she drew her wet handkerchief across her red lips and
flung the dainty thing as though it were contaminated through the open
window, Francois Mordon was a dead man.

Chapter XXXI

A letter from Jack Glover arrived the next morning. He had had an easy
journey, was glad to have had the opportunity of seeing Lydia, and hoped
she would think over the will. Lydia was not thinking of wills, but of
an excuse to get back to London. Of a sudden the loveliness of Monte
Carlo had palled upon her, and she had almost forgotten the
circumstances which had made the change of scene and climate so welcome.

"Go back to London, my dear?" said Mrs. Cole-Mortimer, shocked. "What
a--a rash notion! Why it is _freezing_ in town and foggy and ... and I
really can't let you go back!"

Mrs. Cole-Mortimer was agitated at the very thought. Her own good time
on the Riviera depended upon Lydia staying. Jean had made that point
very clear. She, herself, she explained to her discomforted hostess, was
ready to go back at once, and the prolongation of Mrs. Cole-Mortimer's
stay depended upon Lydia's plans. A startling switch of cause and
effect, for Mrs. Cole-Mortimer had understood that Jean's will
controlled the plans of the party.

Lydia might have insisted, had she really known the reason for her
sudden longing for the grimy metropolis. But she could not even convince
herself that the charms of Monte Carlo were contingent upon the presence
there of a man who had aroused her furious indignation and with whom she
had spent most of the time quarrelling. She mentioned her unrest to
Jean, and Jean as usual seemed to understand.

"The Riviera is rather like Turkish Delight--very sweet, but
unsatisfying," she said. "Stay another week and then if you feel that
way we'll all go home together."

"This means breaking up your holiday," said Lydia in self-reproach.

"Not a bit," denied the girl, "perhaps I shall feel as you do in a
week's time."

A week! Jean thought that much might happen in a week. In truth events
began to move quickly from that night, but in a way she had not
anticipated.

Mr. Briggerland, who had been reading the newspaper through the
conversation, looked up.

"They are making a great fuss of this Moor in Nice," he said, "but if I
remember rightly, Nice invariably has some weird lion to adore."

"Muley Hafiz," said Lydia. "Yes, I saw him the day I went to lunch with
Mr. Stepney, a fine-looking man."

"I'm not greatly