CHAPTER XI

THE PERIL OF PIERRETTE

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 le

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 _soupcon_ 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-Saone 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 Drome 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 Surete

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 facade 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, faites 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 le 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 facade 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 tetons pointus.

Voila 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 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 chere_, 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 Fetes 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 Surete?

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 Chambery, 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-le-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 Surete. 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

THE END.

Printed by BALLANTYNE & CO. LIMITED

Tavistock Street, London

A SELECTED LIST OF

SIX-SHILLING FICTION

PUBLISHED BY EVELEIGH NASH

AT FAWSIDE HOUSE, KING ST.

COVENT GARDEN, LONDON, W.C.

_BY ALGERNON BLACKWOOD_

THE LISTENER

THE PALL MALL GAZETTE: "Without doubt, Mr. Blackwood, a

comparatively recent writer, is destined to fill a high

place as an author who is able to arouse the attention of

his reader on the first page, and to hold it until the last

has been turned.... His constructive methods reveal the

possession of a distinctive genius. For many years a book of

this character has not been seen, and we welcome it

accordingly with the greater pleasure."

THE DAILY CHRONICLE: "These stories are literature.... Good

stories, well imagined, carefully modelled, properly

proportioned.... In the wild, wonderful atmosphere of 'The

Willows' and 'Max Hensig' Mr. Blackwood is absolute master

of his material. 'The Insanity of Jones' is perhaps the most

remarkable _tour de force_ in this remarkable book."

A SELECTED LIST OF FICTION

_BY ALGERNON BLACKWOOD_

THE EMPTY HOUSE

THE MORNING POST: "No one will read this book without dread

... exceedingly well done ... everyone who has a shelf for

the horrible in his library will welcome it and give it its

place."

THE MORNING LEADER: "There is a dreadful fascination about

these clever yet unpretentious stories. We have seldom met

ghostly fiction which has fulfilled its end more

adequately."

_BY CHARLES MARRIOTT_

MRS. ALEMERE'S ELOPEMENT

THE DAILY CHRONICLE: "'Mrs. Alemere's Elopement' is a work

of art.... An outstanding novel."

WOMEN AND THE WEST

THE ACADEMY: "Whatever he produces bears the hall-mark of

his subtle mind. We believe that if he honestly tried for a

month, he could not write anything that was stale in

thought, stale in character and phrase."

THE LAPSE OF VIVIEN EADY

THE TIMES: "As a writer Mr. Marriott increases in virtue. We

have never known his prose so good, whether in description,

dialogue, or analysis."

THE MORNING POST: "It seems to us that 'The Lapse of Vivien

Eady' is distinctly the best book he has hitherto produced.

The characters are excellently well drawn ... and the book

is full of delicate impressions of the aspects of sea and

sky and moorland."

THE REMNANT

THE PALL MALL GAZETTE: "Nothing is more reassuring to the

student of literature than to watch, in the midst of the

careless rise and fall of so many reputations, the steady

advance of such a novelist as Mr. Marriott. It is

unnecessary to argue that fiction is a true and living and

important branch of English literature when it numbers among

its younger exponents such men as the author of 'The

Remnant.' We welcome this book as an addition to the small

body of good psychological fiction in English."

THE WONDROUS WIFE _Second Edition_

THE WESTMINSTER GAZETTE: "The story has something of the

Greek grandeur, simplicity and inevitableness. The plot is

woven with the greatest skill; there is a directness in the

construction which is masterly."

THE TIMES: "There are few living novelists who show signs of

thinking out things so broadly and independently as Mr.

Marriott in this book.... Well constructed, interesting, and

moving, and the characters are full of life.... Mr.

Marriott's dialogue is admirable."

THE KISS OF HELEN

THE MORNING POST: "In sympathetic interpretation of

character, in skilful analysis of situation, and in

dexterity of dialogue, he is at his high-water mark."

THE DAILY GRAPHIC: "The best novel Mr. Marriott has written

since 'The Column.'"

_BY RENE BAZIN_

THE NUN _Fifth Edition_

_With Frontispiece in Photogravure by Harold Copping_

THE DAILY TELEGRAPH: "It is difficult to speak in measured

terms of this book.... A consummate artist, his work eats

into the heart and lives in the memory as do but few books

from modern authors."

THE DAILY MAIL: "'The Nun' is a novel of great beauty and

distinction."

THE DAILY CHRONICLE: "Told with a power and simplicity that

are beyond all words of praise.... Beautiful, extremely

beautiful."

THE STANDARD: "Nothing can be more tender, more delicate,

more sensitively artistic."

THE MORNING POST: "The book is full of poignant moments ...

a noble and ennobling study in human idealism."

THE WESTMINSTER GAZETTE: "A book which no one who reads it

will ever forget."

THE EVENING STANDARD: "We have discovered in it an absorbing

interest--the interest which comes of humanity skilfully

moulded by art, of essential truth and fine perception.... A

very powerful piece of work."

THE SATURDAY REVIEW: "It is a pitiful and poignant story,

rich in real drama and arresting by its fidelity to the

truths of life."

THE DAILY GRAPHIC: "A master-work of fiction."

_BY J. S. FLETCHER_

MR. POSKITT

THE ATHENAEUM: "Mr. Poskitt is an altogether delightful

creation."

THE SKETCH: "Mr. Fletcher's characters are always the

characters of life, and it is pleasant to think that there

are still Mr. Poskitts in this money-seeking, hurrying and

scurrying world of work."

THE PALL MALL GAZETTE: "The Yorkshire farmer is a

picturesque type, and Mr. Poskitt is certainly very pleasant

company. There is attraction in his kindliness, his taste

for good living, his liberal yet practical judgment of men

and things, and his dialect, which the author administers

with discretion. This is not a novel, but a series of

sketches from a quiet life, cleverly strung together, and we

have not met with anything from Mr. Fletcher's pen that is

more thoroughly enjoyable."

THE HARVEST MOON _Ready Shortly_

_BY OLIVER ONIONS_

PEDLAR'S PACK

THE DAILY EXPRESS: "A charming volume."

_BY ALPHONSE COURLANDER_

SETH OF THE CROSS

THE MORNING POST: "A powerful story."

THE DAILY TELEGRAPH: "There is genuine and unforced pathos

in the narrative of Seth Craddock's struggle against fate."

THE PALL MALL GAZETTE: "A good book that should have a

popular as well as an artistic success."

_BY MRS. PHILIP CHAMPION DE CRESPIGNY_

THE GREY DOMINO

THE PALL MALL GAZETTE: "A well-told romance of scenes laid

in France at a time when the horrors of St. Bartholomew were

still a vivid recollection, swords flashed freely at sight

of a foe, and adventures were to be had for less than the

asking."

THE DAILY MAIL: "This is a brisk romance of the days of

Henri Quatre, what time de Rosny was in authority. It has,

however, little to do with politics, for which readers will

be grateful, and a good deal with love and adventures."

THE ROSE BROCADE

THE BOOKMAN: "A book which will most deservedly find many

delighted readers."

THE SPANISH PRISONER _Second Edition_

THE SCOTSMAN: "Recent romantic fiction has few more charming

heroines than Paloma Cuevedos."

_BY WARWICK DEEPING_

THE SEVEN STREAMS

THE MORNING POST: "'The Seven Streams' is a fine tale ...

full of strong emotions.... Picturesque description is Mr.

Deeping's special gift, and he has it in large measure."

_BY CULLEN GOULDSBURY_

GOD'S OUTPOST

THE TRIBUNE: "The writer gives a vivid account of South

African life, painting it in no glowing colours. He touches

firmly on the medley of conflicting elements. From many

points of view the book has great merits--indeed, it very

narrowly escapes being relegated to a much higher place."

CIRCE'S GARDEN

_BY BEATRICE GRIMSHAW_

VAITI OF THE ISLANDS

THE SPECTATOR: "Extremely virile.... A writer of more than

ordinary promise."

VANITY FAIR: "A good book.... The setting is wonderful, and

Beatrice Grimshaw knows how to make it interest us.... I read the

book from cover to cover with pleasure."

_BY WILLIAM LE QUEUX_

THE INVASION OF 1910

THE COUNT'S CHAUFFEUR _Second Edition_

THE WOMAN IN THE WAY _Second Edition_

THE LADY IN THE CAR

_BY FRANK RICHARDSON_

BUNKUM _Third Edition_

THE DAILY TELEGRAPH: "A real gem."

THE DAILY MAIL: "Hilariously funny."

THE DAILY EXPRESS: "Will make you laugh like anything."

THE EVENING STANDARD: "A perfect _crescendo_ of fun."

THE WORST MAN IN THE WORLD

THE TIMES: "As full of witticisms and as irrepressible as

ever."

THE DAILY TELEGRAPH: "Extremely funny. A feast of fun and

frolic."

THE PALL MALL GAZETTE: "Once again and more, we think, than

ever he will be found irresistible."

THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE _Shortly_

_BY F. C. PHILIPS_

THE DEAN AND HIS DAUGHTER

THE TIMES: "The cruelty with which the world treats a

divorced woman was perhaps never illustrated so powerfully or

with such sarcasm as in this straightforward narrative, told

by the victim herself without a complaint or a single cry of

indignation."

AS IN A LOOKING GLASS

_BY PERCY WHITE_

THE TRIUMPH OF MRS. ST. GEORGE

THE ATHENAEUM: "In none of the novels that have gone to make

his reputation as a satirist of certain phases of West-End

life is the dialogue more sparkling or the character-drawing

more vivacious."

THE COUNTESS AND THE KING'S DIARY

MR. STRUDGE

THE MORNING POST: "By far the ablest piece of work that Mr.

Percy White has yet done."

THE GLOBE: "Undoubtedly this is the best thing Mr. White has done."

_BY HORACE ANNESLEY VACHELL_

A DRAMA IN SUNSHINE

THE WORLD: "Wholly admirable."

THE LIVERPOOL COURIER: "An excellent story characterised by

that breadth and strength which have given Mr. Vachell so

prominent a place among our novelists."

THE PROCESSION OF LIFE

THE DAILY TELEGRAPH: "So well written, so true to life, so

instinct with quaint wisdom and quiet humour as to stand

apart from the current fiction of the hour. There is a true

savour of literature about it.... The story, simple and

truthful, is as delightful as the people who figure in it.

Mr. Vachell's book is one to get and to read, and, when

read, to keep for reading again."

_BY HERBERT FLOWERDEW_

MAYNARD'S WIVES

VANITY FAIR: "Maynard was a man who got his marriages inextricably

entangled. It was not altogether his fault: his first wife should

have been more open with him. If she had not been a bigamist, he

would not have been a bigamist.... He was a self-indulgent weakling

of the most despicable kind; and Mr. Flowerdew has worked out his

character with considerable skill."

THE THIRD KISS

_BY RITA_

THE POINTING FINGER _Second Edition_

THE MILLIONAIRE GIRL _Second Edition_

_BY MRS. HAROLD E. GORST_

THE THIEF ON THE CROSS _Second Edition_

THE EVENING STANDARD: "By far the best and ablest book its

author has yet written."

BY _EDGAR JEPSON_

THE ADMIRABLE TINKER

_BY JAMES BLYTH_

DEBORAH'S LIFE

LAWFUL ISSUE

THE TRIBUNE: "Mr. Blyth's new novel may be recommended as a

strong and bracing tonic to those who find themselves in a

state of mental debilitation after a long course of

contemporary fiction reading."

THE DAILY CHRONICLE: "A remarkable achievement."

_BY G. B. BURGIN_

WHICH WOMAN

THE OUTLOOK: "It is an unusual and at moments a powerful

book. The conception of a woman of the kind that would make

so desperate a fight for her own happiness as Marion in this

novel is well and boldly carried out."

GALAHAD'S GARDEN

THE SCOTSMAN: "Mr. Burgin at his best."

_BY FORD MADOX HUEFFER_

THE FIFTH QUEEN CROWNED

_BY MORICE GERARD_

A GENTLEMAN OF LONDON

THE PURSUER _Shortly_

_BY S. R. CROCKETT_

THE BLOOM O' THE HEATHER _Shortly_

_BY MORLEY ROBERTS_

RACHEL MARR _Second Edition_

THE MORNING POST: "Mr. Morley Roberts' finest achievement."

THE ACADEMY: "Beautifully conceived. She is a fine idea."

VANITY FAIR: "A fine novel. It raises its author to a high

place."

THE QUEEN: "One of the most remarkable novels of the

generation."

THE WESTMINSTER GAZETTE: "Mr. Roberts has drawn his heroine

greatly, on magnificent lines."

THE SCOTSMAN: "The work of a genius."

CAPTAIN BALAAM OF "THE CORMORANT" _Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d._

THE DAILY TELEGRAPH: "A book of smiles."

THE PALL MALL GAZETTE: "Here ... we see the sons of the wave

in good-humoured spirits, and capital company they are."

THE PROMOTION OF THE ADMIRAL _Second Edition, crown 8vo, 3s. 6d._

THE SPECTATOR: "Very delightful as well as very unusual."

VANITY FAIR: "The liveliest sea stories I know."

THE REFEREE: "The Admiral is a character ... fresh,

original, and immensely diverting."

THE BLUE PETER _Second Edition_

THE DAILY TELEGRAPH: "For a book of sea stories delightfully

fresh and humorous it would be difficult to beat 'The Blue

Peter.'"

THE ATHENAEUM: "Mr. Roberts is out for a lark in this book,

and a lark he has."

THE RED BURGEE

THE MORNING POST: "Mr. Morley Roberts is quite at his

best.... There is not a single story in the book which is

not worth reading, and we cordially recommend 'The Red

Burgee.'"

THE STANDARD: "We should be genuinely sorry if we thought

that anyone who loved the sea missed reading this book."

PAINTED ROCK

THE STANDARD: "This is unquestionably the most powerful,

vigorous, and impressive book of short stories that Mr.

Morley Roberts has ever written, good as is the record that

lies behind him.... The great things of human nature start

up at every point and confront you boldly."

CAPTAIN SPINK

THE GLOBE: "Every page is full of entertainment."

THE STANDARD: "A perfect mine of laughter."

THE EVENING STANDARD: "He is something of a joy."

_A Complete List of Mr. Eveleigh Nash's Publications will be sent post

free on receipt of a postcard._

_Note Address:_

FAWSIDE HOUSE, KING STREET,

COVENT GARDEN, LONDON, W.C.

BALLANTYNE AND CO. LTD., TAVISTOCK STREET, LONDON, W.C.

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:

Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors; otherwise,

every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words and

intent.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Count's Chauffeur, by William Le Queux