them little cells in
Holloway prison, where you were took two years ago for robbing your
missus."

Lydia's smile left her face. She heard the girl gasp.

"You old liar!" she hissed.

"Lucy Jones you call yourself--you used to be Mary Welch in them days,"
chuckled old Jaggs.

"I'm not going to be insulted," almost screamed Lucy, though there was a
note of fear in her strident voice. "I'm going to leave to-night."

"No you ain't, my dear," said old Jaggs complacently. "You're going to
sleep here to-night, and you're going to leave in the morning. If you
try to get out of that door before I let you, you'll be pinched."

"They've got nothing against me," the girl was betrayed into saying.

"False characters, my dear. Pretending to come from the agency, when you
didn't. That's another crime. Lord bless your heart, I've got enough
against you to put you in jail for a year."

Lydia came forward.

"What is this you're saying about my maid?"

"Good evening, ma'am."

The old man knuckled his forehead.

"I'm just having an argument with your young lady."

"Do you say she is a thief?"

"Of course she is, miss," said Jaggs scornfully. "You ask her!"

But Lucy had gone into her room, slammed the door and locked it.

The next morning when Lydia woke, the flat was empty, save for herself.
But she had hardly finished dressing when there came a knock at the
door, and a trim, fresh-looking country girl, with an expansive smile
and a look of good cheer that warmed Lydia's heart, appeared.

"You're the lady that wants a maid, ma'am, aren't you?"

"Yes," said Lydia in surprise. "But who sent you?"

"I was telegraphed for yesterday, ma'am, from the country."

"Come in," said Lydia helplessly.

"Isn't it right?" asked the girl a little disappointedly. "They sent me
my fare. I came up by the first train."

"It is quite all right," said Lydia, "only I'm wondering who is running
this flat, me or Mr. Jaggs?"

Chapter XI

Jean Briggerland had spent a very busy afternoon. There had been a
string of callers at the handsome house in Berkeley Street.

Mr. Briggerland was of a philanthropic bent, and had instituted a club
in the East End of London which was intended to raise the moral tone of
Limehouse, Wapping, Poplar and the adjacent districts. It was started
without ostentation with a man named Faire as general manager. Mr. Faire
had had in his lifetime several hectic contests with the police, in
which he had