t 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 II

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