Lady Molly of Scotland Yard | Page 6

was not far to seek. Mr. Lionel Lydgate, about to marry,
wished to silence for ever a voice that threatened to be unpleasantly
persistent in its demands for money and in its threats of scandal.
But there was one great argument against that theory--the
disappearance of Susan Nicholls. She had been extensively advertised
for. The murder of her sister was published broadcast in every
newspaper in the United Kingdom--she could not be ignorant of it. And,
above all, she hated Mr. Lydgate. Why did she not come and add the
weight of her testimony against him if, indeed, he was guilty?
And if Mr. Lydgate was innocent, then where was the criminal? And
why had Susan Nicholls disappeared?
Why? Why? Why?
Well, the next day would show. Mr. Lionel Lydgate had been cited by
the police to give evidence at the adjourned inquest.
Good-looking, very athletic, and obviously frightfully upset and
nervous, he entered the little courtroom, accompanied by his solicitor,
just before the coroner and jury took their seats.
He looked keenly at Lady Molly as he sat down, and from the
expression on his face I guessed that he was much puzzled to know

who she was.
He was the first witness called. Manfully and clearly he gave a concise
account of his association with the deceased.
"She was pretty and amusing," he said. "I liked to take her out when I
was in the neighborhood; it was no trouble to me. There was no harm
in her, whatever the village gossips might say. I know she had been in
trouble, as they say, but that had nothing to do with me. It wasn't for me
to be hard on a girl, and I fancy that she has been very badly treated by
some scoundrel."
Here he was hard pressed by the coroner, who wished him to explain
what he meant. But Mr. Lydgate turned obstinate, and to every leading
question he replied stolidly and very emphatically:
"I don't know who it was. It had nothing to do with me, but I was sorry
for the girl because of everyone turning against her, including her sister,
and I tried to give her a little pleasure when I could."
That was all right. Very sympathetically told. The public quite liked
this pleasing specimen of English cricket-, golf- and football-loving
manhood. Subsequently Mr. Lydgate admitted meeting Mary on
December 26th and January 1st, but he swore most emphatically that
that was the last he ever saw of her.
"But the 23rd of January," here insinuated the coroner; "you made an
appointment with the deceased then?"
"Certainly not," he replied.
"But you met her on that day?"
"Most emphatically no," he replied quietly. "I went down to Edbrooke
Castle, my brother's place in Lincolnshire, on the 20th of last month,
and only got back to town about three days ago."
"You swear to that, Mr. Lydgate?" asked the coroner.

"I do, indeed, and there are a score of witnesses to bear me out. The
family, the house-party, the servants."
He tried to dominate his own excitement. I suppose, poor man, he had
only just realised that certain horrible suspicions had been resting upon
him. His solicitor pacified him, and presently he sat down, whilst I
must say that everyone there present was relieved at the thought that
the handsome young athlete was not a murderer, after all. To look at
him it certainly seemed preposterous.
But then, of course, there was the deadlock, and as there were no more
witnesses to be heard, no new facts to elucidate, the jury returned the
usual verdict against some person or persons unknown; and we, the
keenly interested spectators, were left to face the problem--Who
murdered Mary Nicholls, and where was her sister Susan?

4
AFTER the verdict we found our way back to our lodgings. Lady
Molly tramped along silently, with that deep furrow between her brows
which I knew meant that she was deep in thought.
"Now we'll have some tea," I said, with a sigh of relief, as soon as we
entered the cottage door.
"No, you won't," replied my lady, dryly. "I am going to write out a
telegram, and we'll go straight on to Canterbury and send it from
there."
"To Canterbury!" I gasped. "Two hours' walk at least, for I don't
suppose we can get a trap, and it is past three o'clock. Why not send
your telegram from Ninescore?"
"Mary, you are stupid," was all the reply I got.
She wrote out two telegrams--one of which was at least three dozen
words long--and, once more calling to me to come along, we set out for

Canterbury.
I was tea-less, cross, and puzzled. Lady Molly was alert, cheerful, and
irritatingly active.
We reached the first telegraph office a little before