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.
"Even the damn fish won't bite," he said, and the humour of his remark
cheered him. He was ten miles from the shore, and the blue coast was a
dim, ragged line on the horizon. He pulled out a big luncheon basket
from the cabin and eyed it with disfavour. It had cost him two hundred
francs. He opened the basket, and at the sight of its contents, was
inclined to reconsider his earlier view that he had wasted his money,
the more so since the _maître d'hôtel_ had thoughtfully included two
quart bottles of champagne.
Mr. Marcus Stepney made a hearty meal, and by the time he had dropped an
empty bottle into the sea, he was inclined to take a more cheerful view
of life. He threw over the debris of the lunch, pushed the basket under
one of the seats of the cabin, pulled up his anchor and started the
engines running.
The sky was a brighter blue and the sea held a finer sparkle, and he
was inclined to take a view of even Jean Briggerland, more generous than
any he had held.
"Little devil," he smiled reminiscently, as he murmured the words.
He opened the second bottle of champagne in her honour--Mr. Marcus
Stepney was usually an abstemious man--and drank solemnly, if not
soberly, her health and happiness. As the sun grew warmer he began to
feel an unaccountable sleepiness. He was sober enough to know that to
fall asleep in the middle of the ocean was to ask for trouble, and he
set the bow of the _Jungle Queen_ for the nearest beach, hoping to find
a landing place.
He found something better as he skirted the shore. The sea and the
weather had scooped out a big hollow under a high cliff, a hollow just
big enough to take the _Jungle Queen_ and deep and still enough to
ensure her a safe anchorage. A rock barrier interposed between the
breakers and this deep pool which the waves had hollowed in the stony
floor of the ocean. As he dropped his anchor he disturbed a school of
fish, and his angling instincts re-awoke. He let down his line over the
side, seated himself comfortable in one of the two big basket chairs,
and was dozing comfortably....
It was the sound of a shot that woke him. It was followed by another,
and a third. Almost immediately something dropped from the cliff, and
fell with a mighty splash into the water.
Marcus was wide awake now, and almost sobered. He peered down into the
clear depths, and saw a figure of a woman turning over and over. Then as
it floated upwards it came on its back, and he saw the face. Without a
moment's hesitation he dived into the water.
He would have been wiser if he had waited until she floated to the
surface, for now he found a difficulty in regaining the boat. After a
great deal of trouble, he managed to reach into the launch and pull out
a rope, which he fastened round the girl's waist and drew tight to a
small stanchion. Then he climbed into the boat himself, and pulled her
after him.
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?"
He seemed absolutely crushed by the realisation of Jean Briggerland's
deed, and he did not speak again for a long time.
"I'm glad I know," he said at last.
"Do you really think that all this time she has been trying to kill me?"
He nodded.
"She has used everybody, even me," he said bitterly. "I don't want you
to think badly of me, Mrs. Meredith, but I'm going to tell you the
truth. I'd provisioned this little yacht to-day for a twelve hundred
mile trip, and you were to be my companion."
"I?" she said incredulously.
"It was Jean's idea, really, though I think she must have altered her
view, or thought I had forgotten all she suggested. I intended taking
you out to sea and keeping you out there until you agreed----" he shook
his head. "I don't think I could have done it really," he said, speaking
half to himself. "I'm not really built for a conspirator. None of that
rough stuff ever appealed to me. Well, I didn't try, anyway."
"No, Mr. Stepney," she said quietly, "and I don't think, if you had, you
would have succeeded."
He was in his frankest mood, and startled her later when he told her of
his profession, without attempting to excuse or minimise the method by
which he earned his livelihood.
"I was in a pretty bad way, and I thought there was easy money coming,
and that rather tempted me," he said. "I know you will think I am a
despicable cad, but you can't think too badly of me, really."
He surveyed the shore. Ahead of them the green tongue of Cap Martin
jutted out into the sea.
"I think I'll take you to Nice," he said. "We'll attract less attention
there, and probably I'll be able to get into touch with your old Mr.
Jaggs. You've no idea where I can find him? At any rate, I can go to the
Villa Casa and discover what sort of a yarn is being told."
"And probably I can get my clothes dry," she said with a little grimace.
"I wonder if you know how uncomfortable I am?"
"Pretty well," he said calmly. "Every time I move a new stream of water
runs down my back."
It was half-past three in the afternoon when they reached Nice, and
Marcus saw the girl safely to an hotel, changed himself and brought the
yacht back to Monaco, where Briggerland had seen him.
For two hours Marcus Stepney wrestled with his love for a girl who was
plainly a murderess, and in the end love won. When darkness fell he
provisioned the _Jungle Queen_, loaded her with petrol, and heading her
out to sea made the swimming cove of Cap Martin. It was to the boat that
Jean flew.
"What about my father?" she asked as she stepped aboard.
"I think they've caught him," said Marcus.
"He'll hate prison," said the girl complacently. "Hurry, Marcus, I'd
hate it, too!"