V

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 Jetée Promenade, and in the Casino Municipal. Therefore, after dinner, Pierrette decided to walk out upon the pier, or jetée, 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,” thewell-known song of the 113th Regiment of the Line—

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

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

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 firstbal masquéof 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 ofthem, 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 velvetloup, 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 Jetée.

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 awhite 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 Jetée 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’tcare 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 Côte 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. Perhapsshe’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 danceattendance 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 cherRegnier, 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.

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 café 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 whomwe 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 touchwith 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 cosmopolitansociety, 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 effectcoupsso 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 café 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 thebon 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 café.

“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 Sureté?

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 BristolI 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. IfMademoiselle 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 theJournal, theTemps, and theMatin, as well as upon the Paris edition of theDaily 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 Carloand 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 idlingdouaniers, who never suspected the affluent owner of a big automobile.

What, I wondered, had occurred to cause the Count to travel aroundviâOstend, 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 manœuvring, 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 itmight 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, youarefrank,” 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 heseemed 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 onceremoved 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 thedouane, 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, “thewhole 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 Hôtel de Paris at Monte Carlo.

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 Métropole 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 themondeand thedemi-mondeBindo 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 meto 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, strangelyenough, 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 Hyères, 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 littledouanepost 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 Chambery, where we halted for six hours to snatch a brief sleep. Then on again by Bourg and Maçon. 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 struckdue north by Chaumont and Bar-le-duc to Verdun, Sedan, and Givet, where we passed into Belgium. At the Métropole, 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’vedone, 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 shetold 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 château 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 thetruth 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 Sureté. 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—ifshe 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

Printed byBallantyne & Co. LimitedTavistock Street, London

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