Ten minutes passed and they did not return, a quarter of an hour went by, and Mr. Briggerland grew uneasy. He got up from his chair, put down his book, and was half-way across the room when the door opened and Jack Glover came in, followed by the detective.
It was the Frenchman who spoke.
"M'sieur Briggerland, I have a warrant from the Préfect of the Alpes Maritimes for your arrest."
"My arrest?" spluttered the dark man, his teeth chattering. "What—what is the charge?"
"The wilful murder of François Mordon," said the officer.
"You lie—you lie," screamed Briggerland. "I have no knowledge of any——" his words sank into a throaty gurgle, and he stared past the detective. Lydia Meredith was standing in the doorway.
Chapter XXXIX
The morning for Mr. Stepney had been doubly disappointing; again and again he drew up an empty line, and at last he flung the tackle into the well of the launch.
"Even the damn fish won't bite," he said, and the humour of his remark cheered him. He was ten miles from the shore, and the blue coast was a dim, ragged line on the horizon. He pulled out a big luncheon basket from the cabin and eyed it with disfavour. It had cost him two hundred francs. He opened the basket, and at the sight of its contents, was inclined to reconsider his earlier view that he had wasted his money, the more so since the maître d'hôtel had thoughtfully included two quart bottles of champagne.