The Angel of Terror | Page 4

"there was an inquiry for you at the office
to-day--I found a note of it on my desk when I came in to-night. Some
old friends of yours who want to see you. Brand told them you were
going to do a show at the Erving Theatre to-night, so you'll probably
see them."
"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 round
interestedly, 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 who
regarded her curiously as she entered. The man was about fifty, very
dark and bald--the skin of his head was almost copper-coloured, though
he was obviously a European, for the eyes which beamed benevolently
upon her through powerful spectacles were blue, but so light a blue that
by contrast with the mahogany skin of his clean-shaven face, they
seemed almost 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 was
natural, Lydia was too sophisticated to make any mistake about that.
Her features were regular and flawless. The young artist thought she
had never seen so perfect a "cupid" mouth in her life. There was
something so freshly, fragrantly innocent about the girl that Lydia's
heart went out to her, and she could hardly keep her eyes on the stage.
The unknown seemed to take almost as much interest in her, for twice
Lydia surprised her backward scrutiny. She found herself wondering
who she was. The girl was beautifully dressed, and about her neck was
a platinum chain that must have hung to her waist--a chain which was
broken every few inches by a big emerald.

It required something of an effort of concentration to bring her mind
back to the stage and her work. With a book on her knee she sketched
the somewhat bizarre costumes which had aroused a mild public
interest in the play, and for the moment forgot her entrancing
companion.
She came through the vestibule at the end of the performance, and drew
her worn cloak more closely about her slender shoulders, for the night
was raw, and a sou'westerly wind blew the big wet snowflakes under
the protecting glass awning into the lobby itself. The favoured
playgoers minced daintily through the slush to their waiting cars, then
taxis came into the procession of waiting vehicles, there was a banging
of cab doors, a babble of orders to the scurrying attendants, until
something like order was evolved from the chaos.
"Cab, miss?"
Lydia shook her head. An omnibus would take her to Fleet Street, but
two had 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 him
from the weather, and shouted:
"Is Miss Beale there?"
The girl started in surprise, taking a step toward the cab.
"I am Miss Beale," 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.
He had expressed views on her drawing which she shivered to recall.
He had aroused her in the middle of the night to sketch dresses at a
fancy dress ball, but never before had he done anything so human as to
send a taxi for her. Nevertheless, she would not look at the gift cab too
closely, and she stepped into the warm interior.

The windows were veiled with the snow and the sleet which had been
falling all the time she had been in the theatre. She saw blurred lights
flash past, and realised that the taxi was going at a good pace. She
rubbed the windows and tried to look out after a while. Then she
endeavoured to lower one, but without success. Suddenly she jumped
up and tapped furiously at the window to attract the driver's attention.
There was no mistaking the fact that they were crossing a bridge and it
was 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 she
was 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 a match
to discover that the windows had been screwed tight--the edge of the
hole where the screw had gone in was rawly new, and the screw's head
was bright and shining.
She