The Angel of Terror Read online

  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 meetwith a smile her stout landlady who came in carrying a tray on whichstood a large cup of tea and two thick and wholesome slices of bread andjam.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  The girl laughed as she put the drawing away.

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

  Mrs. Morgan shook her head sympathetically and Lydia changed thesubject.

  "Has anybody been this afternoon?" she asked.

  "Only the young man from Spadd & Newton," replied the stout woman with asigh. "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 indespair. "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 bestfriend 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 seenher the day after the funeral and had made some uncouth reference to theconvenience of a death which had automatically cancelled George Beale'sobligations. It needed only that to spur the girl to an action which wasas foolish as it was generous. She had written to all the people to whomher father owed money and had assumed full responsibility for debtsamounting to hundreds of pounds.

  It was the Celt in her that drove her to shoulder the burden which shewas ill-equipped to carry, but she had never regretted her impetuousact.

  There were a few creditors who, realising what had happened, did notbother her, and there were others....

  She earned a fairly good salary on the staff of the _Daily Megaphone_,which made a feature of fashion, but she would have had to have been therecipient of a cabinet minister's emoluments to have met the demandswhich flowed in upon her a month after she had accepted her father'sobligations.

  "Are you going out to-night, miss?" asked the woman.

  Lydia roused herself from her unpleasant thoughts.

  "Yes. I'm making some drawings of the dresses in Curfew's new play. I'llbe home somewhere around twelve."

  Mrs. Morgan was half-way across the room when she turned back.

  "One of these days you'll get out of all your troubles, miss, you see ifyou don't! I'll bet you'll marry a rich young gentleman."

  Lydia, sitting on the edge of the table, laughed.

  "You'd lose your money, Mrs. Morgan," she said, "rich young gentlemenonly marry poor working girls in the kind of stories I illustrate. If Imarry it will probably be a very poor young gentleman who will become anincurable invalid and want nursing. And I shall hate him so much that Ican't be happy with him, and pity him so much that I can't run away fromhim."

  Mrs. Morgan sniffed her disagreement.

  "There are things that happen----" she began.

  "Not to me--not miracles, anyway," said Lydia, still smiling, "and Idon't know that I want to get married. I've got to pay all these billsfirst, and by the time they are settled I'll be a grey-haired old ladyin a mob cap."

  Lydia had finished her tea and was standing somewhat scantily attired inthe middle of her bedroom, preparing for her theatre engagement, whenMrs. Morgan returned.

  "I forgot to tell you, miss," she said, "there was a gentleman and alady called."

  "A gentleman and a lady? Who were they?"

  "I don't know, Miss Beale. I was lying down at the time, and the girlanswered the door. I gave her strict orders to say that you were out."

  "Did they leave any name?"

  "No, miss. They just asked if Miss Beale lived here, and could they seeher."

  "H'm!" said Lydia with a frown. "I wonder what we owe them!"

  She dismissed the matter from her mind, and thought no more of it untilshe stopped on her way to the theatre to learn from the office bytelephone the number of drawings required.

  The chief sub-editor answered her.

  "And, by the way," he added, "there was an inquiry for you at the officeto-day--I found a note of it on my desk when I came in to-night. Someold friends of yours who want to see you. Brand told them you were goingto do a show at the Erving Theatre to-night, so you'll probably seethem."

  "Who are they?" she asked, puzzled.

  She had few friends, old or new.

  "I haven't the foggiest idea," was the reply.

  At the theatre she saw nobody she knew, though she looked roundinterestedly, nor was she approached in any of the _entr'actes_.

  In the row ahead of her, and a little to her right, were two people whoregarded her curiously as she entered. The man was about fifty, verydark and bald--the skin of his head was almost copper-coloured, thoughhe was obviously a European, for the eyes which beamed benevolently uponher through powerful spectacles were blue, but so light a blue that bycontrast with the mahogany skin of his clean-shaven face, they seemedalmost white.

  The girl who sat with him was fair, and to Lydia's artistic eye,singularly lovely. Her hair was a mop of fine gold. The colour wasnatural, Lydia was too sophisticated to make any mistake about that. Herfeatures were regular and flawless. The young artist thought she hadnever seen so perfect a "cupid" mouth in her life. There was somethingso freshly, fragrantly innocent about the girl that Lydia's heart wentout to her, and she could hardly keep her eyes on the stage. The unknownseemed to take almost as much interest in her, for twice Lydia surprisedher backward scrutiny. She found herself wondering who she was. The girlwas beautifully dressed, and about her neck was a platinum chain thatmust have hung to her waist--a chain which was broken every few inchesby a big emerald.

  It required something of an effort of concentration to bring her mindback to the stage and her work. With a book on her knee she sketchedthe somewhat bizarre costumes which had aroused a mild public interestin the play, and for the moment forgot her entrancing companion.

  She came through the vestibule at the end of the performance, and drewher worn cloak more closely about her slender shoulders, for the nightwas raw, and a sou'westerly wind blew the big wet snowflakes under theprotecting glass awning into the lobby itself. The favoured playgoersminced daintily through the slush to their waiting cars, then taxis cameinto the procession of waiting vehicles, there was a banging of cabdoors, a babble of orders to the scurrying attendants, until somethinglike order was evolved from the chaos.

  "Cab, miss?"

  Lydia shook her head. An omnibus would take her to Fleet Street, but twohad passed, packed with passengers, and she was beginning to despair,when a particularly handsome taxi pulled up at the kerb.

  The driver leant over the shining apron which partially protected himfrom the weather, and shouted:

  "Is Miss Beale there?"

  The girl started in surprise, taking a step toward the cab.

  "I am Miss B
eale," she said.

  "Your editor has sent me for you," said the man briskly.

  The editor of the _Megaphone_ had been guilty of many eccentric acts. Hehad expressed views on her drawing which she shivered to recall. He hadaroused her in the middle of the night to sketch dresses at a fancydress ball, but never before had he done anything so human as to send ataxi for her. Nevertheless, she would not look at the gift cab tooclosely, and she stepped into the warm interior.

  The windows were veiled with the snow and the sleet which had beenfalling all the time she had been in the theatre. She saw blurred lightsflash past, and realised that the taxi was going at a good pace. Sherubbed the windows and tried to look out after a while. Then sheendeavoured to lower one, but without success. Suddenly she jumped upand tapped furiously at the window to attract the driver's attention.There was no mistaking the fact that they were crossing a bridge and itwas not necessary to cross a bridge to reach Fleet Street.

  If the driver heard he took no notice. The speed of the car increased.She tapped at the window again furiously. She was not afraid, but shewas angry. Presently fear came. It was when she tried to open the door,and found that it was fastened from the outside, that she struck amatch to discover that the windows had been screwed tight--the edge ofthe hole where the screw had gone in was rawly new, and the screw's headwas bright and shining.

  She had no umbrella--she never carried one to the theatre--and nothingmore substantial in the shape of a weapon than a fountain pen. She couldsmash the windows with her foot. She sat back in the seat, anddiscovered that it was not so easy an operation as she had thought. Shehesitated even to make the attempt; and then the panic sense left her,and she was her own calm self again. She was not being abducted. Thesethings did not happen in the twentieth century, except in sensationalbooks. She frowned. She had said almost the same thing to somebody thatday--to Mrs. Morgan, who had hinted at a romantic marriage. Of course,nothing was wrong. The driver had called her by name. Probably theeditor wanted to see her at his home, he lived somewhere in SouthLondon, she remembered. That would explain everything. And yet herinstinct told her that something unusual was happening, that someunpleasant experience was imminent.

  She tried to put the thought out of her mind, but it was too vivid, tooinsistent.

  Again she tried the door, and then, conscious of a faint reflected glowon the cloth-lined roof of the cab, she looked backward through thepeep-hole. She saw two great motor-car lamps within a few yards of thecab. A car was following, she glimpsed the outline of it as they ranpast a street standard.

  They were in one of the roads of the outer suburbs. Looking through thewindow over the driver's shoulder she saw trees on one side of the road,and a long grey fence. It was while she was so looking that the carbehind shot suddenly past and ahead, and she saw its tail lights movingaway with a pang of hopelessness. Then, before she realised what hadhappened, the big car ahead slowed and swung sideways, blocking theroad, and the cab came to a jerky stop that flung her against thewindow. She saw two figures in the dim light of the taxi's head lamps,heard somebody speak, and the door was jerked open.

  "Will you step out, Miss Beale," said a pleasant voice, and though herlegs seemed queerly weak, she obliged. The second man was standing bythe side of the driver. He wore a long raincoat, the collar of which wasturned up to the tip of his nose.

  "You may go back to your friends and tell them that Miss Beale is ingood hands," he was saying. "You may also burn a candle or two beforeyour favourite saint, in thanksgiving that you are alive."

  "I don't know what you're talking about," said the driver sulkily. "I'mtaking this young lady to her office."

  "Since when has the _Daily Megaphone_ been published in the ghastlysuburbs?" asked the other politely.

  He saw the girl, and raised his hat.

  "Come along, Miss Beale," he said. "I promise you a more comfortableride--even if I cannot guarantee that the end will be less startling."