I accompanied him along the corridor to a private sitting-room at the end, numbered 88, and adjoining which was a bedroom.  There he placed the suit-case upon the table, and taking a piece of paper scribbled a receipt.

“Better post that on to Rayne at once,” he suggested.  “My wife will be here in a moment.  We’ll have lunch later on.”

All that had already happened had so astonished me that I was only slightly surprised at finding a few moments later that the lady I had seen at Overstow Hall, and again a couple of hours before in the vestibule of the hotel, was Duperre’s wife.  He must, I think, have told her that we had met before, for she seemed in no way astonished at Mr. Rayne’s chauffeur being presented to her.

I found her a pleasant woman, well-read, well-educated and widely travelled.  She was, too, an excellent conversationalist.  And yet, all the time we were talking, I could not help thinking of Lola, and wondering why Duperre’s wife should be in such evidence at Overstow Hall, indeed, apparently in authority there, also why Lola seemed to be so afraid of her.

Half an hour later I posted the receipt to Rayne, and later we all three lunched together in the restaurant.  We took our coffee upstairs in the private room, when Duperre said, a propos of nothing, suddenly looking across at his wife: 

“Hargreave may be of great use to us, Hylda.”  Then, addressing me again, he said, lowering his voice and glancing at the door: 

“In becoming associated with ‘The Golden Face,’ Hargreave, you are more fortunate than you may think.  He’s a man who can, and who will, if he likes, help you enormously in all sorts of ways ­you will find that you are more to him than a mere chauffeur.  In fact, we can both help you, that is, if you fall in with our plans.  Our only stipulation will be that you do what we tell you ­without asking any questions.  You understand ­eh?”

“I suppose,” I said, smiling, “that by ‘The Golden Face’ you mean Mr. Rayne?”

“Yes.  He’s called ‘Golden Face’ by his intimates.  I forgot you didn’t know.  He got the nick-name through going to the Bal des Quatre Arts, here in Paris, wearing a half-mask made of beaten gold.”

By that time I had become convinced that both Rayne and Duperre were men with whom I should have to deal with the utmost circumspection.

The only person I had met since I had engaged myself to Rayne in whom I could, I felt, place implicit confidence, was Lola.

When we had finished our coffee, Duperre excused himself, saying that he had some letters to write, and suggested that his wife should accompany me for a taxi drive in the Bois.  This struck us both as a pleasant manner in which to spend the afternoon, therefore Madame retired to her room, reappearing a few moments later wearing a smart cloak and a wonderful black hat adorned with three large handsome feathers.

She proved herself a very amusing companion as we drove out to Armenonville, where we sat out upon the lawn, she sipping her sirop while I smoked a cigarette.  She knew Paris well, it seemed, and was communicative over everything ­except concerning Rudolph Rayne.

When I put some questions to her regarding my new employer, she simply replied: 

“We never discuss him, Mr. Hargreave.  It is one of his rules that those who are his friends, as we are, preserve the strictest silence.  What we discover from time to time we keep entirely to ourselves, and we even go to the length of disclaiming acquaintanceship with him when it becomes necessary.  So it is best not to be inquisitive.  If he discovers that you have been making inquiries he will be greatly annoyed.”

“I quite understand, Madame,” I replied with a meaning smile.  That she was closely connected with the deep-laid schemes of Rudolph Rayne was more than ever apparent.  But why, I wondered, was Lola so palpably beneath her influence?

My companion was about thirty-eight, though she looked younger, with handsome, well-cut features, and possessing the chic of a woman who had traveled much and who knew how to wear her clothes.  There was, however, nothing of the adventuress about her.  On the contrary, she had the appearance of moving in a very select set.  She was English without a doubt, but she spoke perfect French.

I mentioned Lola, but she said: 

“Remember what I have just told you about undue inquisitiveness, Mr. Hargreave!  You will find out all you want to know in due course.  So possess yourself in patience and act always with foresight as well as with discretion.”

I chanced to raise my eyes at that moment, when I noticed that a well-dressed, black-mustached Frenchman, who wore white spats, while passing along the terrace of the fine al fresco restaurant had halted a second to peer into Madame’s face, no doubt struck by her handsome features.  She noticed it also but turned her head, and spoke to me of something else.  A woman knows instinctively when she is being admired.

The position in which I now found myself, employed by a man who was undoubtedly a crook of no mean order, caused me considerable trepidation.  When I had assumed the responsibility of that innocent-looking suit-case I never dreamt that it contained Lady Norah Kendrew’s stolen jewels, as it did, otherwise I would certainly never have attempted to pass it through the Customs at Rouen.  But why and how, I wondered, had Lola’s suspicions been aroused?  Why had she warned me?

Rayne had probably sent messengers with stolen property to France by that route before, knowing that, contrary to the shrewd examination at Calais, the officers of certain trading ships and the douaniers were on friendly terms.

When again I raised my eyes furtively to the Frenchman in the white spats I was relieved to find that he had disappeared.  My fears that he might be an agent of the Sûreté were groundless.  The afternoon was delightful as we sat beneath the trees, but Madame suddenly recollected an engagement she had with her dressmaker at five o’clock, so we reentered our taxi and drove back to the Porte Maillot and thence direct to the hotel.

We found the door of the sitting-room locked, but as Madame turned the handle Duperre’s voice was heard inquiring who was there.

“Open the door, Vincent,” urged his wife.

“All right!  Wait a moment,” was the reply.

We heard the quick rustling of paper, and after a lapse of perhaps a minute he unlocked the door for us to enter.

“Well?  Had a nice time ­eh?” he asked, turning to me as he reclosed the door and again locked it.

I replied in the affirmative, noticing that on the table was something covered with a newspaper.

“I’ve been busy,” he said with a grin, and lifting the paper disclosed a quantity of bracelets, rings, pendants and other ornaments from which the gems had been removed.  During our absence he had been occupied in removing the stolen jewels from their settings.

“Yes,” I laughed.  “You seem to have been very busy, Vincent!”

Beside the bent and broken articles of gold lay a little pile of glittering gems, none of them very large, but all of first quality.

“Lady Norah wouldn’t like to see her treasures in such a condition, would she?” laughed Duperre.  “We shall get rid of them to old Heydenryck, who is arriving presently.”

“Who is he?”

“A Dutch dealer who lives here in Paris.  He’s always open to buy good stuff, but he won’t look at any stones that are set.  Rayne’s idea was to sell them, just as they were, to a dealer named Steffensen, who buys stuff here and smuggles it over to New York and San Francisco, where it is not likely to be traced.  But I find that Steffensen is away in America at the moment, so I’ve approached the Dutchman.  Heydenryck is a sly old dog.  Unlike Steffensen, he buys unset stones because they are difficult to identify.”

I bent and examined the glittering little pile of diamonds, rubies, emeralds and sapphires which had been stolen from the hotel in London.

“Look here, Hargreave,” said Duperre.  “I want you to help us to get rid of this,” and he pointed to the broken jewelry.

“How?” I asked dismayed, for I confess that I feared the discovery.  To be thus intimately associated with a band of expert crooks was a new experience.

“Quite easily,” he replied.  “I’ll show you.”  Then turning to his wife, he said:  “Just bring Lu Chang in, will you, Hylda?”

Madame passed into the next room and returned with a small Pekinese in her arms.

“Lu Chang is quite quiet and harmless,” laughed Duperre as his wife handed the dog to me.

As my hands came in contact with the animal’s fur I realized that it was dead ­and stuffed!

Duperre laughed heartily as he watched my face.  I confess that I was mystified.

He took the dog, which had probably been purchased from a naturalist only that day, and ripping open the pelt behind the forelegs he quickly drew out the stuffing.  Then into the cavity he hurriedly thrust the broken rings and pendants.

I watched him with curiosity.  It seemed such an unusual proceeding.  But I recollected that I was dealing with strange associates ­people whom I afterwards found to be perhaps the most ingenious crooks in Europe.

“Poor Lu Chang,” exclaimed my old company commander with a laugh.  “If you drown him he won’t feel it!”

Duperre watched the expression of surprise upon my face as he packed the whole of the broken jewelry into the dog.

“Now what I want you to do, Hargreave,” he said, “is to drown Lu Chang in the Seine.  Lots of people in Paris, who are not lovers of dogs, are flinging them into the river because of the new excessive tax upon domestic pets.  You will just toss Lu Chang over the Pont Neuf.  The police can’t interfere, even though they see you.  You will only have put the dog out of the world rather than pay the double tax.”

He watched my natural hesitation.

“Isn’t he a little dear!” exclaimed Madame, stroking the dog’s fur.  “Poor Lu Chang!  He won’t float with the gold inside him!”

“No,” laughed Duperre.  “He’ll go plumb to the bottom!”

It was on the tip of my tongue to excuse myself, but I remembered that I was in the service of Rudolph Rayne, the country squire of Overstow, and paid handsomely.  And, after all, it was no great risk to fling the stuffed dog into the river.

I am a lover of dogs, and had the animal been alive nothing would have induced me to carry out his suggestion.

But as it had been dead long ago, for I saw some signs of moth in the fur, and as I was in Paris at the bidding of my employer, I consented, and carrying the little Peke beneath my arm I walked along the Quai du Louvre to the old bridge which, in two parts, spans the river.  Just before I gained the Rue Dauphiné, on the other side, I paused and looked down into the water.  An agent of police was regulating the traffic on my left, and he being in controversy with the driver of a motor-lorry, I took my opportunity and dropped the dog with its secret into the water.

Two boys had watched me, so I waited a moment, then turning upon my heel, I retraced my steps back to the Hotel Ombrone, having been absent about twenty minutes.

As I entered Room 88, three Frenchmen, who had ascended in the lift, followed me in.

Madame was writing a letter, while Duperre was in the act of lighting a cigarette.  We started in surprise, for next instant we all three found ourselves under arrest; the well-dressed strangers being officers of the Sûreté.  One of them was the man in the white spats who had been attracted by Madame in the Bois.

“Arrest!” gasped Duperre.

As he did so, an undersized, rather shabbily-dressed man of sixty or so put his head into the door inquisitively, and realizing that something unpleasant was occurring, quickly withdrew and disappeared.  I saw that he exchanged with Duperre a glance of recognition combined with apprehension, and concluded that it was the man Heydenryck, the dealer in stolen gems.

Meanwhile the elder of the three detectives told us that they had reason to believe that jewelry stolen from a London hotel was in our possession, and that the place would be searched.

“Messieurs, you are quite at liberty to search,” laughed Duperre, treating the affair as a joke.  “Here are my keys!”

At once they began to rummage every hole and corner in the room as well as the luggage of both Duperre and his wife.  The brown suit-case which was in the wardrobe in the bedroom attracted their attention, but when unlocked was found to contain only a few modern novels.

At this they drew back in chagrin and disappointment.  I knew that the broken gold was safely at the bottom of the Seine, but where were the gems?

It was all very well for Duperre to bluff, but they would, I felt convinced, eventually be found.  The police, not content with searching the personal belongings of my friend, took up the floor-boards, and even stripped some paper from the wall and carefully examined every article of furniture.  Afterwards they went to my room at the end of the corridor and thoroughly searched it.

At last the inspector, still mystified, ordered two taxis to be called, as it was his intention to take us at once before the examining magistrate.

“Madame had better put on her hat at once,” he added, bristling with authority.

Thus ordered, she reluctantly obeyed and put on her big feathered hat before the glass.  Then a few moments later we were conducted downstairs and away to the Prefecture of Police.

After all being thoroughly searched, Madame being examined by a prison wardress, we were ushered into the dull official room of Monsieur Rodin, the well-known examining magistrate, who for a full hour plied us with questions.  Duperre and his wife preserved an outward dignity that amazed me.  They complained bitterly of being accused without foundation, while on my part I answered the police official that I had quite accidentally come across my old superior officer.

Time after time Monsieur Rodin referred to the papers before him, evidently much puzzled.  It seemed that Madame had been recognized in the Bois by the impressionable Frenchman who I had believed, had been attracted by her handsome face.

That information had been sent by Scotland Yard to Paris regarding the stolen jewels was apparent.  Yet the fact that the locked suit-case only contained books and that nothing had been found in our possession ­thanks to the forethought of Duperre ­the police now found themselves in a quandary.  The man in the white spats whom we had seen in the Bois identified Madame as Marie Richaud, a Frenchwoman who had lived in Philadelphia for several years, and who had been implicated two years before in the great frauds on the Bordeaux branch of the Societe Generale.

Madame airily denied any knowledge of it.  She had only arrived in Paris with her husband from Rome a few days before, she declared.  And surely enough the visas upon their passports showed that was so, even though I had seen her at Overstow!

How I withstood that hour I know not.  In the end, however, Monsieur Rodin ceased his questions and we were put into the cells till the next morning.

Imagine the sleepless night I spent!  I hated myself for falling into the trap which Rayne, the crafty organizer of the gang, had so cleverly laid for me.  Yet was I not in the hands of the police?

But the main question in my mind was the whereabouts of that little pile of gems.

Next day we were taken publicly before another magistrate and defended by a clever lawyer whom Duperre had engaged.  It was found that not a tittle of evidence could be brought against us, and, even though the magistrate expressed his strong suspicions, we were at last released.

As we walked out into the sunlight of the boulevard, Duperre glanced at his watch, and exclaimed: 

“I wonder if we shall be in time to catch the train?  I must telephone to Heydenryck at once.”

Five minutes later he was in a public telephone-box speaking to the receiver of stolen goods.

Then, without returning to the Hotel Ombrone, we took a taxi direct to the Gare de Lyon.

As Duperre took three first-class tickets to Fontainebleau, the undersized, grave-faced old man whom I had seen at the moment of our arrest followed him, and also took a ticket to the same destination.  We entered an empty compartment where, just before the train moved off, the old man joined us.

He posed as a perfect stranger, but as soon as the train had left the platform my companion introduced him to me.

“I called last night and saw what had happened.  Surely you have all three had a narrow escape!” he exclaimed.

“Yes,” said Duperre.  “It was fortunate that Hylda recognized the sous-inspecteur Bossant in the Bois.  She put me on my guard.  I knew we should be arrested, so I took precautions to get rid of the gold and conceal the stones.”

“But where are they?” I asked eagerly, as the train ran through the first station out of Paris.  “They are still hidden in the hotel, I suppose.  We’ve all been searched!”

Madame laughed merrily, and removing her hat, unceremoniously tore out the three great feathers, the large quills of which she held up to the light before my eyes.

I then saw to my amazement that, though hardly distinguishable, all three of the hollow quills were filled with gems, the smaller being put in first.

At the detective’s own suggestion she had put on her hat when arrested, and she had worn it during the time she had been searched, during the examination by the magistrate, and during her trial!

Duperre was certainly nothing if not ingenious and his sang-froid had saved us all from terms of imprisonment.

Madame replaced the valuable feathers in her hat, and when we arrived at Fontainebleau we drove at once to the Hotel de France, opposite the palace, where we took an excellent dejeuner in a private room.

And before we left, Duperre had disposed of Lady Norah’s jewels at a very respectable figure, which the sly old receiver paid over in thousand-franc notes.

I marveled at my companion’s ingenuity, whereupon he laughed airily, replying: 

“When ‘The Golden Face’ arranges a coup it never fails to come off ­I assure you.  The police have to be up very early to get the better of him.  His one injunction to all of us is that we shall be ready at all times to show clean hands ­as we have to-day!  But let’s get away, Hargreave ­back to London, I think, don’t you?”

The whole adventure mystified and bewildered me.  It was a mystery which, however, before long, was to be increased a hundredfold.  Alas! that I should sit here and put down my guilt upon paper!