a shrug. “He doesn’t mind where he
sleeps. He’d be just as happy in the garret. All he wants to do is to
go on the stage and play with his silly old electricity! I wonder her
ladyship allows him to go on in that childish way.”
So the Earl of Moron’s queer desire was public property, thought Lois.
Apart from the shock of the news that he was being turned out of his
apartment to make room for a secretary, Lois was not sorry that new
accommodation was to be offered to her, and her pleasure was
intensified after her interview with the countess.
Her ladyship, who had a predilection for strong colours, wore a gown
of petunia that morning. Lois thought it made her look old. She made
no reference to the accident, and for the first hour after breakfast
they were engaged in letter-writing. Lady Moron had many
correspondents, and there was the usual sprinkling of begging letters
which had to be dealt with in the usual way. When Lois had finished
her work and brought the last letter for her employer’s signature, the
countess looked up.
“You are not suffering any ill effects from last night’s terrible
experience?” she asked.
“No,” smiled Lois.
“I have told the maid to move you into Selwyn’s room. As a matter of
fact, it is never used by him; he prefers his little study at the top
of the house and sleeps there nine nights out of ten. You are not
worried about what happened?”
Lois shook her head.
“Or nervous?”
The girl hesitated.
“I was a little nervous last night.”
“I thought you would be, and I have been considering what would be my
best course to induce you to stay. I like you. And there is another
reason; I want a woman in the house to whom I can talk
confidentially.” She turned in her swivelled chair and looked up into
Lois’ face. “I don’t want to be alone,” she said. “I am rather
frightened of being alone.”
“Frightened, Lady Moron?”
Her ladyship nodded. There was certainly nothing in her voice to
indicate her fear. She picked and chose her words with characteristic
care. “I can’t explain why, but I am frightened--of certain people. If
you care to remain with me, I will raise your salary, and I am quite
willing that your friend should sleep in the house.”
“My friend?” asked the surprised Lois. “Do you mean Miss Smith?”
Again the countess nodded, her dark eyes never leaving the girl’s
face.
Lois hesitated.
“That might be very--very awkward for you,” she said.
The countess waved a flashing hand.
“I have considered the matter in all its aspects, and if it is
agreeable to you and your friend, I will have another bed put into
your room. Perhaps you would like to see Miss Smith and discover her
opinions on the subject? I will have the car ready for you in a
quarter of an hour.”
Looking over the edge of the wire blinds, Lizzy Smith saw the
glistening limousine pull up at the door, and Lois alight, and,
defiant of all the rules of the establishment, she ran out of the
office and came half-way down the stairs to meet the visitor.
In a few words Lois told her of Lady Moron’s proposal.
“Gee whiz!” said Lizzy, flabbergasted. “You don’t mean that?”
She gripped Lois by the arm and pulled her upstairs. “Come right along
to the ’phone!” she hissed, “and tell her royal highness that I’ll be
on the mat at six!”