been unprofitably spent.

For she had a clearer conception of the girl's character, and was
getting Jack Glover's interest into better perspective. The mercenary
part of it made her just a little sick. There was something so
mysterious, so ugly in his outlook on life, and there might not be a
little self-interest in his care for her.

She stood on the step of the house talking to the girl, whilst Mr.
Briggerland lit a cigarette with a patent lighter. Hyde Park Crescent
was deserted save for a man who stood near the railings which protected
the area of Mrs. Cole-Mortimer's house. He was apparently tying his shoe
laces.

They went down on the sidewalk, and Mr. Briggerland looked for his car.

"I'd like to take you home. My chauffeur promised to be here at four
o'clock. These men are most untrustworthy."

From the other end of the Crescent appeared the lights of a car. At
first Lydia thought it might be Mr. Briggerland's, and she was going to
make her excuses for she wanted to go home alone. The car was coming
too, at a tremendous pace. She watched it as it came furiously toward
her, and she did not notice that Mr. Briggerland and his daughter had
left her standing alone on the sidewalk and had withdrawn a few paces.

Suddenly the car made a swerve, mounted the sidewalk and dashed upon
her. It seemed that nothing could save her, and she stood fascinated
with horror, waiting for death.

Then an arm gripped her waist, a powerful arm that lifted her from her
feet and flung her back against the railings, as the car flashed past,
the mud-guard missing her by an inch. The machine pulled up with a jerk,
and the white-faced girl saw Briggerland and Jean running toward her.

"I should never have forgiven myself if anything had happened. I think
my chauffeur must be drunk," said Briggerland in an agitated voice.

She had no words. She could only nod, and then she remembered her
preserver, and she turned to meet the solemn eyes of a bent old man,
whose pointed, white beard and bristling white eyebrows gave him a
hawk-like appearance. His right hand was thrust into his pocket. He was
touching his battered hat with the other.

"Beg pardon, miss," he said raucously, "name of Jaggs! And I have
reported for dooty!"

Chapter X

Jack Glover listened gravely to the story which the girl told. He had
called at her lodgings on the following morning to secure her signature
to some documents, and breathlessly and a little s