I - CONCERNS A STRANGE CONSPIRACY

Dusk was falling early in Piccadilly as I sat in the car outside the Royal Automobile Club, awaiting the reappearance of my master.

The grey February afternoon had been bitterly cold, and for an hour I had waited there half frozen.  Since morning Count Bindo di Ferraris and myself had been on the road, coming up from Shrewsbury, and, tired out, I was anxious to get into the garage.

As chauffeur to a trio of perhaps the most expert “crooks” in Europe, my life was the reverse of uneventful.  I was constantly going hither and thither, often on all-night journeys, and always moving rapidly from place to place, often selling the old car and buying a new one, and constantly on the look-out for police-traps of more than one variety.

Only a week previously the Count had handed me five hundred pounds in Bank of England notes, telling me to sell the forty horse-power six-cylinder “Napier,” which, still a magnificent car, might easily be “spotted,” and to purchase a “sixty” of some other make.  By that I knew that some fresh scheme was afoot, and our run to Shrewsbury and Barmouth, in North Wales, had been to test the capabilities of the new “Mercedes” I had purchased a couple of days previously, and in which I now sat.

It was certainly as fine a car as was on the road, its open exhaust a little noisy perhaps, but capable of getting up a tremendous speed when occasion required.  A long, dark-red body, it was fitted with every up-to-date convenience, even to the big electric horn placed in the centre of the radiator, an instrument which emitted a deep warning blast unlike the tone of air-horns, and sounding as long as ever the finger was kept upon the button placed on the driving-wheel.

In every way the car was perfect.  I fancy that I know something about cars, but even with my object to lower the price I failed to discover any defect in her in any particular.

Suddenly the Count, in a big motor coat and cap, emerged from the Club, ran hurriedly down the steps, and mounting into the seat beside me, said ­

“To Clifford Street, Ewart, as quick as you can.  I want to have five minutes’ talk with you.”

So next instant we glided away into the traffic, and I turned up Bond Street until I reached his chambers, where, when Simmons the valet came out to mind the car, I ascended to Count Bindo’s pretty sitting-room.

“Sit down, Ewart,” exclaimed the debonnair young man, who was so thoroughly a cosmopolitan, and who in his own chambers was known as Mr. Bellingham, the son of a man who had suddenly died after making a fortune out of certain railway contracts in the Argentine.  “Have a drink;” and he poured me out a peg of whisky and soda.  He always treated me as his equal when alone.  At first I had hated being in his service, yet now the excitement of it all appealed to my roving nature, and though I profited little from a monetary point of view, save the handsome salary I was paid for keeping a still tongue between my teeth, I nevertheless found my post not at all an incongenial one.

“Look here, Ewart,” the Count exclaimed, with scarcely a trace of his Italian accent, after he had lit a cigarette:  “I want to give you certain instructions.  We have a very intricate and ticklish affair to deal with.  But I trust you implicitly, after that affair of the pretty Mademoiselle Valentine.  I know you’re not the man to lose your head over a pretty face.  Only fools do that.  One can seek out a pretty face when one has made a pile.  You and I want money ­not toys, don’t we?”

I nodded assent, smiling at his bluntness.

“Well, if this thing comes off, it will mean a year’s acceptable rest to us ­not rest within four walls, we can easily obtain that, but rest out on one or other of the Greek islands, or on the Bosphorus, or somewhere where we shall be perfectly safe,” he said.  “Now I want you to start to-night for Monte Carlo.”

“To-night!” I exclaimed, dismayed.

“Yes.  You have plenty of time to catch the Dieppe boat at Newhaven.  I’ll wire to them to say you are coming ­name of Bellingham, of course.  I shall leave by train in the morning, but you’ll be at Monty ­the Hotel de Paris ­almost as soon as I am.  I wouldn’t attempt to go by the Grenoble road, because I heard the other day that there’s a lot of snow about there.  Go down to Valence and across to Die.”

I was rather sick at being compelled to leave so suddenly.  Of late I had hardly been in London at all.  I was very desirous of visiting some aged relations from whom I had expectations.

Bindo saw that my face had fallen.

“Look here, Ewart,” he said, “I’m sorry that you have to do this long run at such short notice, but you won’t be alone ­you’ll pick up a lady, and a very pretty young lady, too.”

“Where?”

“Well, now I’ll explain.  Go around Paris, run on to Melun, and thence to Fontainebleau.  You remember we were there together last summer, at the Hotel de France.  At Fontainebleau ask for the road through the Forest for Marlotte ­remember the name.  About seven kilometres along that road you’ll come to cross-ways.  At eight o’clock to-morrow morning she will be awaiting you there, and you will take her straight on to Monty.”

“How shall I know her?”

“She’ll ask if you are from Mr. Bellingham,” was his reply.  “And look here,” he added, drawing a long cardboard box from beneath the couch, “put this in the car, for she won’t have motor-clothes, and these are for her.  You’d better have some money, too.  Here’s a thousand francs;” and he took from a drawer in the pretty inlaid Louis XV. writing-table two five-hundred-franc notes and handed them to me, adding, “At present I can tell you nothing more.  Go out, find Pierrette ­that’s her name ­and bring her to Monty.  At the Paris I shall be ‘Bellingham’; and recollect we’ll have to be careful.  They haven’t, in all probability, forgotten the other little affair.  The police of Monaco are among the smartest in Europe, and though they never arrest anybody within their tin-pot Principality, they take jolly good care that the Monsieur lé Prefect at Nice knows all about their suspects, and leave him to do their dirty work.”

I laughed.  Count Bindo, so thoroughly a cosmopolitan man-of-the-world, so resourceful, so utterly unscrupulous, so amazingly clever at any subterfuge, and yet so bold when occasion required, held the police in supreme contempt.  He often declared that there was no police official between the town of Wick and the Mediterranean who had not his price, and that in many Continental countries the Minister of Police himself could be squared for a few hundreds.

“But what’s the nature of our new scheme?” I inquired, curious to know what was intended.

“It’s a big one ­the biggest we’ve ever tried, Ewart,” was his answer, lighting a fresh cigarette, and draining his glass as he wished me a successful run due South.  “If it works, then we shall bring off a real good thing.”

“Do the others come out with you?”

“I hardly know yet.  I meet them to-night at supper at the Savoy, and we shall then decide.  At any rate, I shall go;” and walking to the little writing-table, he took up the telephone receiver and asked for the Sleeping Car Company’s office in Pall Mall.  Then, when a reply came, he asked them to reserve a small compartment in the Mediterranean Express on the morrow.

“And,” he exclaimed, turning again to me, “I want to impress upon you one thing, Ewart.  You and I know each other well, don’t we?  Now in this affair there may be more than one mysterious feature.  You’ll be puzzled, perhaps, ­greatly puzzled, ­but don’t trouble your head over the why or the wherefore until we bring off the coup successfully.  Then I’ll tell you the whole facts ­and, by Jove! you’ll find them stranger than ever you’ve read in a book.  When you know the truth of the affair you’ll be staggered.”

My curiosity was, I admit, excited.  Count Bindo, the dare-devil Italian adventurer, who cared not a jot for any man living, and who himself lived so well upon the proceeds of his amazing audacity and clever wits, was not in the habit of speaking like this.  I pressed him to tell me more, but he only said ­

“Go, Ewart.  Get a bite of something to eat, for you must surely want it; buy what you want for the car ­oil, carbide, and the rest, and get away to meet the pretty Pierrette.  And ­again good luck to you!” he added, as he mixed a little more whisky and tossed it off.

Then he shook my hand warmly.  I left his cosy quarters, and within an hour was crossing Westminster Bridge on the first stage of my hasty run across Europe.

I had plenty of time to get down to Newhaven to catch the boat, but if I was to be in the Forest of Fontainebleau by eight o’clock next morning I would, I knew, be compelled to travel as hard as possible.  The road was well known to me, all the way from the Channel to the Mediterranean.  Bindo and I had done it together at least a dozen times.

Since leaving Clifford Street I had eaten a hasty meal, picked up a couple of new “non-skids” at the depot where we dealt, oiled up, filled the petrol tank, and given the engine a general look round.  But as soon as I got out of London the cold became so intense that I was compelled to draw on my fur gloves and button my collar up about my chin.

Who was Pierrette?  I wondered.  And what was the nature of this great coup devised by the three artists in crime who were conjointly my masters?

An uneventful though very cold run brought me to the quay at Newhaven, where the car was shipped quite half an hour before the arrival of the train from London.  It proved a dark and dirty night in the Channel, and the steamer tossed and rolled, much to the discomfort of the passengers by “the cheapest route,” which, by the way, is the quickest for motorists.  But the sea never troubling me, I took the opportunity of having a good square meal in the saloon, got the steward to put a couple of cold fowls and some ham and bread into a parcel, and within half an hour of the steamer touching Dieppe quay I was heading out towards Paris, with my new search-light shining far ahead, and giving such a streak of brilliancy that a newspaper could be read by it half a mile away.

Dark snow-clouds had gathered, and the icy wind cut my face like a knife, causing me to assume my goggles as a slight protection.  My feet on the pedals were like ice, and my hands were soon cramped by the cold, notwithstanding the fur gloves.

I took the road via Rouen as the best, though there is a shorter cut, and about two kilometres beyond the quaint old city, just as it was getting light, I got a puncture on the off back tyre.  A horse-nail it proved, and in twenty minutes I was on the road again, running at the highest speed I dared along the Seine valley towards Paris.  The wind had dropped with the dawn, and the snow-clouds had dispersed with the daybreak.  Though grey and very cheerless at first, the wintry sun at last broke through, and it was already half-past seven when, avoiding Paris, I had made a circuit and joined the Fontainebleau road at Charenton, south of the capital.

I glanced at the clock.  I had still half an hour to do nearly thirty miles.  So, anxious to meet the mysterious Pierrette, I let the car rip, and ran through Melun and the town of Fontainebleau at a furious pace, which would in England have certainly meant the endorsement of my licence.

At the end of the town of Fontainebleau, a board pointed to Marlotte ­that tiny river-side village so beloved by Paris artists in summer ­and I swung into a great, broad, well-kept road, cut through the bare Forest, with its thousands of straight lichen-covered tree trunks, showing grey in the faint yellow sunlight.

Those long, broad roads through the Forest are, without exception, excellently kept, and there being no traffic, I put on all the pace I dared ­a speed which can be easily imagined when one drives a sixty “Mercedes.”  Suddenly, almost before I was aware of it, I had flashed across a narrower road running at right angles, and saw, standing back out of the way of the car, a female figure.

In a moment I put on the brakes, and, pulling up, glanced back.

The woman was walking hurriedly towards me, but she was surely not the person of whom I was in search.

She wore a blue dress and a big white-winged linen headdress.

She was a nun!

I glanced around, but there was no other person in sight.  We were in the centre of that great historic Forest wherein Napoleon the Great loved to roam alone and think out fresh conquests.

Seeing the “Sister” hurrying towards me, I got down, wondering if she meant to speak.

“Pardon, m’sieur,” she exclaimed in musical French, rendered almost breathless by her quick walk, “but is this the automobile of M’sieur Bellingham, of London?”

I raised my eyes, and saw before me a face more pure and perfect in its beauty than any I had ever seen before.  Contrary to what I had believed, she was quite young ­certainly not more than nineteen ­with a pair of bright dark eyes which had quite a soupçon of mischief in them.  For a moment I stood speechless before her.

And she was a nun!  Surely in the seclusion of the religious houses all over the Continent the most beautiful of women live and languish and die.  Had she escaped from one of the convents in the neighbourhood?  Had she grown tired of prayers, penances, and the shrill tongue of some wizen-faced Mother Superior?

Her dancing eyes belied her religious habit, and as she looked at me in eager inquiry, and yet with modest demeanour, I felt that I had already fallen into a veritable vortex of mystery.

“Yes,” I replied, also in French, for fortunately I could chatter that most useful of all languages, “this car belongs to M’sieur Bellingham, and if I am not mistaken, Mademoiselle is named Pierrette?”

“Yes, m’sieur,” she replied quickly.  “Oh, I have been waiting half an hour for you, and I’ve been so afraid of being seen.  I ­I thought ­you were never coming ­and I wondered whatever I was to do.”

“I was delayed, mademoiselle.  I have come straight from London.”

“Yes,” she said, smiling, “you look as though you have come a long way;” and she noticed that the car was very dusty, with splashes of dried mud here and there.

“You are coming to Monte Carlo with me,” I said, “but you cannot travel in that dress ­can you?  Mr. Bellingham has sent you something,” I added, taking out the cardboard box.

Quickly she opened it, and drew out a lady’s motor-cap and veil with a talc front, and a big, heavy, fur-lined coat.

For a moment she looked at them in hesitation.  Then, glancing up and down the road to see if she were observed, she took off her religious headdress and collar, twisted around her neck the silk scarf she found in the box, pinned on her hat and adjusted her veil in such a manner that it struck me she was no novice at motoring, even though she were a nun, and then, with my assistance, she struggled into the fur-lined coat.

The stiff linen cap and collar she screwed up and put into the cardboard box, and then, fully equipped for the long journey South, she asked ­

“May I come up beside you?  I’d love to ride in front.”

“Most certainly, mademoiselle,” I replied.  “It won’t then be so lonely for either of us.  We can talk.”

In her motor-clothes she was certainly a most dainty and delightful little companion.  The hat, veil, and coat had completely transformed her.  From a demure little nun she had in a few moments blossomed forth into a piquante little girl, who seemed quite ready to set the convenances at naught as long as she enjoyed herself.

From the business-like manner in which she wrapped the waterproof rug about her skirts and tucked it in herself, I saw that this was not the first time by many that she had been in the front seat of a car.

But a few moments later, when she had settled herself, and I had given her a pair of goggles and helped her to adjust them, I also got up, and we moved away again along that long white highway that traverses France by Sens, Dijon, Macon, Lyons, Valence, and Digue, and has its end at the rocky shore of the blue Mediterranean at Cannes ­that land of flowers and flashy adventurers, which the French term the Cote d’Azur.

From the very first, however, the pretty Pierrette ­for her beauty had certainly not been exaggerated by Bindo ­was an entire mystery ­a mystery which seemed to increase hourly, as you will quickly realise.

II - PIERRETTE TELLS HER STORY

Pierrette Dumont ­for that was her name, she told me ­proved a most charming and entertaining companion, and could, I found, speak English quite well.

She had lived nearly seven years in England ­in London, Brighton, and other places ­and as we set the car along that beautiful road that runs for so many miles beside the Yonne, she told me quite a lot about herself.

Her admiration for M’sieur Bellingham was very pronounced.  It was not difficult to see that this pretty girl, who, I supposed, had escaped from her convent, was madly in love with the handsome Bindo.  The Count was a sad lady-killer, and where any profit was concerned was a most perfect lover, as many a woman possessed of valuable jewels had known to her cost.  From the pretty Pierrette’s bright chatter, I began to wonder whether or not she was marked down as a victim.  She had met the gay Bindo in Paris, it seemed, but how and in what circumstances, having regard to her religious habit, she did not inform me.

That Bindo was using the name of Bellingham showed some chicanery to be in progress.

By dint of careful questioning I tried to obtain from her some facts concerning her escape from the convent, but she would tell me nothing regarding it.  All she replied was ­

“Ah!  M’sieur Bellingham!  How kind and good he is to send you for me ­to get me clean away from that hateful place!” and then, drawing a deep breath, she added, “How good it is to be free again ­free!”

The car was tearing along, the rush of wind already bringing the colour to her soft, delicate cheeks.  The bulb of a wind-horn was at her side, and she sat with her hands upon it, sounding a warning note whenever necessary as we flashed through the long string of villages between Sens and Chatillon.  The wintry landscape was rather dull and cheerless, yet with her at my side I began to find the journey delightful.  There is nothing so dreary, depressing, and monotonous as to cross France alone in a car without a soul to speak to all day through.

“I wonder when we shall arrive at Monte Carlo?” she queried presently in English, with a rather pronounced accent, turning her fresh, smiling face to me ­a face that was typically French, and dark eyes that were undeniably fine.

“It all depends upon accidents,” I laughed.  “With good fortune we ought to be there to-morrow night ­that is, if we keep going, and you are not too tired.”

“Tired?  No.  I love motoring!  It will be such fun to go on all night,” she exclaimed enthusiastically.  “And what a fine big lamp you’ve got!  I’ve never been in Monte Carlo, and am so anxious to see it.  I’ve read so much about it ­and the gambling.  M’sieur Bellingham said they will not admit me to the Casino, as I’m too young.  Do you think they will?”

“I don’t think there is any fear,” I laughed.  “How old are you?”

“Nineteen next birthday.”

“Well, tell them you are twenty-one, and they will give you a card.  The paternal administration don’t care who or what you are as long as you are well dressed and you have money to lose.  At Monte Carlo you must always keep up an appearance.  I’ve known a millionaire to be refused admittance because his trousers were turned up.”

At this she laughed, and then lapsed into a long silence, for on a stretch of wide, open road I was letting the car rip, and at such a pace it was well-nigh impossible to talk.

A mystery surrounded my chic little travelling-companion which I could not make out.

At about two o’clock in the afternoon we pulled up just beyond the little town of Chauceaux, about thirty miles from Dijon, and there ate our cold provisions, washing them down with a bottle of red wine.  She was hungry, and ate with an appetite, laughing merrily, and thoroughly enjoying the adventure.

“I was so afraid this morning that you were not coming,” she declared.  “I was there at seven, quite an hour before you were due.  And when you came you flew past, and I thought that you did not notice me.  M’sieur Bellingham sent me word last night that you had started.”

“And where are you staying when you get to Monte Carlo?”

“At Beaulieu, I think.  That’s near Monte Carlo, isn’t it?  The Hotel Bristol, I believe, is where Madame is staying.”

“Madame?  Who is she?”

“Madame Vernet,” was all she vouchsafed.  Who the lady was she seemed to have no inclination to tell me.

Through Dijon, Beaune, and Chalons-sur-Saône we travelled, but before we ran on to the rough cobbles of old-world Macon darkness had already fallen, and our big search-light was shedding a shaft of white brilliancy far ahead.

With the sundown the cold again became intense, therefore I got out my thick mackintosh from the back and made her get into it.  Then I wrapped a fur rug around her legs, and gave her a spare pair of fur gloves that I happened to have.  They were somewhat oily, but warm.

We reached Lyons half an hour before midnight, and there got some bouillon and roast poulet outside the Perache, then off again into the dark cold night, hour after hour ever beside the broad Rhone and the iron way to the Mediterranean.

After an hour I saw that she was suffering intensely from the cold, therefore I compelled her to get inside, and having tucked her up warmly with all the wraps we had, I left her to sleep, while I drove on due south towards the Riviera.

The Drôme Valley, between Valence and Die, was snow-covered, and progress was but slow.  But now and then, when I turned back, I saw that the pretty Pierrette, tired out, had fallen asleep curled up among her rugs.  I would have put up the hood, only with that head-wind our progress would have been so much retarded.  But in order to render her more comfortable I pulled up, and getting in, tucked her up more warmly, and placed beneath her head the little leather pillow we always carried.

I was pretty fagged myself, but drove on, almost mechanically, through the long night, the engines running beautifully, and the roar of my open exhaust resounding in the narrow, rocky gorges which we passed through.  Thirty kilometres beyond Die is the village of Aspres, where I knew I should join the main road from Grenoble to Aix in Provence, and was keeping a good look-out not to run past it.  Within a kilometre of Aspres, however, something went wrong, and I pulled up short, awakening my charming little charge.

She saw me take off the bonnet to examine the engines, and inquired whether anything was wrong.  But I soon diagnosed the trouble ­a broken sparking-plug ­and ten minutes later we were tearing forwards again.

Before we approached the cross-road the first faint flash of dawn showed away on our left, and by the time we reached Sisterton the sun had risen.  At an auberge we pulled up, and got two big bowls of steaming cafe au lait, and then without much adventure continued our way down to Mirabeau, whence we turned sharp to the left for Draguignan and Les Arcs.  At the last-mentioned place she resumed her seat at my side, and with the exception of her hair being slightly disarranged, she seemed quite as fresh and merry as on the previous day.

Late that night, as in the bright moonlight we headed direct for Cannes, I endeavoured to obtain from her some further information about herself, but she was always guarded.

“I am searching for my dear father,” she answered, however.  “He has disappeared, and we fear that something terrible has happened to him.”

“Disappeared?  Where from?”

“From London.  He left Paris a month ago for London to do business, and stayed at the Hotel Charing Cross ­I think you call it ­for five days.  On the sixth he went out of the hotel at four o’clock in the afternoon, and has never been seen or heard of since.”

“And that was a month ago, mademoiselle?” I remarked, surprised at her story.

“Nearly,” was her answer.  “Accompanied by Madame Vernet, I went to see M’sieur Lepine, the Prefect of Police of Paris, and gave him all the information and a photograph of my father.  And I believe the police of London are making inquiries.”

“And what profession is your father?” I asked.

“He is a jeweller.  His shop is in the Rue de la Paix, on the right, going down to the Place Vendome.  Maison Dumont ­perhaps you may know it?”

Dumont’s, the finest and most expensive jewellers in Paris!  Of course I knew it.  Who does not who knows Paris?  How many times had I ­and in all probability you also ­lingered and looked into those two big windows where are displayed some of the most expensive jewels and choicest designs in ornaments in the world.

“Ah! so Monsieur Dumont is your father?” I remarked, with some reflection.  “And did he have with him any jewels in London?”

“Yes.  It was for that very reason we fear the worst.  He went to London expressly to show some very valuable gems to the Princess Henry of Salzburg, at Her Highness’s order.  She wanted them to wear at a Court in London.”

“And what was the value of the jewels?”

“They were diamonds and emeralds worth, they tell me at the magasin, over half a million francs.”

“And did nobody go with him to London?”

“Yes, Monsieur Martin, my father’s chief clerk.  But he has also disappeared.”

“And the jewels ­eh?”

“And also the jewels.”

“But may not this man Martin have got rid of your father somehow or other and decamped?  That is a rather logical conclusion, isn’t it?”

“That is Monsieur Lepine’s theory; but” ­and she turned to me very seriously ­“I am sure, quite sure, Monsieur Martin would never be guilty of such a thing.  He is far too devoted.”

“To your father ­eh?” I asked, with a smile.

“Yes,” she answered, with a little hesitation.

“And how can you vouch for his honesty?  Half a million francs is a great temptation, remember.”

“No, not so much ­for him,” was her reply.

“Why?”

She looked straight into my face through the talc front of her motor-veil, and after a moment’s silence exclaimed, with a girl’s charming frankness ­

“I wonder, Monsieur Ewart, whether I can trust you?”

“I hope so, mademoiselle,” was my reply.  “Mr. Bellingham has entrusted you to my care, hasn’t he?”

I hoped she was about to confide in me, but all she said was ­

“Well, then, the reason I am so certain of Monsieur Martin’s honesty is because ­because I ­I’m engaged to be married to him;” and she blushed deeply as she made the admission.

“Oh, I see!  Now I begin to understand.”

“Yes.  Has he not more than half a million francs at stake? ­for I am my father’s only child.”

“Certainly, that places a fresh complexion on matters,” I said; “but does Monsieur your father know of the engagement?”

“Mon Dieu! no!  I ­I dare not tell him.  Monsieur Martin is only a clerk, remember.”

“And how long has he been in the service of the house?”

“Not a year yet.”

I was silent.  There was trickery somewhere without a doubt, but where?

As the especial line of the debonnair Count Bindo di Ferraris and his ingenious friends was jewellery, I could not help regarding as curious the coincidence that the daughter of the missing man was travelling in secret with me to the Riviera.  But why, if the coup had really already been made in London, as it seemed it had, we should come out to the Riviera and mix ourselves up with Pierrette and the mysterious Madame Vernet was beyond my comprehension.  To me it seemed a distinct peril.

“Didn’t the Princess purchase any of the jewels of your father?” I asked.  “Tell me the facts as far as you know them.”

“Well, as soon as they found poor father and Monsieur Martin missing they sent over Monsieur Boullanger, the manager, to London, and he called upon Her Highness at Claridge’s Hotel ­I think that was where she was staying.  She said that after making the appointment with my father she was compelled to go away to Scotland, and could not keep it until the morning of the day on which he disappeared.  My father, accompanied by Monsieur Martin, called upon her and showed her the gems.  One diamond tiara she liked, but it was far too expensive; therefore she decided to have nothing, declaring that she could buy the same thing cheaper in London.  The jewels were repacked in the bag, and taken away.  That appears to be the last seen of them.  Four hours later my father left the Hotel Charing Cross alone, got into a cab, drove away, and nobody has seen him since.  Monsieur Boullanger is still in London making inquiries.”

“And now, mademoiselle, permit me to ask you a question,” I said, looking straight at her.  “How came you to be acquainted with Mr. Bellingham?”

Her countenance changed instantly.  Her well-marked brows contracted slightly, and I saw that she had some mysterious reason for not replying to my inquiry.

“I ­I don’t think I need satisfy you on that point, m’sieur,” she replied at last, with a slight hauteur, as though her dignity were offended.

“Pardon me,” I said quickly, “I meant to offer you no offence, mademoiselle.  You naturally are in distress regarding the unaccountable disappearance of your father, and when one mentions jewels thoughts of foul play always arise in one’s mind.  The avariciousness of man, and his unscrupulousness where either money or jewels are concerned, are well known even to you, at your age.  I thought, however, you were confiding in me, and I wondered how you, in active search of your father as you are, could have met my employer, Mr. Bellingham.”

“I met him in London, I have already told you.”

“How long ago?”

“Three weeks.”

“Ah!  Then you have been in London since the supposed robbery?” I exclaimed.  “I had not gathered that fact.”

Her face fell.  She saw, to her annoyance, that she had been forced into making an admission which she hoped to evade.

I now saw distinctly that there was some deep plot in progress, and recognised that in all probability my pretty little friend was in peril.

She, the daughter of the missing jeweller of the Rue de la Paix, had been entrapped, and I was carrying her into the hands of her enemies!

Since my association with Bindo and his friends I had, I admit, become as unscrupulous as they were.  Before my engagement as the Count’s chauffeur I think I was just as honest as the average man ever is; but there is an old adage which says that you can’t touch pitch without being besmirched, and in my case it was, I suppose, only too true.  I had come to regard their ingenious plots and adventures with interest and attention, and marvelled at the extraordinary resource and cunning with which they misled and deceived their victims, and obtained by various ways and means those bright little stones which, in regular consignments, made their way to the dark little den of the crafty old Goomans in the Kerk Straat at Amsterdam, and were exchanged for bundles of negotiable bank-notes.

The police of Europe knew that for the past two years there had been actively at work a gang of the cleverest jewel-thieves ever known, yet the combined astuteness of Scotland Yard with that of the Paris Sûreté and the Pubblica Sicurezza of Italy had never suspected the smart, well-dressed, good-looking Charlie Bellingham, who lived in such ease and comfort in Clifford Street, and whose wide circle of intimate friends at country houses included at least two members of the present Cabinet.

The very women who lost their jewels so unaccountably ­wives of wealthy peers or City magnates ­were most of them Charlie Bellingham’s “pals,” and on more than one occasion it was Charlie himself who gave information to the police and who interviewed thirsty detectives and inquisitive reporters.

The men who worked with him were only his assistants, shrewd clever fellows each of them, but lacking either initiative or tact.  He directed them, and they carried out his orders to the letter.  His own ever-active brain formulated the plots and devised the plans by which those shining stones passed into their possession, while such a thoroughgoing cosmopolitan was he that he was just as much at home in the Boulevard des Capucines, or the Ringstraße, as in Piccadilly, or on the Promenade des Anglais.

Yes, Count Bindo, when with his forty “Napier,” he had engaged me, and I had on that well-remembered afternoon first made the acquaintance of his friends in the smoking-room at the Hotel Cecil, had promised me plenty of driving, with a leaven of adventure.

And surely he had fulfilled his promise!

The long white road, winding like a ribbon through the dark olives, with the white villas of Cannes, the moonlit bay La Croisette, and the islands calm in the glorious night, lay before us.

And beside me, interested and trustful, sat the pretty Pierrette ­the victim.

III - IN WHICH THE COUNT IS PUZZLED

My sweet-faced little charge had returned into the back of the car, and was sound asleep nestling beneath her rugs when, about three o’clock in the morning, we dashed through the little village of Cagnes, and ran out upon the long bridge that crosses the broad, rock-strewn river Var, a mile or two from Nice.

My great search-light was shining far ahead, and the echoes of the silent, glorious night were awakened by the roar of the exhaust as we tore along, raising a perfect wall of dust behind us.

Suddenly, on reaching the opposite bank, I saw a man in the shadow waving his arms, and heard a shout.  My first impression was that it was one of the gendarmes, who are always on duty at that spot, but next instant, owing to the bend of the road, my search-light fell full upon the person in question, and I was amazed to find it to be none other than the audacious Bindo himself ­Bindo in a light dust-coat and a soft white felt hat of that type which is de rigueur each season at Monty among smartly-groomed men.

“Ewart!” he shouted frantically.  “Ewart, it’s me!  Stop! stop!”

I put the brakes down as hard as I could without skidding, and brought the car up suddenly, while he ran up breathlessly.

“You’re through in good time.  I was prepared to wait till daylight,” he said.  “Everything all right?”

“Everything.  The young lady’s asleep, I think.”

“No, she is not,” came a voice in French from beneath the rugs.  “What’s the matter?  Who’s that?”

“It’s me, Pierrette,” replied the handsome young adventurer, mounting upon the step and looking within.

“You!  Ah!  Why ­it’s M’sieur Bellingham!” she cried excitedly, raising herself and putting out her hand encased in one of my greasy old fur gloves.  “Were you waiting for us?”

“Of course I was.  Didn’t I tell you I would?” replied Bindo in French ­a language which he spoke with great fluency.  “You got my telegram to say that Ewart had started ­eh?  Well, how has the car been running ­and how has Ewart treated you?”

“He has treated me ­well, as you say in your English, ’like a father’!” she laughed merrily; “and, oh!  I’ve had such a delightful ride.”

“But you must be cold, little one,” he said, patting her upon the shoulder.  “It’s a long run from Paris to Nice, you know.”

“I’m not tired,” she assured him.  “I’ve slept quite a lot.  And M’sieur Ewart has looked after me, and given me hot bouillon, coffee, eggs, and all sorts of things ­even to chocolates!”

“Ah!  Ewart is a sad dog with the ladies, I’m afraid,” he said in a reproving tone, glancing at me.  “But if you’ll make room for me, and give me a bit of your rug, I’ll go on with you.”

“Of course, my dear friend,” she exclaimed, rising, throwing off the rugs, and settling herself into the opposite corner, “you will come along with us to Monte Carlo.  Are those lights over there, on the right, Nice?”

“They are, and beyond that lighthouse there, is Villefranche.  Right behind it lies Beaulieu.”

And then, the pair having wrapped themselves up, we moved off again.

“Run along the Promenade des Anglais, and not through the Rue de France, Ewart,” ordered the Count.  “Mademoiselle would like to see it, I daresay, even at this hour.”

So ten minutes later we turned out upon that broad, beautiful esplanade which is one of the most noted in all the world, which is always flower-bordered, and where feathery palms flourish even when the rest of Europe is under snow.

“When did you arrive?” I heard the girl ask.

“At eight o’clock last night.  I haven’t been to Monte Carlo yet.  I went over to Beaulieu, but unfortunately Madame is not yet at the Bristol.  I have, however, taken a room for you, and we will drop you there as we pass.  Your baggage arrived by rail this afternoon.”

“But where is Madame, I wonder?” inquired the girl in a tone of dismay.  “She would surely never disappoint us?”

“Certainly she would not.  She told me once that she had stayed at the Metropole at Monty on several occasions.  She may be there.  I’ll inquire in the morning.  For the next couple of days I may be away, as perhaps I’ll have to go on to Genoa on some business; but Ewart and the car will be at your disposal.  I’ll place you in his hands again, and he will in a couple of days show you the whole Riviera from the Var to San Remo, with the Tenda, the upper Corniche, and Grasse thrown in.  He knows this neighbourhood like a Nicois.”

“That will be awfully jolly,” she responded.  “But ­”

“Well?”

“Well, I’m sorry you are going away,” declared Pierrette, with regret so undisguised that though she had admitted her engagement to her father’s missing clerk, showed me only too plainly that she had fallen very violently in love with the handsome, good-for-nothing owner of the splendid car upon which they were travelling.

I could see that curious developments were, ere long, within the bounds of probability, and I felt sorry for the pretty, innocent little girl; for her journey there was, I felt assured, connected in some way or other with her father’s mysterious disappearance from the Charing Cross Hotel.

Why had Bindo taken the trouble to await me there at the foot of the Var bridge, when he had given me instructions where to go at Monte Carlo?

As I drove out of Nice and up the hill to Villefranche, I turned over the whole of the queer facts in my mind, but could discern no motive for Pierrette’s secret journey South.  Why was she, so young, a nun?  Why had she left her convent, if not at the instigation of the merry-eyed, devil-may-care Bindo?

Around Mont Boron and down into Villefranche we went, until around the sudden bend, close to the sea-shore, showed the great white façade of the Bristol at Beaulieu, that fine hotel so largely patronised by kings, princes, and other notabilities.

The gate was open, and I swung the car into the well-kept gravelled drive which led through the beautiful flower-garden up to the principal entrance.  The noise we created awoke the night-porter, and after some brief explanation, Pierrette got out, wished us a merry “Bon jour!” and disappeared.  Then, with the Count mounted at my side, I backed out into the roadway, and we were soon speeding along that switchback of a road with dozens of dangerous turns and irritating tram-lines that leads past Eze into the tiny Principality of His Royal Highness Prince Rouge et Noir ­the paradise of gamblers, thieves, and fools.

“Well, Ewart,” he said, almost before we got past Mr. Gordon Bennett’s villa, “I suppose the girl’s been chattering to you ­eh?  What has she said?”

“Well, she hasn’t said much,” was my reply, as I bent my head to the mistral that was springing up.  “Told me who she is, and that her father and his jewels have disappeared in London.”

“What!” he cried in a voice of amazement.  “What’s that about jewels?  What jewels?”

“Why, you surely know,” I said, surprised at his demeanour.

“I assure you, Ewart, this is the first I know about any jewels,” he declared.  “You say her father and some shiners have disappeared in London.  Tell me quickly, under what circumstances.  What has she been telling you?”

“Well, first tell me ­are you aware of who she really is?”

“No, I don’t, and that’s a fact.  I believe she’s the daughter of an old broken-down Catholic marquise ­one of the weedy sort ­who lives at Troyes, or some such dead-alive hole as that.  Her mother tried to make her take the veil, and hasn’t succeeded.”

“She prefers the motor-veil, it appears,” I laughed.  “But that isn’t the story she’s told me.”

The red light of a level-crossing gave warning, and I pulled up, and let out a long blast on the electric horn, until the gates swung open.

“Her real name is, I believe, Pierrette Dumont, only daughter of that big jeweller in the Rue de la Paix.”

“What!” cried Bindo, in such a manner that I knew he was not joking.  “Old Dumont’s daughter?  If that’s so, we are in luck’s way.”

“Yes, Dumont went to London, and took his clerk, a certain Martin, with him, and a bagful of jewels worth the respectable sum of half a million francs.  They stayed at the Charing Cross Hotel, but five days later both men and the jewels disappeared.”

Bindo sank back in his seat utterly dumbfounded.

“But, Ewart,” he gasped, “do you really think it is true?  Do you believe that she is actually Dumont’s daughter, and that the shiners have really been stolen?”

“The former question is more difficult to answer than the latter.  A wire to London will clear up the truth.  In all probability the police are keeping the affair out of the papers.  The girl went over to London to try and find her father, and met you, she says.”

“She met me, certainly.  But the little fool told me nothing about her father’s disappearance or the missing jewels.”

“Because the Paris police had warned her not to, in all probability.”

“Well ­” he gasped.  “If that story is really true, it is the grandest slice of luck we’ve ever had, Ewart,” he declared.

“How?  What do you mean?”

“What I say,” was his brief answer.  “I shall go back to London after breakfast.  You’ll remain here, look after the girl and Madame Vernet.  I don’t envy you the latter.  She’s got yellow teeth, and is ugly enough to break a mirror,” he laughed.

“But why go to London?” I queried.

“For reasons best known to myself, Ewart,” he snapped; for he never approved of inquisitiveness when forming any plans.

Then for a long time he was silent, his resourceful brain active, plunged in thought.

“Well!” he exclaimed, “this is about the queerest affair that I’ve ever had on hand.  I came out here to-day from London on one big thing, and in an hour or two I’m going back on another!”

Presently, just as we were ascending the hill from La Condamine, and within a few hundred yards of the big Hotel de Paris garage, which was our destination, he turned to me and said ­

“Look here, Ewart! we’ve got a big thing on here ­bigger than either of us imagine.  I wonder what the fellows will think when they hear of it?  Now all you have to do is to be pleasant to the little girl ­make her believe that you’re a bit gone on her, if you like.”

“But she’s over head and ears in love with you,” I observed.

“Love be hanged!” he laughed carelessly.  “We’re out for money, my dear Ewart ­and we’ll have a lot of it out of this, never fear!”

A moment later I swung into the great garage, where hundreds of cars were standing ­that garage with the female directress which every motorist knows so well.

And I stopped the engines, and literally fell out, utterly done up and exhausted after that mad drive from the Thames to the Mediterranean.

The circumstances seemed even more complicated and mysterious than I had imagined them to be.

But the main question was whether the dainty little Pierrette had told me the truth.

IV - IS STILL MORE MYSTERIOUS

At ten o’clock that same morning I saw Bindo off by the Paris rapide.

Though he did not get to his room at the Hotel de Paris till nearly six, he was about again at eight.  He was a man full of activity when the occasion warranted, and yet, like many men of brains, he usually gave one the appearance of an idler.  He could get through an enormous amount of work and scheming, and yet appear entirely unoccupied.  Had he put his talents to legitimate and honest business, he would have no doubt risen to the position of a Napoleon of finance.

As it was, he made a call at the Metropole at nine, not to inquire for Madame Vernet, but no doubt to consult or give instructions to one of his friends, who, like himself, was a “crook.”

Bindo had a passing acquaintance with many men who followed the same profession as himself, and often, I know, lent a helping hand to any in distress.  There is a close fraternity among the class to which he belonged, known to the European police as “the internationals.”

The identity of the man in whose bedroom he had an interview that morning I was unaware.  I only know that, as the rapide moved off from Monte Carlo Station on its way back to Paris, he waved his hand, saying ­

“Remain here, and if anything happens wire me to Clifford Street.  At all costs keep Pierrette at Beaulieu. Au revoir!”

And he withdrew his head into the first-class compartment.

Then I turned away, wondering how next to act.

After a stroll around Monty, a cigarette on the terrace before the Casino, where the gay world was sunning itself beside the sapphire sea, prior to the opening of the Rooms, and a cocktail at my friend Ciro’s, I took my dejeuner at the Palmiers, a small and unpretentious hotel in the back of the town, where I was well known, and where one gets a very good lunch vin compris for three francs.

In order to allow Pierrette time to rest after her journey, I waited till three o’clock before I got out the car and ran over to Beaulieu.  The day was glorious, one of those bright, cloudless, sunny Riviera days in early spring, when the Mediterranean lay without a ripple and the flowers sent forth their perfume everywhere.

Mademoiselle was in the garden, the concierge of the Bristol told me; therefore I went out and found her seated alone before the sea, reading a book.  Her appearance was the reverse of that of a religious “Sister.”  Dressed in a smart gown of cream cloth, ­one of those gowns that are so peculiarly the mode at Monte Carlo, ­white shoes, and a white hat, she looked delightfully fresh and chic beneath her pale-blue sunshade.

“Ah, M’sieur Ewart!” she cried, in her broken English, as I approached, “I am so glad you have come.  I have been waiting ever so long.  I want to go to Monte Carlo.”

“Then I’ll be delighted to take you,” I answered, raising my hat.  “Mr. Bellingham has left already, and will be absent, I believe, a day or two.  Meanwhile, if you will accept my escort, mademoiselle, I shall be only too willing to be yours to obey.”

“Bien! What a pretty speech!” she laughed.  “I wonder whether you will say that to Madame.”

“Has Madame arrived?”

“She came this morning, just before noon.  But,” she added, “look, here she comes.”

I glanced in the direction she indicated, and saw approaching us the short, queer figure of a little old woman in stiff dark-green silk skirts of the style a decade ago.

“Madame, here is M’sieur Ewart!” cried the pretty Pierrette, as the old lady advanced, and I bowed.

She proved to be about the ugliest specimen of the gentler sex that I had ever met.  Her face was wrinkled and puckered, wizened and brown; her eyes were close set, and beyond her thin lips protruded three or four yellow fangs, rendering her perfectly hideous.  Moreover, on her upper lip was quite a respectable moustache, while from her chin long white hairs straggled at intervals.

“Where is Mr. Bellingham?” she asked snappishly, in a shrill, rasping voice, like the sharpening of a file.

“He has left, and will be absent a few days, I believe.  He has placed this car and myself at your disposal, and ordered me to present his regrets that pressing business calls him away.”

“Regrets!” she exclaimed, with a slight toss of her head.  “He need not have sent any.  I know that he is a very busy man.”

“M’sieur Ewart is going to take me to Monte Carlo,” Pierrette said.  “You will be too fatigued to go, won’t you?  I will return quite early.”

“Yes, my dear,” the old woman replied, speaking most excellent English, although I gathered that she was either German or Austrian.  “I am too tired.  But do be back early, won’t you?  I know how anxious you are to see the Casino.”

So my dainty little charge obtained her fur motor-coat, and ten minutes later we were leaving a trail of dust along the road that leads to the Principality, or ­alas! ­too often to ruin.

When at Monty I never wore chauffeur’s clothes, for the Count treated me as his personal friend, and besides only by posing as a gentleman of means could I obtain the entree to the Casino.  So we put up the car at the garage, and together ascended the red-carpeted steps of the Temple of Fortune.

At the bureau she had no trouble to obtain her ticket, and a few moments later we passed through the big swing-doors into the Rooms.

For a moment she stood in the great gilded salon as one stupefied.  I have noticed this effect often on young girls who see the roulette tables and their crowds for the first time.  Above the clink of coin, the rustle of bank-notes, the click-click of the ivory ball upon the disc, and the low hum of voices, there rose the monotonous voices of the croupiers:  “Rien n’va plus!” “Quatre premier deux pieces!” “Zero! un louis!” “Dernier douzaine un piece!” “Messieurs, faîtes vos jeux!”

The atmosphere was, as usual, stifling, and the combined odours of perspiring humanity and Parisian perfumes nauseating, as it always is after the fresh, flower-scented air outside.

My little companion passed from one table to another, regarding the players and the play with keenest interest.  Then she passed into the trente-et-quarante rooms, where at one of the tables she stood behind a pretty, beautifully-attired Parisienne, watching her play and lose the handful of golden coins her elderly cavalier had handed to her.

While we halted there an incident occurred which caused me considerable thought.

In front of us, on the opposite side of the table, stood a tall, thin-faced, elderly, clean-shaven man of sallow complexion, and very smartly dressed.  In his black cravat he wore a splendid diamond pin, and on his finger, as he tossed a louis on the “noir,” another fine gem glistened.  That man, though so essentially a gentleman from his exterior appearance, was known to me as one of “us,” as shrewd and clever an adventurer as ever trod those polished boards.  He was Henri Regnier, known to his intimates as “Monsieur lé President,” because he had once, by personating the President of the Chamber of Deputies, robbed the Credit Lyonnais of one hundred thousand francs, and served five years at Toulon for it.

And across at him the pretty Pierrette shot a quick look of recognition and laughed.  “The President” nodded slightly, and laughed back in return.  He glanced at me.  Our eyes met, but we neither of us acknowledged the other.  It is the rule with men of our class.  We are always strangers, except when it is to the interests of either party to appear friends.

But what did this nod to Pierrette mean?  How could she be acquainted with Henri Regnier?

“Do you know that man?” I asked her, as presently we moved away from the table.

“What man?” she inquired, her eyes opening widely in assumed ignorance.

“I thought you nodded recognition to a man across the table,” I remarked, disappointed at her attempt to deceive me.

“No,” she replied; “I didn’t recognise anyone.  You were mistaken.  He perhaps nodded to somebody else.”

This reply of hers increased the mystery.  Had she deceived me when she told me that she was the daughter of old Dumont the jeweller?  If so, then I had sent Bindo back to London on a wild goose-chase.

We passed back into the roulette rooms, and for quite a long time she stood at the first table at the left of the entrance, watching the game intently.

A man I knew passed, and I crossed to chat with him.  In ten minutes or so I returned to her side, and as I did so she bent and took from the end of the croupier’s rake three one-thousand-franc notes, while all eyes at the table were fixed upon her.

One of the notes she tossed upon the “rouge,” and the other two she crushed into her pocket.

“What!” I gasped, “are you playing?  And with such stakes?”

“Why not?” she laughed, perfectly cool, and watching the ball, which had already begun to spin.

With a final click it fell into one of the red squares, and two notes were handed to her.

The one she had won she passed across to the “noir,” and there won again, and again a second time, until people at the table began to follow her lead.  Gamblers are always superstitious when they see a young girl playing.  It is amazing and curious how often youth will win where middle-age will lose.

Five times in succession she played upon the colours with a thousand francs each time, and won on each occasion.

I tried to remonstrate, and urged her to leave with her winnings; but her cheeks were flushed, and she was now excited.  One of the notes she exchanged with the croupier for nine hundreds, and five louis.  The latter she distributed a cheval, with one en plein on the number eighteen.

It won.  She left her stake on the table, and again the same number turned up.  Three louis placed on zero she lost, and again on the middle dozen.

But she won with two louis on thirty-six.  Then what she did showed me that, if a novice at a convent, she was, at any rate, no novice at roulette, for she shifted her stake to the “first four” ­a favourite habit of gamblers ­and won again.

Then, growing suddenly calm again, she exchanged her gold for notes, and crushing the bundle into her pocket, turned with me from the table.

I was amazed.  I could not make her out in the least.  Had all her ingenuousness been assumed?  If it had, then I had been sadly taken in over her.

Together we went out, crossed the Place, and sat on the terrace of the Cafe de Paris, where we took tea ­with orange-flower water, of course.  While there she took out her money and counted it ­eleven thousand two hundred francs, or in English money the respectable sum of four hundred and forty-eight pounds.

“What luck you’ve had, mademoiselle!” I exclaimed.

“Yes; I only had two hundred francs to commence, so I won exactly eleven thousand.”

“Then take my advice, and don’t play again as long as you are in this place, for you’re sure to lose it.  Go away a winner.  I once won five hundred francs, and made a vow never to play again.  That’s a year ago, and I have never staked a single piece since.  The game over there, mademoiselle, is a fool’s game,” I added, pointing to the façade of the Casino opposite.

“I know,” she answered; “I don’t think I shall risk anything more.  I wonder what Madame will say!”

“Well, she can only congratulate you and tell you not to risk anything further.”

“Isn’t she quaint?” she asked.  “And yet she’s such a dear old thing ­although so very old-fashioned.”

I was extremely anxious to get to the bottom of her acquaintance with that veritable prince of adventurers, Regnier, yet I dare not broach the subject, lest I should arouse suspicion.  Who was that ugly old woman at the Bristol?  I wondered.  She was Madame Vernet, it was true, but what relation they were to each other Pierrette never informed me.

At half-past six, after I had taken her along the Galerie to look at the shops, and through the Casino gardens to see the pigeon-shooting, I ran her back to Beaulieu on the car, promising to return for her in the morning at eleven.

Madame seemed a strange chaperon, for she never signified her intention of coming also.

About ten o’clock that night, when in dinner-jacket and black tie I re-entered the Rooms again, I encountered Regnier.  He was on his way out, and I followed him.

In the shadow of the trees in the Place I overtook him and spoke.

“Hulloa, Ewart!” he exclaimed, “I saw you this afternoon.  Is Bindo here?”

“He’s been, but has returned to London on business.”

“Coming back, I suppose?” he asked.  “I haven’t seen anything of any of you of late.  All safe, I hope?”

“Up to now, yes,” I laughed.  “We’ve been in England a good deal recently.  But what I wanted to know was this:  You saw me with a little French girl this afternoon.  Who is she?”

“Pierrette.”

“Yes, I know her name, but who is she?”

“Oh, a little friend of mine ­a very charming little friend.”

And that was all he would tell me, even though I pressed him to let me into the secret.

V - WHAT THE REVELLERS REVEALED

After luncheon on the following day I called at Beaulieu and picked up both ladies, who expressed a wish for a run along the coast as far as San Remo.

Therefore I took them across the frontier at Ventimiglia into Italy.  We had tea at the Savoy at San Remo, and ran home in the glorious sundown.

Like all other old ladies who have never ridden in a car, she was fidgety about her bonnet, and clung on to it, much to Pierrette’s amusement.  Nevertheless, Madame seemed to enjoy her ride, for just as we slipped down the hill into Beaulieu she suggested that we should go on to Nice and there dine.

“Oh yes!” cried Pierrette, with delight.  “That will be lovely.  I’ll pay for a nice dinner out of my winnings of yesterday.  I’ve heard that the London House is the place to dine.”

“You could not do better, mademoiselle,” I said, turning back to her, my eyes still on the road, rendered dangerous by the electric trams and great traffic of cars in both directions.  It struck me as curious that I, the Count’s chauffeur, should be treated as one of themselves.  I wondered, indeed, if they really intended to invite me to dinner.

But I was not disappointed, for having put the car into that garage opposite the well-known restaurant, Pierrette insisted that I should wash my hands and accompany them.

The ordering of the dinner she left in my hands, and we spent a very merry hour at table, even Madame of the yellow teeth brightening up under the influence of a glass of champagne, though Pierrette only drank Evian.

The Riviera was in Carnival.  You who know Nice, know what that means ­plenty of fun and frolic in the streets, on the Jetee Promenade, and in the Casino Municipal.  Therefore, after dinner, Pierrette decided to walk out upon the pier, or jetee, as it is called, and watch the milk-and-water gambling for francs that is permitted there.

The night was glorious, with a full moon shining upon the calm sea, while the myriad coloured lamps everywhere rendered the scene enchanting.  A smart, well-dressed crowd were promenading to and fro, enjoying the magnificent balmy night, and as we walked towards the big Casino at the end of the pier a man in a pierrot’s dress of pale-green and mauve silk, and apparently half intoxicated, for his mauve felt hat was at the back of his head, came reeling in our direction.  A Parisian and a boulevardier evidently, for he was singing gaily to himself that song of Aristide Bruant’s, “La Noire,” the well-known song of the 113th Regiment of the Line ­

     “La Noire est fille du canton
     Qui se fout du qu’en dira-t-on. 
     Nous nous foutons de ses vertus,
     Puisqu’elle a les tétons pointus. 
       Voila pourquoi nous la chantons: 
       Vive la Noire et ses tétons!”

The reveller carried in his hand a wand with jingling bells, and was no doubt on his way to the ball that was to take place later that night at the Casino Municipal ­the first bal masque of Carnival.

He almost fell against me, and straightening himself suddenly, I saw that he was about thirty, and rather good-looking ­a thin, narrow face, typically Parisian.

“Pardon, m’sieur!” he exclaimed, bowing, then suddenly glancing at Pierrette at my side he stood for a few seconds, glaring at her as though utterly dumbfounded. “Nom d’un chien!” he gasped. “P’tite Pier’tte! ­Wouf!”

And next second he placed his hand over his mouth, turned, and was lost in the crowd.

The girl at my side seemed confused, and it struck me that Madame also recognised him.

“Who was he?” I wondered.

The incident was, no doubt, a disconcerting one for them both, because from that moment their manner changed.  The gambling within the big rotunda had no interest for either of them, and a quarter of an hour later Madame, with her peculiar rasping voice, said ­

“Pierrette, ma chère, it is time we returned,” to which the girl acquiesced without comment.

Therefore I took them along to Beaulieu and deposited them at the door of their hotel.

Having seen them safely inside, I turned the car round and went back to Nice.

It was then about ten o’clock, but on the night of a Carnival ball the shops in the Avenue de la Gare are all open, and the dresses necessary for the ball are still displayed.  Therefore, having put the car into the garage again, I purchased a pierrot’s kit similar to that worn by the reveller, a black velvet loup, or mask, put them on in the shop, and then walked along to the Casino.

I need not tell you of the ball, of the wild antics of the revellers of both sexes, of the games of leap-frog played by the men, of the great rings of dancers, joining hand in hand, or of the beautiful effect of the two shades of colour seen everywhere.  It has been described a hundred times.  Moreover, I had not gone there to dance, I was there to watch, and if possible to speak with the man who had so gaily sung “La Noire” among the smart, aristocratic crowd on the Jetee.

But in that great crowd, with nearly everyone wearing their masks, it was impossible to recognise him.  The only part I recollected that was peculiar about him was that he had a white ruffle around his neck, instead of a mauve or green one, and it occurred to me that on entering the masters of the ceremonies would compel him to remove it as being against the rules to wear anything but the colours laid down by the committee.

I was looking for a pierrot without a ruffle, and my search was long and in vain.

Till near midnight I went among that mad crowd, but could not recognise him.  He might, I reflected, be by that hour in such a state of intoxication as to be unable to come to the ball at all.

Suddenly, however, as I was brushing past two masked dancers who were standing chatting at one of the doors leading from the Casino into the theatre where the ball was in progress, one of them exclaimed with a French accent ­

“Hulloa, Ewart!”

“Hulloa!” I replied, for I had removed my mask for a few moments because of the heat.  “Who are you?”

“‘The President,’” he responded in a low voice, and I knew that it was Henri Regnier.

“You’re the very man I want to see.  Come over here, and let’s talk.”

Both of us moved away into a corner of the Casino where it was comparatively quiet, and Regnier removed his mask, declaring that the heat was stifling.

“Look here,” he said in a tone of confidence, “I want to know ­I’m very interested to know ­how you became acquainted with little Pierrette Dumont.  I hear you’ve been about with her all day.”

“How did you know?” I asked.

“I was told,” he laughed.  “I find out things I want to know.”

“Then her name is really Dumont?” I asked quickly.

“I suppose so.  That will do as well as any other ­eh?” and he laughed.

“But last night you were not open with me, my dear Henri,” I replied; “therefore why should I be open with you?”

“Well ­for your own sake.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean this,” said Regnier, with a glance at his silent friend, who still retained his mask, and to whom he had not introduced me.  “You’re putting your head into a noose by going about with her.  You should avoid her.”

“Why?  She’s most charming.”

“I admit that.  But for your own sake you should exercise the greatest care.  I follow the same profession as you and your people do ­and I merely warn you,” he said very seriously.

The man standing by him exclaimed in French ­

“Phew!  What an atmosphere!” and removed his velvet mask.

It was the gay boulevardier whom I had seen on the Jetee Promenade.

“Why do you warn me?” I inquired, surprised at the reveller’s grave face, so different from what it had been when he had shaken his bells and sung the merry chorus of “La Noire.”

“Because you’re acting the fool, Ewart,” Regnier replied.

“I’m merely taking them about on the car.”

“But how did you first come across them?” he repeated.

“That’s my own affair, mon cher,” I responded, with a laugh; for I could not quite see why he took such an interest in us both, or why he should have been watching us.

“Oh, very well,” he answered in a tone of slight annoyance.  “Only tell your people to be careful.  And don’t say I didn’t warn you.  I know her ­and you don’t.”

“Yes,” interposed his companion.  “We both know her, Henri, don’t we ­to our cost, eh?”

“She recognised you this evening,” I said.

“I know.  I was amazed to find her here, in Nice ­and with the old woman, too!”

“But who is she?  Tell me the truth,” I urged.

“She’s somebody you ought not to know, Ewart,” replied “The President.”  “She can do you no good ­only harm.”

“How?”

“Well, I tell you this much, that I wouldn’t care to run the risk of taking her about as you are doing.”

“You’re talking in riddles.  Why not?” I queried.

“Because, as I’ve already told you, it’s dangerous ­very dangerous.”

“You mean that she knows who and what we are?”

“She knows more than you think.  I wouldn’t trust her as far as I could see her.  Would you, Raoul?” he asked his companion.

“But surely she hasn’t long been out of the schoolroom.”

“Schoolroom!” echoed Regnier.  And both men burst out laughing.

“Look here, Ewart,” he said, “you’d better get on that demon automobile of yours and run back to your own London.  You’re far too innocent to be here, on the Cote d’Azur, in Carnival time.”

“And yet I fancy I know the Riviera and its ways as well as most men,” I remarked.

“Well, however much you know, you’re evidently deceived in Pierrette.”

“She’d deceive the very devil himself,” remarked the man whom my friend had addressed as Raoul.  “Did she mention me after I had passed?”

“No.  But she seemed somewhat upset at the encounter.”

“No doubt,” he laughed.  “No doubt.  Perhaps she’ll express a sudden desire to return to Paris to-morrow!  I shouldn’t wonder.”

“But tell me, Regnier,” I urged, “why should I drop her?”

“I suppose Bindo has placed her in your hands, eh?  He’s left the Riviera, and left you to look after her!”

“Well, and what of that?  Do you object?  We’re not interfering with any of your plans, are we?”

The pair exchanged glances.  In the countenances of both was a curious look, one which aroused my suspicion.

“Oh, my dear fellow, not at all!” laughed Regnier.  “I’m only telling you for your own good.”

“Then you imply that she might betray us to the police, eh?”

“No, not that at all.”

“Well, what?”

The pair looked at each other a second time, and then Regnier said ­

“Unfortunately, Ewart, you don’t know Pierrette ­or her friend.”

“Friend!  Is it a male friend?”

“Yes.”

“Who is he?”

“I don’t know.  He’s a mystery.”

“Well,” I declared, “I don’t fear this Mister Mystery.  Why should I?”

“Then I tell you this ­if you continue to dance attendance on her as you are doing you’ll one night get a knife in your back.  And you wouldn’t be the first fellow who’s received a stab in the dark through acquaintanceship with the pretty Pierrette, I can tell you that!”

“Then this mysterious person is jealous!” I laughed.  “Well, let him be.  I find Pierrette amusing, and she adores motoring.  Your advice, mon cher Regnier, is well meant, but I don’t see any reason to discard my little charge.”

“Then you won’t take my advice?” he asked in an irritated tone.

“Certainly not.  I thank you for it, but I repeat that I’m quite well able to look after myself in case of a ’scrap’ ­and further, that I don’t fear the jealous lover in the least degree.”

“Then, if you don’t heed,” he said, “you must take the consequences.”

And the pair, turning on their heels, walked off without any further words.

VI - THE MAN WITH THE LONG NOSE

The next day, the next, and three other succeeding days, I spent nearly wholly with Pierrette and Madame.

A telegram I received from Bindo from the Maritime Station at Calais asked if Mademoiselle was still at Beaulieu, and to this I replied in the affirmative to Clifford Street.

I took the pair up the beautiful Var valley to Puget Theniers, to Grasse and Castellane, and through the Tenda tunnel to Cuneo, in Piedmont ­runs which, in that clear, cloudless weather, both of them enjoyed.  When alone with my dainty little companion, as I sometimes contrived to be, I made inquiry about her missing father.

Mention of him brought to her a great sadness.  She suddenly grew thoughtful and apprehensive ­so much so, indeed, that I felt convinced her story as told to me was the truth.

Once, when we were seated together outside a little cafe up at Puget Theniers, I ventured to mention the matter to Madame.

“Ah!  M’sieur Ewart,” exclaimed the old lady, holding up both her hands, “it is extraordinary ­very extraordinary!  The whole affair is a complete mystery.”

“But is there no suspicion of foul play?  Do not the police, for instance, suspect Monsieur Martin?”

“Suspect him?  Certainly not,” was her quick response.  “Why should they?”

“Well, he has disappeared also, I understand.  He is missing, as well as the jewels.”

“Depend upon it, m’sieur, both gentlemen are victims of some audacious plot.  Your London is full of clever thieves.”

I smiled within myself.  Little did Madame dream that she was at that moment talking with a member of the smartest and boldest gang of jewel-thieves who had ever emerged from “the foggy island.”

“Yes,” I said sympathetically, “there are a good many expert jewel-thieves in the metropolis, and it seems very probable that they knew, by some means, that Monsieur Dumont and his clerk were staying at the Charing Cross Hotel and ­” I did not finish my sentence.

“And ­what?” asked Madame.

I shrugged my shoulders.

“It must be left to the police, I think, to solve the mystery.”

“But they are powerless,” complained Madame.  “Monsieur Lepine, in Paris, expressed his utter contempt for your English police methods.  And, in the meantime, Monsieur the father of Mademoiselle has disappeared as completely as if the earth had opened and swallowed him up.”

“What I fear is that my dear father is dead,” exclaimed the pretty Pierrette, with tears in her fine eyes.  “One reads of such terrible things in the journals.”

“No, no,” I hastened to reassure her.  “I do not think so.  If one man alone lay between the thieves and jewels of that value ­well, then we might perhaps apprehend such a catastrophe.  But there were two ­two able-bodied men, who were neither children nor fools.  No,” I went on, “my own opinion is that there may be reasons ­reasons of which you are entirely unaware ­which have led your father to bury himself and his clerk for the present, to reappear later.  Men often have secrets, mademoiselle ­secrets that they do not tell others ­not even their wives or daughters.”

Mine was a somewhat lame opinion, I knew, but I merely expressed it for want of something better to say.

“But he would never have kept me in this suspense,” she declared.  “He would have sent me word in secret of his safety.”

“He may have gone on a long sea-voyage, and if so, would be unable.  Suppose he has gone to Rio de Janeiro or Buenos Ayres?”

“But why should he go?” asked the dark-eyed girl.  “His affairs are all in order, are they not, madame?”

“Perfectly,” declared the old woman.  “As I was saying last evening to the English gentleman whom we have met in the hotel ­what was his name, Pierrette?”

“Sir Charles Blythe,” replied the other.

I could not help giving a start at mention of that name.

Blythe was there ­at Beaulieu!

I think Pierrette must have noticed the change in my countenance, for she asked ­

“Do you happen to know him?  He’s a most charming gentleman.”

“I’ve heard of him, but do not know him personally,” was my response.

I had last seen Sir Charles in Brussels, three months before; but his reappearance at Beaulieu showed quite plainly that there was more in progress concerning the pretty Pierrette than even I imagined.

“Then you told Sir Charles Blythe about Monsieur Dumont’s disappearance?” I asked Madame, much interested in this new phase of the affair, and yet at the same time puzzled that Pierrette had apparently not told Bindo about the affair when they met in London.

“Yes,” answered the queer old lady with the rough voice.  “He was most sympathetic and interested.  He said that he knew one of the chiefs at your Scot-len Yarde, and that he would write to him.”

The idea of an old thief like Blythe writing to Scotland Yard was, to me, distinctly amusing.

Had Bindo sent him to Beaulieu to keep in touch with Pierrette?  I wondered.  At any rate, I felt that I must contrive to see him in secret and ascertain what really was in progress.

“Sir Charles has, I believe, great influence with the police,” I remarked, with the idea of furthering my friend’s interests, whatever they were.  “No doubt he will write home, and whatever can be done to trace Monsieur Dumont will be done.”

“He is extremely courteous to us,” Madame said.  “A lady in the hotel tells me that he is very well known on the Riviera.”

“I believe he is.  In fact, if I’m not mistaken, he is one of the English members of the Fêtes Committee at Nice.”

“Well, I only hope that he will carry out his kind promise,” declared Pierrette.  “He seems to know everybody.  Last night he was taking coffee with the Duchess of Gozzano and her friends, who seem a most exclusive set.”

She was not mistaken.  Blythe certainly had a very wide circle of friends.  It was he who idled about the most expensive hotels at Aix, Biarritz, Pau, Rome, or Cairo, and after fixing upon likely jewels displayed by their proud feminine possessors, mostly wives of aristocrats or vulgar financiers, would duly report to Bindo and his friends, and make certain suggestions for obtaining possession of them.

To the keen observation of the baronet, who moved always in the smartest of cosmopolitan society, were due those robberies of jewels, reports of which one read so constantly in the papers.  He was the eye of the little ring of clever adventurers who, with capital at their command, were able to effect coups so daring, so ingenious, and so cleverly devised that even Monsieur Lepine and his department in Paris were from time to time utterly aghast and dumbfounded.

That night I wrote a note to him, and at eleven o’clock next morning we met in a small cafe down in La Condamine.  It was never judicious for any of our quartette to meet openly, and when on the Riviera we usually used the quiet little place if we wished to consult.

When the pseudo-baronet lounged in and seated himself at my table, he certainly did not present the appearance of a “crook.”  Tall, erect, of peculiarly aristocratic bearing, and dressed in a suit of light flannels and a soft brown felt hat set jauntily on his head, he was the picture of easy affluence.  His face was narrow, his eyes sparkling with good humour, and his well-trimmed beard dark, with a few streaks of grey.

He ordered a “Dubonnet,” and then, finding that we were practically alone, with none to overhear, he asked ­

“Why did you write to me?  What do you want?”

“To know the truth about Pierrette Dumont,” I said.  “Madame has been telling me about you.  When did you arrive?”

“The day before yesterday.  Bindo sent me out.”

“What for?”

“I can’t tell.  He never gives reasons.  His only instructions were to go to the Bristol, make the acquaintance of Mademoiselle and her chaperon, and create an impression on them.”

“Well, you’ve done that, if nothing else,” I assured him, laughing.  “But the whole affair is such a complete mystery that it certainly is to the interests of all of us if I’m let into the secret.  At present I’m working in the dark.”

“And so am I, my dear fellow,” was Sir Charles’s response.  “Bindo met me in the Constitutional, gave me a hundred pounds, and told me to go out at once.  So I came.”

“And when is he returning?”

“Only he himself knows that.  He seems tremendously busy.  Henderson is with him.  When I left he was just going to Birmingham.”

“You know who Pierrette is?”

“Yes.  Daughter of old Dumont, the jeweller in the Rue de la Paix.  Bindo told me that much.  Her father disappeared from the Charing Cross Hotel, as well as his clerk and a bagful of jewellery.”

“Exactly.  I suspect Martin, the clerk, don’t you?”

He smiled, his eyes fixed upon me.

“Perhaps,” he remarked vaguely.

“And you know more about the little affair, Blythe, than you intend to tell me?”

“Bindo ordered me to say nothing,” was his reply.  “You ought surely to know by this time that when he has a big thing on he never talks about it.  That is, indeed, the secret of his success.”

“Yes, but in certain circumstances he ought to let me know what is intended, so that I may be forearmed against treachery.”

“Treachery!” he echoed.  “What do you mean?”

“What I say.  There are other people about here who know Mademoiselle.”

“Who?”

“‘The President,’ for one.”

“What!” he cried, starting up.  “Do you mean to say that?  Are you sure of it?”

“Quite.  I saw them recognise each other in the Rooms the other afternoon.  I afterwards met him alone, and he admitted that he knew her.”

“Then the affair is far more complicated than I believed,” exclaimed my companion, knitting his brows thoughtfully.  “I wonder ­”

“Wonder what?”

“I wonder if Bindo knows this?  Have you told him?”

“No.  It was after he had left.”

“Then we ought to let him know at once.  Where is Regnier staying?”

“At the Hermitage, as usual.”

“H’m.”

“Anybody with him?”

“Nobody we know.”

“Have you spoken to Pierrette?”

“Yes.  But, curiously enough, she denied all knowledge of him.”

“Ah!  Then it is as I suspected!” Blythe said.  “We’ll have to be careful ­confoundedly careful; otherwise we shall be given away.”

“By whom?”

“By our enemies,” was his ambiguous response.  “Did Regnier tell you anything about the girl?”

“He warned me to have nothing whatever to do with her.”

“Exactly.  Just as I thought.  It was to his interests to do so.  We must wire at once to Bindo.”

While we were talking, however, a thin, rather well-dressed, long-nosed Frenchman, in a brown suit and grey suede gloves, entered, and sat at a table near.  He was not thirty, but about him was the unmistakable air of the bon viveur.

At his entry we broke off our conversation and spoke of other things. 
Neither of us desired the presence of a stranger in our vicinity.

Presently, after the lapse of ten minutes, we paid, rose, and left the cafe.

“Who was that fellow?” I asked Sir Charles, as we walked through the narrow street down to the quay.

“Couldn’t make him out,” was my friend’s reply.  “Looks very suspiciously like an agent of police.”

“That’s just my opinion,” I said anxiously.  “We must be careful ­very careful.”

“Yes.  We mustn’t meet again unless absolutely necessary.  I’m just going up the hill to the post-office to send a cipher message to Bindo.  He ought to be here at once.  Good-bye.”

And he turned the corner and left me.

The sudden appearance of the long-nosed person puzzled me greatly.

Was it possible that we had fallen beneath the active surveillance of the Sûreté?

VII - ON DANGEROUS GROUND

I don’t think that in the whole course of my adventurous career as chauffeur to Count Bindo di Ferraris, alias Mr. Charles Bellingham, I spent such an anxious few days as I did during the week following my meeting with the redoubtable Sir Charles Blythe.

On several occasions when I called at the Bristol I saw him sitting in the garden with Madame and Mademoiselle, doing the amiable, at which he was an adept.  He was essentially a ladies’ man, and the very women who lost their diamonds recounted to him their loss and received his assistance and sympathy.

Of course, on the occasions I met him either at Beaulieu, on the Promenade des Anglais, or in the Rooms, I never acknowledged acquaintance with him.  More than once I had met that long-nosed man, and it struck me that he was taking a very unnecessary interest in all of us.

Where was Bindo?  Day after day passed, and I remained at the Paris, but no word came from him ­or from Sir Charles, for the matter of that.

Pierrette’s ardour for motoring seemed to have now cooled; for, beyond a run to St. Raphael one morning, and another to Castellane, she had each day other engagements ­luncheon up at La Turbie, tea with Sir Charles at Rumpelmeyer’s, or at Vogarde’s.  I was surprised, and perhaps a little annoyed, at this; for, truth to tell, I admired Mademoiselle greatly, and she had on more than one occasion flirted openly with me.

Bindo always declared that I was a fool where women were concerned.  But I was, I know, not the perfect lover that the Count was.

There were many points about the mysterious affair in progress that I could not account for.  If Mademoiselle had really taken the veil, then why did she still retain such a wealth of dark, silky hair?  And if she were not a nun, then why had she been masquerading as one?  But, further, if her father was actually missing in London, why had she not told Bindo when they had met there?

Day after day I kept my eye upon the Journal, the Temps, and the Matin, as well as upon the Paris edition of the Daily Mail, in order to see whether the mystery of Monsieur Dumont was reported.

But it was not.

Regnier was still about, smart and perfectly attired, as usual.  When we passed and there was nobody to observe, he usually nodded pleasantly.  At heart “The President” was not at all a bad fellow, and on many an occasion in the past season we had sipped “manhattans” together at Ciro’s.

Thus more than a week passed ­a week of grave apprehension and constant wonderment ­during which time the long-nosed stranger seemed to turn up everywhere in a manner quite unaccountable.

Late one night, on going to my room in the Paris, I found a welcome telegram from Bindo, dated from Milan, ordering me to meet him with the car at the Hotel Umberto, in Cuneo, on the following day.  Now, Cuneo lay over the Italian frontier, in Piedmont, half-way between Monte Carlo and Turin.  To cross the Alps by the Col di Tenda and the tunnel would, I knew, take about six hours from Nice by way of Sospel.  The despatch was sent from Milan, from which I guessed that for some reason Bindo was about to enter France by the back door, namely, by the almost unguarded frontier at Tenda.  At Calais, Boulogne, or Ventimiglia there are always agents of police, who eye the traveller entering France, but up at that rural Alpine village are only idling douaniers, who never suspected the affluent owner of a big automobile.

What, I wondered, had occurred to cause the Count to travel around via Ostend, Brussels, and Milan, as I rightly suspected he had done?

At nine o’clock next morning I ran along to Nice, and from there commenced to ascend by that wonderful road which winds away, ever higher and higher, through Brois and Fontan to the Tenda, which it passes beneath by a long tunnel lit by electricity its whole length, and then out on to the Italian side.  Though the sun was warm and balmy along the Lower Corniche, here was sharp frost and deep snow, so deep, indeed, that I was greatly delayed, and feared every moment to run into a drift.

On both sides of the Tenda were hidden fortresses, and at many points squads of Alpine soldiers were manoeuvring, for the frontier is very strongly guarded from a military point of view, and both tunnel and road is, it is said, so mined that it might be blown up and destroyed at any moment.

In the twilight of the short wintry day I at last ran into the dull little Italian town, where there is direct railway communication from Turin, and at the small, uninviting-looking Hotel Umberto I found Bindo, worn and travel-stained, impatiently awaiting me.

An hour only I remained, in order to get a hot meal, for I was half perished by the cold, and then, after refilling my petrol-tank and taking a look around the engines, we both mounted, and I turned the car back into the road along which I had travelled.

It was already nearly dark, and very soon I had to put on the search-light.

Bindo, seated at my side, appeared utterly worn-out with travel.

I was, I found, quite right in my surmise.

“I’ve come a long way round, Ewart, in order to enter France unobserved.  I’ve been travelling hard these last three days.  Blythe is with Mademoiselle, I suppose?” he asked, as we went along.

I responded in the affirmative.

“Tell me all that’s happened.  Go on, I’m listening ­everything.  Tell me exactly, for a lot depends upon how matters now stand,” he said, buttoning the collar of his heavy overcoat more tightly around his neck, for the icy blast cut one like a knife at the rate we were travelling.

I settled down to the wheel, and related everything that had transpired from the moment he had left.

Fully an hour I occupied in telling him the whole story, and never once did he open his mouth.  I saw by the reflection of the light upon the snowy road that his eyes were half closed behind his goggles, and more than once feared that he had gone to sleep.

Suddenly, however, he said ­

“And who is the long-nosed stranger?”

“I don’t know.”

“But it’s your place to know,” he snapped.  “We can’t have fellows prying into our affairs without knowing who they are.  Haven’t you tried to discover?”

“I thought it too risky.”

“Then you think he’s a police-agent, eh?”

“That’s just what Blythe and I both think.”

“Describe him.”

I did so to the best of my ability.

And Bindo gave vent to a grunt of dissatisfaction, after which a long silence fell between us.

“‘The President’ is at the Hermitage, eh?” he asked at last.  “Does he know where I’ve been?”

“I’m not sure.  He knows you have not lately been in Monty.”

“But you say he nodded to Mademoiselle, and that afterwards she denied acquaintance with him?  Didn’t that strike you as curious?”

“Of course, but I feared to press her.  You don’t let me into your secrets, therefore I’m compelled always to work in the dark.”

“Let you into a secret, Ewart!” he laughed “Why, if I did, you’d either go and give it away next day quite unconsciously, or else you’d be in such a blue funk that you’d turn tail and clear out just at the very moment when I want you.”

“Well, in London, before we started, you said you had a big thing on, and I’ve been ever since trying to discover what it is.”

“The whole affair has altered,” was his quick reply.  “I gave up the first idea for a second and better one.”

“And what’s that?  Tell me.”

“You wait, my dear fellow.  Have the car ready, and leave the brain-work to me.  You can drive a car with anybody in Europe, Ewart, but when it comes to a tight corner you haven’t got enough brains to fill a doll’s thimble,” he laughed.  “Permit me to speak frankly, for we know each other well enough now, I fancy.”

“Yes, you are frank,” I admitted.  “But,” I added reproachfully, “in working in the dark there’s always a certain element of danger.”

“Danger be hanged!  If I thought of danger I’d have been at Portland long ago.  Successful men in any walk of life are those who have courage and are successfully unscrupulous,” he said, for he seemed in one of his quaint, philosophic moods.  “Those who are unsuccessfully unscrupulous are termed swindlers, and eventually stand in the dock,” he went on.  “What are your successful politicians but successful liars?  What are your great South African magnates, before whom even Royalty bows, but successful adventurers?  And what are your millionaire manufacturers but canting hypocrites who have got their money by paying a starvation wage and giving the public advertised shoddy, a quack medicine, or a soap which smells pleasantly but is injurious to the skin?  No, my dear Ewart,” he laughed, as we turned into the long tunnel, with its row of electric lights, “the public are not philosophers.  They worship the golden calf, and that is for them all-sufficient.  At the Old Bailey I should be termed a thief, and they have, I know, a set of my finger-prints at Scotland Yard.  But am I, after all, any greater thief than half the silk-hatted crowd who promote rotten companies in the City and persuade the widow to invest her little all in them?  No.  I live upon the wealthy ­and live well, too, for the matter of that ­and no one can ever say that I took a pennyworth from man or woman who could not afford it.”

I laughed.  It always amused me to hear him talk like that.  Yet there was a good deal of truth in his arguments.  Many an open swindler nowadays, because he has successfully got money out of the pockets of other people by sharp practice just once removed from fraud, receives a knighthood, and struts in Pall Mall clubs and in the drawing-rooms of Mayfair.

We had emerged from the tunnel, successfully passed the douane, and were again in France.

With our engines stopped, we were silently descending the long decline which runs for miles towards Sospel, when my companion suddenly aroused himself and said ­

“You mentioned Regnier’s friend ­Raoul, I think you called him.  Go over that incident again.”

I did as I was bidden.  And when I had concluded he drew a long breath.

“Ah!  Regnier is a wary bird,” he remarked, as though to himself.  “I wonder what his game could be in warning you?” Then, after a pause, he asked, “Has Mademoiselle mentioned me again?”

“Several times.  She is your great admirer.”

“Little fool!” he blurted forth impatiently.  “Has she said any more about her missing father?”

“Yes, a good deal ­always worrying about him.”

“That’s not surprising.  And her lover, the man Martin, what about him?”

“She has said very little.  You have taken his place in her heart,” I said.

“Quite against my will, I assure you, Ewart,” he laughed.  “But, by Jove!” he added, “the whole affair is full of confounded complications.  I had no idea of it all till I returned to town.”

“Then you’ve made inquiries regarding Monsieur Dumont and his mysterious disappearance?”

“Of course.  That’s why I went.”

“And were they satisfactory?  I mean did you discover whether Mademoiselle has told the truth?” I asked anxiously.

“She told you the exact truth.  Her father, her lover, and the jewels are missing.  Scotland Yard, at the express request of the Paris police, are preserving the secret.  Not a syllable has been allowed to leak out to the Press.  For that very reason I altered my plans.”

“And what do you now intend to do?”

“Not quite so fast, my dear Ewart.  Just wait and see,” answered the man who had re-entered France by the back door.

And by midnight “Monsieur Charles Bellingham, de Londres,” was sleeping soundly in his room in the Hotel de Paris at Monte Carlo.

VIII - IN WHICH THE TRUTH IS EXPLAINED

During the next three days I saw but little of Bindo.

His orders to me were not to approach or to worry him.  I noticed him in a suit of cream flannels and Panama hat, sunning himself on the terrace before the Casino, or lunching at the Hermitage or Metropole with people he knew, appearing to the world to lead the idle life of a well-to-do man about town ­one of a thousand other good-looking, wealthy men whose habit it was annually to spend the worst weeks in the year beside the blue Mediterranean.

To the monde and the demi-monde Bindo was alike a popular person.  More than one member of the latter often received a substantial sum for acting as his spy, whether there, or at Aix, or at Ostend.  But so lazy was his present attitude that I was surprised.

Daily I drove him over to Beaulieu to call upon Mademoiselle and her chaperon, and nearly every evening he dined with them.

Madame of the yellow teeth had introduced Sir Charles to him, and the pair had met as perfect strangers, as they had so often done before.

Both men were splendid actors, and it amused me to watch them when, on being introduced, they would gradually begin a conversation regarding mutual acquaintances.

But in this case I could not, for the life of me, discern what game was being played.

One afternoon I drove Bindo, with Blythe, Madame, and Mademoiselle, over to the Beau Site, at Cannes, to tea, and the party was certainly a very merry one.  Yet it puzzled me to discover in what direction Bindo’s active brain was working, and what were his designs.

The only facts that were apparent were that first he was ingratiating himself further with Mademoiselle, ­who regarded him with undisguised love-looks, ­and secondly that, for some purpose known only to himself, he was gaining time.

The solution of the puzzle, however, came suddenly and without warning.

Bindo had been back in Monty a week, and one evening I had seen him with “The President,” leaning over the balustrade of the terrace before the Casino, with their faces turned to the moonlit sea and the gaily-lit rock of Monaco.

They were in deep, earnest conversation; therefore I turned back and left them.  It would not do, I knew, if Bindo discovered me in the vicinity.

In crossing the Place I came face to face with the long-nosed stranger whom I suspected as a police-agent, but he seemed in a hurry, and I do not think he noticed me.

Next day I saw nothing of Bindo, who, strangely enough, did not sleep at the Paris.  We did not meet till about eight o’clock at night, when I caught sight of him ascending the stairs to go and dress for dinner.

“Ewart!” he called to me, “come up to my room.  I want you.”

I went up after him, and followed him into his room.  When the door had closed, he turned quickly to me and asked ­

“Is the car ready for a long run?”

“Quite,” I replied.

“Is it at the same garage?”

“Yes.”

“Then give me the key.  I want to go round there this evening.”

I was surprised, but nevertheless took the key from my pocket and handed it to him.

“Are you going to drive her away?” I inquired.

“Don’t ask questions,” he snapped.  “I don’t know yet what I’m going to do, except that I want you to go over to Nice and spend the evening.  Go to the Casino, and watch to see if Raoul is there.  Be back here by the twelve-twenty-five, and come up and report to me.”

I went to my own room, dressed, and then took train to Nice.  But though I lounged about the Casino Municipal all that evening, I saw nothing of either Regnier or Raoul.  It struck me, however, that Bindo had sent me over to Nice in order to get rid of me, and this surmise was somewhat confirmed when I returned after midnight.

Bindo did not question me about the person he had sent me to watch for.  He merely said ­

“Ewart, you and I have a long run before us to-morrow.  We must be away at seven.  The quicker we’re out of this place, the better.”

I saw he had hurriedly packed, and that his receipted hotel bill lay upon the dressing-table.

“Where are we going?”

“I’ll tell you to-morrow.  Give this wire to the night-porter and tell him it’s to be sent at ten o’clock to-morrow morning.”

I read the message.  It was to Mademoiselle, to say that he could not call, as he was compelled to go to Hyeres, but that he would dine at the Bristol that evening.

“And,” he added, “get your traps together.  We’re leaving here, and we leave no trace behind ­you understand?”

I nodded.

Was the game up?  Were we flying because the police suspected us?  I recollected the long-nosed man, and a serious apprehension seized me.

I confess I slept but little that night.  At half-past six I went again to his room, and found him already dressed.

Motorists often start early on long excursions on the Riviera; therefore it was deemed nothing unusual when, at a quarter-past seven, we mounted on the car and Bindo gave orders ­

“Through the town.”

By that I knew we were bound east, for Italy.

He spoke but little.  Upon his face was a business-like look of settled determination.

At the little douane post near Ventimiglia, the Italian frontier, we paid the necessary deposit for the car, got the leaden seal attached, and then drew out upon the winding sea-road which leads right along the coast by San Remo, Alassio, and Savona to Genoa.

Hour after hour, with a perfect wall of white dust behind us, we kept on until about three o’clock in the afternoon, when we pulled up at an hotel close to the station in busy Genoa.  Here we swallowed a hasty meal, and at Bindo’s directions we turned north up the Ronco valley for Alessandria and Turin, my companion explaining that it was his intention to re-enter France again by crossing the Mont Cenis.

Then I saw that our journey into Italy was in order to throw the French police off the scent.  But even then I could not gather what had actually happened.

Through the whole night, and all next day, we travelled as hard as we could go, crossing the frontier and descending to Chambéry, where we halted for six hours to snatch a brief sleep.  Then on again by Bourg and Macon.  We took it in turns to drive ­three hours each.  While one slept in the back of the car, the other drove, and so we went on and on, both day and night, for the next forty-eight hours ­a race against time and against the police.

From Dijon we left the Paris road and struck due north by Chaumont and Bar-lé-duc to Verdun, Sedan, and Givet, where we passed into Belgium.  At the Metropole, in Brussels, we spent a welcome twenty-four hours, and slept most of the time.  Then on again, still due North, first to Boxtel, in Holland, and then on to Utrecht.

Until that day ­a week after leaving Monte Carlo on our rush across Europe ­Bindo practically preserved a complete silence as to his intentions or as to what had happened.

All I had been able to gather from him was that Mademoiselle was still at the Bristol, and that Blythe was still dancing attendance upon her and the ugly old lady who acted as chaperon.

With Utrecht in sight across the flat, uninteresting country, traversed everywhere by canals, we suddenly had a bad tyre-burst.  Fortunately we had a spare one, therefore it was only the half-hour delay that troubled us.

Bindo helped me to take off the old cover, adjust a new tube and cover, and worked the pump with a will.  Then, just as I was giving the nuts a final screw-up, preparatory to packing the tools away in the back, he said ­

“I expect, Ewart, this long run of ours has puzzled you very much, hasn’t it?”

“Of course it has,” I replied.  “I don’t see the object of it all.”

“The object was to get here before the police could trace us.  That’s why we took such a roundabout route.”

“And now we are here,” I exclaimed, glancing over the dull, grey landscape, “what are we going to do?”

“Do?” he echoed.  “You ought to ask what we’ve done, my dear fellow!”

“Well, what have we done?” I inquired.

“About the neatest bit of business that we’ve ever brought off in our lives,” he laughed.

“How?”

“Let’s get up and drive on,” he said; “we won’t stop in Utrecht, it’s such a miserable hole.  Listen, and I’ll explain as we go along.”

So I locked up the back, got up to the wheel again, and we resumed our journey.

“It was like this, you see,” he commenced.  “I own I was entirely misled in the beginning.  That little girl played a trick on me.  She’s evidently not the ingenuous miss that I took her to be.”

“You mean Pierrette?” I laughed.  “No, I quite agree with you.  She’s been to Monte Carlo before, I believe.”

“Well,” exclaimed the debonnair Bindo, “I met her in London, as you know.  Our acquaintance was quite a casual one, in the big hall of the Cecil ­where I afterwards discovered she was staying with Madame.  She was an adventurous little person, and met me at the lions, in Trafalgar Square, next morning, and I took her for a walk across St. James’s Park.  From what she told me of herself, I gathered that she was the daughter of a wealthy Frenchman.  Our conversation naturally turned upon her mother, as I wanted to find out if the latter possessed any jewels worth looking after.  She told me a lot ­how that her mother, an old marquise, had a quantity of splendid jewellery.  Madame Vernet, who was with her at the Cecil, was her companion, and her father had, I understood, a fine chateau near Troyes.  Her parents, religious bigots, were, however, sending her, very much against her will, to the seclusion of a convent close to Fontainebleau ­not as a scholastic pupil ­but to be actually trained for the Sisterhood!  She seemed greatly perturbed about this, and I could see that the poor girl did not know how to act, and had no outside friend to assist her.  To me, it at once occurred that by aiding her I could obtain her confidence, and so get to know this mother with the valuable sparklers.  Therefore I arranged that you should, on a certain morning, travel to Fontainebleau, and that she should manage to escape from the good Sisters and travel down to Beaulieu.  Madame Vernet was to be in the secret, and should join her later.”

“Yes,” I said, “I understood all that.  She misled you regarding her mother.”

“And she was still more artful, for she never told me the truth as to who her father really was, or the reason why they were there in London ­in search of him,” he remarked.  “I learnt the truth for the first time from you ­the truth that she was the daughter of old Dumont, of the Rue de la Paix, and that he and his clerk were missing with jewels of great value.”

“Then another idea struck you, I presume?”

“Of course,” he answered, laughing.  “I wondered for what reason Mademoiselle was to be placed in a convent; why she had misled me regarding her parentage; and, above all, why she was so very desirous of coming to the Riviera.  So I returned, first to Paris ­where I found that Dumont and Martin were actually both missing.  I managed to get photographs of both men, and then crossed to London, and there commenced active inquiries.  Within a week I had the whole of the mysterious affair at my fingers’ ends, and moreover I knew who had taken the sparklers, and in fact the complete story.  The skein was a very tangled one, but gradually I drew out the threads.  When I had done so, however, I heard, to my dismay, that certain of our enemies had got to know the direction in which I was working, and had warned the Paris Sûreté.  I was therefore bound to travel back to Monte Carlo, if I intended to be successful, so I had to come by the roundabout route through Italy and by the Tenda.”

“I suspected that,” I said.

“Yes.  But the truth was stranger than I had ever imagined.  As you know, things do not surprise me very often, but in this affair I confess I’d been taken completely aback.”

“How?”

“Because when I returned to Monty I made some absolutely surprising discoveries.  Among them was that Mademoiselle was in the habit of secretly meeting a long-nosed man.”

“A long-nosed man!” I exclaimed.  “You mean the police-agent?”

“I mean Monsieur Martin, the clerk.  Don’t you recognise him?” he asked, taking the photograph out of his pocket and handing it to me.

It was the same!

“To be away from Martin’s influence, my dear Ewart, the good jeweller Dumont had arranged for Mademoiselle to go into the convent.  The father had, no doubt, discovered his daughter’s secret love affair.  Martin knew this, and with the connivance of Pierrette and Madame had decamped with the gems from the Charing Cross Hotel, in order to feather his nest.”

“And the missing Dumont?”

“Dumont, when he realised his enormous loss, saw that if he complained to the police it would get into the papers, and his creditors ­who had lately been very pressing ­would lose confidence in the stability of the business in the Rue de la Paix.  So he resolved to disappear, get away to Norway, and, if possible, follow Martin and regain possession of the jewels.  In this he very nearly succeeded, but fortunately for us, Martin was no fool.”

“How?”

“Why, he took the jewels to Nice with him when he went to meet Pierrette, and, having acquaintance with Regnier through his friend Raoul, gave them over to ‘The President’ to sell for him, well knowing that Regnier had, like we ourselves, a secret market for such things.  I’ve proved, by the way, that this fellow Martin has had one or two previous dealings with Regnier while in various situations in Paris.”

“Well?” I asked, astounded at all this.  “That’s the reason they warned me against her.  What else?”

“What else?” he asked.  “You may well ask what else?  Well, I acted boldly.”

“How do you mean?”

“I simply told the dainty Mademoiselle, Raoul, Martin, and the rest of them, of my intention ­to explain to the police the whole queer story.  I knew quite well that Regnier had the jewels intact in a bag in his room at the Hermitage, and rather feared lest he might pitch the whole lot into the sea, and so get rid of them.  That there were grave suspicions against him regarding the mysterious death of a banker at Aix six months before ­you recollect the case ­I knew quite well, and I was equally certain that he dare not risk any police inquiries.  I had a tremendously difficult fight for it, I can assure you; but I stood quite firm, and notwithstanding their threats and vows of vengeance ­Mademoiselle was, by the way, more full of venomous vituperation than them all ­I won.”

“You won?” I echoed.  “In what manner?”

“I compelled Regnier to disgorge the booty in exchange for my silence.”

“You got the jewels!” I gasped.

“Certainly.  What do you think we are here for ­on our way to Amsterdam ­if not on business?” he answered, with a smile.

“But where are they?  I haven’t seen them when our luggage has been overhauled at the frontiers,” I said.

“Stop the car, and get down.”

I did so.  He went along the road till he found a long piece of stick.  Then, unscrewing the cap of the petrol-tank, he stuck in the stick and moved it about.

“Feel anything?” he asked, giving me the stick.

I felt, and surely enough in the bottom of the tank was a quantity of small loose stones!  I could hear them rattle as I stirred them up.

“The settings were no use, and would tell tales, so I flung them away,” he explained; “and I put the stones in there while you were in Nice, the night before we left.  Come, let’s get on again;” and he re-screwed the cap over one of the finest hauls of jewels ever made in modern criminal history.

“Well ­I’m hanged!” I cried, utterly dumbfounded.  “But what of Mademoiselle’s father?”

Bindo merely raised his shoulders and laughed.  “Mademoiselle may be left to tell him the truth ­if she thinks it desirable,” he said.  “Martin has already cleared out ­to Buenos Ayres, minus everything; Regnier is completely sold, for no doubt the too confiding Martin would have got nothing out of ‘The President’; while Mademoiselle and Madame are now wondering how best to return to Paris and face the music.  Old Dumont will probably have to close his doors in the Rue de la Paix, for we have here a selection of his very best.  But, after all, Mademoiselle ­whose plan to go to London in search of her father was a rather ingenious one ­certainly has me to thank that she is not under arrest for criminal conspiracy with her long-nosed lover!”

I laughed at Bindo’s final remark, and put another “move” on the car.

At ten o’clock that same night we took out the petrol-tank and emptied from it its precious contents, which half an hour later had been washed and were safely reposing from the eyes of the curious between tissue paper in the safe in the old Jew’s dark den in the Kerk Straat, in Amsterdam.

That was a year ago, and old Dumont still carries on business in the Rue de la Paix.  Sir Charles Blythe, who is our informant, as always, tells us that although the pretty Pierrette is back in her convent, the jeweller is still in ignorance of Martin’s whereabouts, of how his property passed from hand to hand, or of any of the real facts concerning its disappearance.

One thing is quite certain:  he will never see any of it again, for every single stone has been re-cut, and so effectually disguised as to be beyond identification.

Honesty spells poverty, Bindo always declares to me.

But some day very soon I intend, if possible, to cut my audacious friends and reform.

And yet how hard it is ­how very hard!  One can never, alas! retract one’s downward steps.  I am “The Count’s Chauffeur,” and shall, I suppose, continue to remain so until the black day when we all fall into the hands of the police.

Therefore the story of my further adventures will, in all probability, be recounted in the Central Criminal Court at a date not very far distant.

For the present, therefore, I must write