to revise his verdict. Her olive skin was faultless, the dark eyes under delicately pencilled eyebrows were insolent, knowledgeable. Here was a girl not to be tampered with, not to be fooled; an exquisite product of modernity. Expensively and a little overdressed, perhaps. One white hand glittered with diamonds. Two large stones flashed on the lobes of her pink ears. As she brushed past him there came to the sensitive nostrils of Mr. Bliss the elusive fragrance of a perfume that was strange to him.
She had come on board at Cherbourg, and it was, he thought, a remarkable coincidence that they should have travelled to England on the same boat, and that she had not recognised him. Following her into the Custom House, he watched her thread her way through piles of luggage under the indicator M. His own customs examination was quickly finished. He handed his bag to a porter and told him to find a seat in the waiting train, and then he strolled toward where the girl, now hidden in the little crowd of passengers, was pointing out her baggage to the customs officer.
As though she were aware of his scrutiny she looked over her shoulder twice, and on the second occasion their eyes met, and he saw a look of wonder — or was it apprehension? — come into her face.
When her head was turned again, he approached nearer, so near that looking round, she almost stared into his face, and gasped.
“Mrs. Milton, I believe?” said Bliss.
Again that look. It was fear, beyond doubt.
“Sure! That’s my name,” she drawled. She had the soft cultured accent of one who had been raised in the Southern States. “But you certainly have the advantage of me.”
“My name is Bliss. Central Inspector Bliss of Scotland Yard,” he said.
Apparently the name had no significance, but as he revealed his calling, he saw the colour leave her cheeks, to flow back again instantly.
“Isn’t that interesting?” she said, “and what can I do for — Central Inspector Bliss of Scotland Yard?”
Every word was like a pistol shot. There was no doubt about her antagonism.
“I should like to see your passport.”
Without a word she took it from a little handbag and handed it to him. He turned the leaves deftly and examined the embarkation stamps.
“You’ve been in England quite recently?”
“Sure! I have,” she said with a smile. “I was here last week. I had to go to Paris for something. From there I made the trip from Cherbourg — I was just homesick to hear Americans talking.”
She was looking hard at him, puzzled rather than frightened.
“Bliss?” she said thoughtfully, “I can’t place you. Yet, I’ve got an idea I’ve met you somewhere.”
He was still examining the embarkation marks.
“Sydney, Genoa, Domodossola — you’re a bit of a traveller, Mrs. Milton, but you don’t move quite so fast as your husband.”
A slow smile dawned on the beautiful face.
“I’m too busy to tell you the story of my life, or give you a travelogue,” she said, “but maybe you want to see me about something more important?”
Bliss shook his head. In his sour way he was rather amused.
“No,” he said, “I have no business with you, but I hope one day to meet your husband.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“Do you reckon on getting to heaven too?” she asked sardonically. “I thought you knew Arthur was dead?”
His white teeth appeared under his bearded lips for a second.
“Heaven is not the place I should go to meet him,” he said.
He handed back her passport and turning on his heel walked away.
She followed him with her eyes until he was out of sight, and then with a quick little sigh turned to speak to the customs officer. Bliss! The ports were being watched.
Had The Ringer reached England? She went cold at the thought. For Cora Ann Milton loved this desperate man who killed for the love of the killing, and who was now an Ishmael and a wanderer on the face of the earth with the hands of all men against him and a hundred police packs hot on his trail.
As she walked along the platform she examined each carriage with a careless eye. After a while she found the man she sought. Bliss sat in the corner of the carriage, apparently immersed in a morning newspaper.
“Bliss!” she said to herself. “Bliss!”
Where had she seen his face before? Why did the sight of this dour-looking man fill her soul with terror? Cora Ann Milton’s journey to London was a troubled one.
Chapter 9
When Johnny Lenley called at Meister’s house that afternoon, the sight of his sister hard at work with her typewriter was something of a shock to him. It was as if he recognised for the first time the state of poverty into which the Lenleys had fallen.
She was alone in the room when he came and smiled up at him from a mass of correspondence.
“Where’s Maurice?” he asked, and she indicated the little room where Meister had his more important and confidential interviews which the peculiar nature of his clientele demanded.
“That’s a rotten job, isn’t it?”
He hoped she would say “no” and was relieved when she laughed at the question.
“It is really very interesting,” she said, “and please don’t scowl, Johnny, this is less boring than anything I have done for years!”
He looked at her for a moment in silence; he hated to see her thus — a servant. Setting his teeth he crossed the room and knocked at the door of Meister’s private bureau.
“Who is there?” asked a voice.
Johnny tried to turn the handle but the door was locked. Then he heard the sound of a safe closing, the bolt slipped back and the lawyer appeared.
“What is the secret?” grumbled Johnny as he entered the private apartment.
Meister closed the door behind him and motioned him to a chair.
“I have been examining some rather interesting pearls,” he said meaningly, “and naturally one does not invite the attention of all the world to stolen property.”
“Have you had an offer for them?” asked Johnny eagerly.
Maurice said he had. “I want to get them off to Antwerp tonight,” he said.
He unlocked the little safe in the corner of the room,
