Angel of Terror

er chair to meet with a smile her stout landlady who came in carrying a tray on which stood a large cup of tea and two thick and wholesome slices of bread and jam."Finished, Miss B

was a gentleman and a lady called.""A gentleman and a lady? Who were they?""I don't know, Miss Beale. I was lying down at the time, and the girl answered 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 see her.""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 until she stopped on her way to the theatre to learn from the office by telephone 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 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 any