Gradually the yellow sun rose over the bare frozen lands over which we were speeding, and when at last we entered Paris, I set her down in the Place Vendome.

"Au revoir, m'sieur, till twelve, at the Rue Royale," she exclaimed, with a merry smile and a bow, as she drove away in a cab, leaving me upon the kerb gazing after her and wondering.

Was she really a governess, as she pretended?

Her clothes, her manner, her smart chatter, her exquisite chic, all revealed good breeding and a high station in life. There was no touch of cheap shabbiness—or at least I could not detect it.

A few moments before twelve she alighted from the cab at the corner of the Rue Royale and greeted me merrily. Her face was slightly flushed, and I thought her hand trembled as I took it. But together we mounted into the car again.

"You seem a constant traveller on the road, m'sieur," she said, as we went along.

"I'm a constant traveller," I replied, with a laugh. "A little too constant, perhaps. One gets wearied with such continual travel as I am forced to undertake. I never know to-morrow where I may be, and I move swiftly from one place to another, never spending more than a day or two in the same place."

I did not, for obvious reasons, tell her my profession.

"But it must be very pleasant to travel so much," she declared. "I would love to be able to do so. I'm passionately fond of constant change."

Together we went on to Boulogne, crossed to Folkestone, and that same night at midnight entered London.

On our journey she gave me an address in the Vauxhall Bridge Road, where, she said, a letter would find her. She refused to tell me her destination or to allow me to see her into a hansom. This latter fact caused me considerable reflection. Why had she so suddenly made up her mind to come to London? and why should I not know whither she went, when she had told me so many details concerning herself?

Of one fact I felt quite convinced—namely, that she had lied to me. She was not a governess, as she pretended. Besides, I had been seized by suspicion that a tall, thin-faced elderly man, rather shabbily dressed, whom I had noticed idling in the Rue Royale, had followed us by rail. I thought I saw him outside the Tivoli, in the Strand, where she descended.

His reappearance there recalled to me that he had watched us in the Rue Royale, and had appeared intensely interested in all our movements. Whether my pretty travelling-companion noticed him I do not know. I, however, watched her as she walked along the Strand carrying her dressing-bag, and saw the tall man striding after her. Adventurer was written upon the fellow's face. His grey moustache was upturned, and his keen grey eyes looked out from beneath shaggy brows, while his dark threadbare overcoat was tightly buttoned across his chest for greater warmth.

Without approaching her, he stood back in the shadow, and saw her enter a hansom and drive towards Charing Cross. It was clear that she was not going to the address she had given me, for she was driving in the opposite direction.

My duty was to drive direct to Clifford Street and report to Bindo, but so interested was I in the thin-faced watcher that I turned the car into the courtyard of the Cecil in the Strand and left it there, in order to keep further observation upon the stranger.

Had not mademoiselle declared herself to be in danger of her life? If so, was it not possible that this fellow, whoever he was, was a secret assassin?

I did not like the aspect of the affair at all. I ought to have warned her against him, and I now became filled with regret. She was a complete mystery, and as I dogged the footsteps of the unknown foreigner—for that he undoubtedly was—I became more deeply interested in what was in progress.

He walked to Trafalgar Square, where he hesitated in such a manner as to show that he was not well acquainted with London. He did not know which of the converging thoroughfares to take. At last he inquired of the constable on point duty, and then went up St. Martin's Lane.

As soon as he had turned I approached the policeman and asked what the stranger wanted, explaining that he was a suspicious character whom I was following.

"'E's a Frenchman. 'E wants Burton Crescent."

"Where's that?"

"Why, just off the Euston Road—close to Judd Street. I've told 'im the way."

I took a hansom, and drove to the place in question, a semicircle of dark-looking, old-fashioned houses of the Bloomsbury type—most of them let out in apartments. Then, alighting, I loitered for half an hour up and down, to await the arrival of the stranger.

He came at last, his tall meagre figure looming dark in the lamp-light. Very eagerly he walked round the Crescent, examining the numbers of the houses, until he came to one, rather cleaner than the others, of which he took careful observation.

I, too, took note of the number.

Afterwards, the stranger turned into the Euston Road, crossed to King's Cross Station, where he sent a telegram, and then went to one of the small uninviting private hotels in the neighbourhood. Having seen him there, I returned to Burton Crescent, and for an hour watched the house, wondering whether the mysterious Julie had taken up her abode there. To me it seemed as though the stranger had overheard the directions she had given the cabman.

The windows of the house were closed by green venetian blinds. I could see that there were lights in most of the rooms, while over the fan-light of the front door was a small transparent square of glass, bearing what seemed to be the representation of some Greek saint. The front steps were well kept, and in the deep basement was a well-lighted kitchen.

I had been there about half an hour when the door opened, and a middle-aged man in evening dress, and wearing a black overcoat and crush hat, emerged. His dark face was an aristocratic one, and as he descended the steps he drew on his white gloves, for he was evidently on his way to the theatre. I took good notice of his face, for it was a striking countenance—one which once seen could never be forgotten.

A man-servant behind him blew a cab-whistle, a hansom came up, and he drove away. Then I walked up and down in the vicinity, keeping a weary vigil; for my curiosity was now much excited. The stranger meant mischief. Of that I was certain.

The one point I wished to clear up was whether Julie Rosier was actually within that house. But though I watched until I became half frozen in the drizzling rain, all was in vain. So I took a cab and drove to Clifford Street, to report my arrival to Count Bindo.

That same night, when I got to my rooms, I wrote a line to the address Julie had given me, asking whether she would make an appointment to meet me, as I wished to give her some very important information concerning herself, and to this on the following day I received a reply asking me to call at the house in Burton Crescent that evening at nine o'clock.

Naturally I went. My surmise was correct that the house watched by the stranger was her abode. The fellow was keeping observation upon it with some evil intent.

The man-servant, on admitting me, showed me into a well-furnished drawing-room on the first floor, where sat my pretty travelling-companion ready to receive me.

In French she greeted me very warmly, bade me be seated, and after some preliminaries inquired the nature of the information which I wished to impart to her.

Very briefly I told her of the shabby watcher, whereupon she sprang to her feet with a cry of mingled terror and surprise.

"Describe him—quickly, M'sieur Ewart!" she urged in breathless agitation.

I did so, and she sat back again in her chair, staring straight before her.

"Ah!" she gasped, her countenance pale as death. "Then they mean revenge, after all. Very well! Now that I am forewarned I shall know how to act."

She rose, and pacing the room in agitation, pushed back the dark hair from her brow. Then her hands clenched themselves, and her teeth were set, for she was desperate.

The shabby man was an emissary of her enemies, she told me as much. Yet in all she said was mystery. At one moment I was convinced that she had told the truth when she said she was a governess, and at the next I suspected her of trying to deceive.

Presently, after she had handed me a cigarette, the servant tapped at the door, and a well-dressed man entered—the same man I had seen leave the house two nights previously.

"May I introduce you?" mademoiselle asked. "M'sieur Ewart—M'sieur le Baron de Moret."

"Charmed to make your acquaintance, sir," the Baron said, grasping my hand. "Mademoiselle here has already spoken of you."

"The satisfaction is mutual, I assure you, Baron," was my reply, and then we re-seated ourselves and began to chat.

Suddenly mademoiselle made some remark in a language which I did not understand. The effect it had upon the new-comer was almost electrical. He started from his seat, glaring at her. Then he began to question her rapidly in the unknown tongue.

He was a flashily-dressed man, of overbearing manner, with a thick neck and square, determined chin. It was quite evident that the warning I had given them aroused their apprehensions, for they held a rapid consultation, and then Julie went out, returning with another man, a dark-haired, lowbred-looking foreigner, who spoke the same tongue as his companions.

They disregarded my presence altogether in their eager consultation, therefore I rose to go; for I saw that I was not wanted.

Julie held my hand and looked into my eyes in mute appeal. She appeared anxious to say something to me in private. At least that was my impression.

When I left the house I passed, at the end of the Crescent, a shabby man idly smoking. Was he one of the watchers?

Four days went by. Soon my rest would be at an end, and I should be travelling at a moment's notice with Blythe and Bindo to the farther end of Europe.

One evening I was passing through the great hall of the Hotel Cecil to descend to the American bar, where I frequently had a cocktail, when a neatly-dressed figure in black rose and greeted me. It was Julie, who had probably been awaiting me an hour or more.

"May I speak to you?" she asked breathlessly, when we had exchanged greetings. "I wish to apologise for the manner in which I treated you the other evening."

I assured her that no apologies were needed, and together we strolled up and down the courtyard between the hotel entrance and the Strand.

"I really ought not to trouble you with my affairs," she said presently, in an apologetic tone, "but you remember what I told you when you so kindly allowed me to travel with you—I mean of my peril?"

"Certainly. But I thought it was all over."

"I foolishly believed that it was. But I am watched; I—I'm a marked woman." Then, after some hesitation, she added, "I wonder if you would do me another favour. You could save my life, M'sieur Ewart—if you only would."

"Well, if I can render you such a service, mademoiselle, I shall be only too delighted. As I told you the other day, my next journey is to Petersburg, and I may have to start any hour after midnight to-morrow. What can I do?"

"At present my plans are immature," she answered after a pause. "But why not dine with me to-morrow night? We have some friends, but we shall be able to escape them, and discuss the matter alone. Do come."

I accepted, and she taking a hansom in the Strand, drove off.

On the following night at eight I entered the well-furnished drawing-room in Burton Crescent, where three well-dressed men and three rather smart ladies were assembled, including my hostess. They were all foreigners, and among them was the Baron, who appeared to be the most honoured guest. It was now quite plain that, instead of being a governess as she had asserted, she was a lady of good family and the Baron's social equal.

The party was a very pleasant one, and there was considerable merriment at table. My hostess's apprehension of the previous day had all disappeared, while the Baron's demeanour was one of calm security.

I sat at my hostess's left hand, and she was particularly gracious to me, the whole conversation at table being in French.

At last, after dessert, the Baron remarked that, as it was New Year's Day, we should have snap-dragon, and, with his hostess's permission, left the dining-room and prepared it. Presently it appeared in a big antique Worcester bowl, and was placed on the table close to me.

Then the electric light was switched off, and the spirit ignited.

Next moment, with shouts and laughter, the blue flames shedding a weird light upon our faces, we were pulling the plums out of the fire—a childish amusement permissible because it was the New Year.

I had placed one in my mouth and swallowed it, but as I was taking a second from the blue flames I suddenly felt a faintness. At first I put it down to the heat of the room, but a moment later I felt a sharp spasm through my heart, and my brain swelled too large for my skull. My jaws were set. I tried to speak, but was unable to articulate a word.

I saw the fun had stopped and the faces of all were turned upon me anxiously. The Baron had risen, and his dark countenance peered into mine with a fiendish, murderous expression.

"I'm ill!" I gasped. "I—I'm sure I'm poisoned!"

The faces of all smiled again, while the Baron uttered some words which I could not understand, and then there was a dead silence, all still watching me intently—all except a fair-haired young man opposite me, who seemed to have fallen back in his chair unconscious.

"You fiends!" I cried, with a great effort, as I struggled to rise. "What have I done to you that you should—poison—me?"

I know that the Baron grinned in my face, and that I fell forward heavily upon the table, my heart gripped in the spasm of death.

Of what occurred afterwards I have no recollection, for when I slowly regained knowledge of things around me, I found myself lying beneath a bare, leafless hedge in a grass field. I managed to struggle to my feet, and discovered myself in a bare, flat, open country. As far as I could judge it was midday. I got to a gate, skirted a hedge, and gained the main road. With difficulty I walked to the nearest town, a distance of about four miles, without meeting a soul, and to my surprise found myself in Hitchin. The spectacle of a man entering the town in evening dress and hatless in broad daylight was no doubt curious, but I was anxious to return to London and give information against those who had, without any apparent motive, laid an ingenious plot to poison me.

At the "Sun" I learned that the time was eleven in the morning. The only manner in which I could account for my presence in Hitchin was that, believed to be dead by the Baron and his accomplices, I had been conveyed in a car to the spot where I was found.

What, I wondered, had become of the fair-haired young man whom I had seen unconscious opposite me?

A few shillings remained in my pocket, and, strangely enough, beside me when I recovered consciousness I had found a small fluted phial marked "Prussic acid—poison." The assassins had attempted to make it apparent that I had committed suicide!

Two hours later, after a rest and a wash, I borrowed an overcoat and golf-cap, and took the train to King's Cross. At Judd Street Police Station I made a statement, and with two plain-clothes officers returned to the house in Burton Crescent, only to find that the fair Julie and her friends had flown.

On forcing the door, we found the dining-table just as it had been left after the poisoned snap-dragon of the previous night. Nothing had been touched. Only Julie, the Baron, the man-servant, and the guests had all gone, and the place was deserted.

The police were utterly puzzled at the entire absence of motive.

On my return to my rooms I found orders from Bindo to start at once for Petersburg, which I was compelled to do. So I left London full of wonder at my exciting experience, and not until my arrival at Wirballen, the Russian frontier, six days later, did I discover that, though my passport remained in my wallet, a special police permit to enable me to pass in and out of the districts affected by the revolutionary Terror, was missing! It was a permit which Blythe had cleverly obtained through one of his friends, a high diplomatist, and without which I could not move rapidly in Russia.

Was it possible that Julie and her friends had stolen it? Was it to be believed that the scoundrelly Baron had attempted to take my life by such dastardly trickery in order to secure that all-powerful document?

That it was of greatest value to any revolutionist I knew quite well, for upon it was the signature of the Minister of the Interior, and its bearer, immune from arrest or interference by the police, might come and go in Russia without let or hindrance.

Were they Russians? Certainly the language they had spoken was not Russian, but it might have been Polish. Where was the young man who had been my fellow-victim?

Loss of this special permit caused me considerable inconvenience, for I had to go to Moscow, and the Terror raging there, I had to get another permit before I could pass and repass the military cordon.

Yes, Julie Rosier was a mystery. Indeed, the whole affair was a complete enigma.

I duly returned to London, after assisting Bindo in trying to make a coup that was unfortunately in vain, and then learnt that the body of an unknown young man in evening dress had been found in the river Crouch in Essex, and from the photograph shown me at Scotland Yard I identified it as that of my fellow-guest.

Through the whole year the adventure has sorely puzzled me, and only the other day light was thrown upon it in the following manner—

I was in Petersburg again, when I received a polite note from General Zuroff, the chief of police, requesting me to call upon him. The summons caused me considerable apprehension I must admit.

On entering his room at the Ministry, he gave me a cigarette, and commenced to chat. Then suddenly he touched a bell, another door opened, and I was amazed at seeing before me, between two grey-coated police-officers, a woman—Julie Rosier!

For an instant she glared at me as though she saw an apparition. Then, with a loud scream, she fainted.

"Ah!" exclaimed Zuroff. "Then what is reported is correct—eh? You and your friend the Baron enticed this Englishman to your house in London, for you knew by some means that he carried the order of the Minister allowing the bearer free passage everywhere in Russia. You saw that if you merely stole it he would give information, and it would be immediately cancelled. Therefore you cleverly plotted to take his life and make it appear as a case of suicide." Then, with a wave of his hand, he said, "Take the prisoner back to the fortress."

The woman uttered no word. She only fixed her big dark eyes upon me with an expression of abject terror, and then the guards led her out.

From a drawer Zuroff took the precious document that had been stolen from me, saying—

"Julie Rosier—or Sophie Markovitch, as her real name is—was arrested in a house in the Nevski yesterday, while the Baron was discovered at the Hotel d'Angleterre. Both are most violent revolutionists, and to them is due the terrible rioting in Moscow a few months ago. The Baron was hand in hand with Gapon and his colleagues, but escaped to England, and has been there for nearly a year, until, as the outcome of the dastardly plot against you, he altered his appearance, and returned as George Ewart, chauffeur to Baron Bindo di Ferraris of Rome. The arrests yesterday were very smartly made."

"But how do you know the details of the attempt upon me?"

"All men can be bought at a price. They were watched constantly while in London. Besides, one of your fellow-guests of that night—revolutionists all of them—recently turned police spy and reported the facts. It was he who gave us information regarding the whereabouts of Sophie and the Baron."

"But another man—a young fellow with fair hair—ate some of the plums from the snap-dragon and died."

"Yes; he was young Ivan Kinski—a Pole, who, though a Terrorist, was suspected by his friends of being a spy. You took one plum only, while he probably took more. At any rate, you had a very narrow escape. But you at least have the satisfaction of knowing that Julie will never again fascinate, and the Baron will never again be given an opportunity of preparing his fatal snap-dragon."

My friendliness with Zuroff stood us in good stead; for, a week later, Bindo and Blythe contrived to get a very pretty diamond necklet and pair of earrings from a lady in Petersburg, which fetched six hundred golden louis in Amsterdam.



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."