The Angel of Terror. Edgar Wallace

newspapers and people who hinted at mistaken leniency and suggested that James Meredith would have been hanged if he were a poor man instead of being, as he was, the master of vast wealth.

      "That's that," said Jack Glover between his teeth, as he came out of court with the eminent King's Counsel who had defended his friend and client, "the little lady wins."

      His companion looked sideways at him and smiled.

      "Honestly, Glover, do you believe that poor girl could do so dastardly a thing as lie about the man she loves?"

      "She loves!" repeated Jack Glover witheringly.

      "I think you are prejudiced," said the counsel, shaking his head. "Personally, I believe that Meredith is a lunatic; I am satisfied that all he told us about the interview he had with the girl was born of a diseased imagination. I was terribly impressed when I saw Jean Briggerland in the box. She—by Jove, there is the lady!"

      They had reached the entrance of the Court. A big car was standing by the kerb and one of the attendants was holding open the door for a girl dressed in black. They had a glimpse of a pale, sad face of extraordinary beauty, and then she disappeared behind the drawn blinds.

      The counsel drew a long sigh.

      "Mad!" he said huskily. "He must be mad! If ever I saw a pure soul in a woman's face, it is in hers!"

      "You've been in the sun, Sir John—you're getting sentimental," said Jack Glover brutally, and the eminent lawyer choked indignantly.

      Jack Glover had a trick of saying rude things to his friends, even when those friends were twenty years his senior, and by every rule of professional etiquette entitled to respectful treatment.

      "Really!" said the outraged Sir John. "There are times, Glover, when you are insufferable!"

      But by this time Jack Glover was swinging along the Old Bailey, his hands in his pockets, his silk hat on the back of his head.

      He found the grey-haired senior member of the firm of Rennett, Glover and Simpson (there had been no Simpson in the firm for ten years) on the point of going home.

      Mr. Rennett sat down at the sight of his junior.

      "I heard the news by 'phone," he said. "Ellbery says there is no ground for appeal, but I think the recommendation to mercy will save his life—besides it is a crime passionelle, and they don't hang for homicidal jealousy. I suppose it was the girl's evidence that turned the trick?"

      Jack nodded.

      "And she looked like an angel just out of the refrigerator," he said despairingly. "Ellbery did his poor best to shake her, but the old fool is half in love with her—I left him raving about her pure soul and her other celestial etceteras."

      Mr. Rennett stroked his iron grey beard.

      "She's won," he said, but the other turned on him with a snarl.

      "Not yet!" he said almost harshly. "She hasn't won till Jimmy Meredith is dead or——"

      "Or——?" repeated his partner significantly. "That 'or' won't come off, Jack. He'll get a life sentence as sure as 'eggs is eggs.' I'd go a long way to help Jimmy; I'd risk my practice and my name."

      Jack Glover looked at his partner in astonishment.

      "You old sportsman!" he said admiringly. "I didn't know you were so fond of Jimmy?"

      Mr. Rennett got up and began pulling on his gloves. He seemed a little uncomfortable at the sensation he had created.

      "His father was my first client," he said apologetically. "One of the best fellows that ever lived. He married late in life, that was why he was such a crank over the question of marriage. You might say that old Meredith founded our firm. Your father and Simpson and I were nearly at our last gasp when Meredith gave us his business. That was our turning point. Your father—God rest him—was never tired of talking about it. I wonder he never told you."

      "I think he did," said Jack thoughtfully. "And you really would go a long way—Rennett—I mean, to help Jim Meredith?"

      "All the way," said old Rennett shortly.

      Jack Glover began whistling a long lugubrious tune.

      "I'm seeing the old boy to-morrow," he said. "By the way, Rennett, did you see that a fellow had been released from prison to a nursing home for a minor operation the other day? There was a question asked in Parliament about it. Is it usual?"

      "It can be arranged," said Rennett. "Why?"

      "Do you think in a few months' time we could get Jim Meredith into a nursing home for—say an appendix operation?"

      "Has he appendicitis?" asked the other in surprise.

      "He can fake it," said Jack calmly. "It's the easiest thing in the world to fake."

      Rennett looked at the other under his heavy eyebrows.

      "You're thinking of the 'or'?" he challenged, and Jack nodded.

      "It can be done—if he's alive," said Rennett after a pause.

      "He'll be alive," prophesied his partner, "now the only thing is—where shall I find the girl?"

      Chapter 2

      Lydia Beale gathered up the scraps of paper that littered her table, rolled them into a ball and tossed them into the fire.

      There was a knock at the door, and she half turned in her chair to meet with a smile her stout landlady who came in carrying a tray on which stood a large cup of tea and two thick and wholesome slices of bread and jam.

      "Finished, Miss Beale?" asked the landlady anxiously.

      "For the day, yes," said the girl with a nod, and stood up stretching herself stiffly.

      She was slender, a head taller than the dumpy Mrs. Morgan. The dark violet eyes and the delicate spiritual face she owed to her Celtic ancestors, the grace of her movements, no less than the perfect hands that rested on the drawing board, spoke eloquently of breed.

      "I'd like to see it, miss, if I may," said Mrs. Morgan, wiping her hands on her apron in anticipation.

      Lydia pulled open a drawer of the table and took out a large sheet of Windsor board. She had completed her pencil sketch and Mrs. Morgan gasped appreciatively. It was a picture of a masked man holding a villainous crowd at bay at the point of a pistol.

      "That's wonderful, miss," she said in awe. "I suppose those sort of things happen too?"

      The girl laughed as she put the drawing away.

      "They happen in stories which I illustrate, Mrs. Morgan," she said dryly. "The real brigands of life come in the shape of lawyers' clerks with writs and summonses. It's a relief from those mad fashion plates I draw, anyway. Do you know, Mrs. Morgan, that the sight of a dressmaker's shop window makes me positively ill!"

      Mrs. Morgan shook her head sympathetically and Lydia changed the subject.

      "Has anybody been this afternoon?" she asked.

      "Only the young man from Spadd & Newton," replied the stout woman with a sigh. "I told 'im you was out, but I'm a bad liar."

      The girl groaned.

      "I wonder if I shall ever get to the end of those debts," she said in despair. "I've enough writs in the drawer to paper the house, Mrs. Morgan."

      Three years ago Lydia Beale's father had died and she had lost the best friend and companion that any girl ever had. She knew he was in debt, but had no idea how extensively he was involved. A creditor had seen her the day after the funeral and had made some uncouth reference to the convenience of a death which had automatically cancelled George Beale's obligations. It needed only that to spur the girl to an action which was as foolish as it was generous. She had written to all the people to whom her father owed money and had assumed full responsibility for debts amounting to hundreds of pounds.