Juggernaut

								


Produced by Al Haines

  [Transcriber's note: Extensive research found no evidence
that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

JUGGERNAUT

BY
ALICE CAMPBELL

FRONT PAGE MYSTERY SERIES

GARDEN CITY -------- NEW YORK
DOUBLEDAY, DORAN & COMPANY, INC.
1929

JUGGERNAUT

CHAPTER I
When Esther rang the bell of Numéro 86 Route de Grasse, she felt within
her that pleasant sort of stage-fright--a mixture of dread and
exhilaration--which one is apt to experience when venturing into the
unknown.  The thrill might be out of all proportion to the prosaic
character of her mission--for what is there exciting in applying for a
post as a doctor's assistant?--yet there was no gainsaying the fact
that when this door confronting her opened, anything, everything, might
happen.  That is the way Youth regards things.
"Opportunity--a door open in front of one."  So in earlier years her
Latin teacher had dilated on the inner meaning of the word.  Esther
smiled reminiscently and congratulated herself that she was not going
tamely back to her work in America, choosing instead, when she found a
door open, to enter and explore on the other side.
Numéro 86 was a conventional and dignified villa, noncommittal in
appearance, like a hundred others.  Clean windows blinked in the
sunshine, the doorstep was chalky white, the brass plate on the lintel
glittered with the inscription, "Gregory Sartorius, M.D."  Beside the
gate a mimosa shook out its yellow plumage against the sky.  Mimosa--in
February! ... New York, reflected Esther, was in the clutch of a
blizzard.  She could picture it now, with its stark ice-ribbed streets,
its towering buildings, a mausoleum of frozen stone and dirty snow.  As
for flowers--why, even a spray of that mimosa in a frosty florist's
window would be absurdly expensive; one would pay...
"Vous désirez, mademoiselle?"
She turned with a start to find the door open, framing the squat figure
of a man-servant, a brigand in appearance, French of the Midi; black
hair grew low on his forehead; his beetling brows met over sullen shiny
eyes which scanned her with a hostile gaze.  Diffidently she mustered
her all-too-scanty French.
"Est-ce Monsieur le docteur est chez lui?" she ventured, hoping for
the best.
To her relief the brigand broke into a friendly smile.
"Mademoiselle come about job?" he replied in English.  "Yes, come this
way, please."
He led the way through an entrance hall into a large salon of chill and
gloomy aspect.
"Take a seat," he bade her, grinning cheerfully.  "I go tell doctor."
The salon was plainly a reception-room for patients.  Looking about,
Esther wondered why physicians' reception-rooms were invariably so
uninviting, so lacking in personality.  This one was particularly drab
and cold, though she could not say that it was shabby or in more than
usual bad taste.  It was furnished in nondescript French style, a