The Count's Chauffeur

by William Le Queux

  CHAPTER XI

  THE PERIL OF PIERRETTE

  I

  CONCERNS A STRANGE CONSPIRACY

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

  The grey February afternoon had been bitterly cold, and for an hour Ihad waited there half frozen. Since morning Count Bindo di Ferraris andmyself 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, mylife was the reverse of uneventful. I was constantly going hither andthither, often on all-night journeys, and always moving rapidly fromplace to place, often selling the old car and buying a new one, andconstantly on the look-out for police-traps of more than one variety.

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

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

  In every way the car was perfect. I fancy that I know something aboutcars, but even with my object to lower the price I failed to discoverany 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 fiveminutes' talk with you."

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

  "Sit down, Ewart," exclaimed the debonnair young man, who was sothoroughly a cosmopolitan, and who in his own chambers was known as Mr.Bellingham, the son of a man who had suddenly died after making afortune out of certain railway contracts in the Argentine. "Have adrink;" and he poured me out a peg of whisky and soda. He always treatedme 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, andthough I profited little from a monetary point of view, save thehandsome 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 hisItalian accent, after he had lit a cigarette: "I want to give youcertain instructions. We have a very intricate and ticklish affair todeal with. But I trust you implicitly, after that affair of the prettyMademoiselle Valentine. I know you're not the man to lose your head overa pretty face. Only fools do that. One can seek out a pretty face whenone 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 tous--not rest within four walls, we can easily obtain that, but rest outon one or other of the Greek islands, or on the Bosphorus, or somewherewhere we shall be perfectly safe," he said. "Now I want you to startto-night for Monte Carlo."

  "To-night!" I exclaimed, dismayed.

  "Yes. You have plenty of time to catch the Dieppe boat at Newhaven. I'llwire to them to say you are coming--name of Bellingham, of course. Ishall leave by train in the morning, but you'll be at Monty--the Hotelde Paris--almost as soon as I am. I wouldn't attempt to go by theGrenoble road, because I heard the other day that there's a lot of snowabout there. Go down to Valence and across to Die."

  I was rather sick at being compelled to leave so suddenly. Of late I hadhardly been in London at all. I was very desirous of visiting some agedrelations 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 longrun 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 toFontainebleau. You remember we were there together last summer, at theHotel de France. At Fontainebleau ask for the road through the Forestfor Marlotte--remember the name. About seven kilometres along that roadyou'll come to cross-ways. At eight o'clock to-morrow morning she willbe 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 lookhere," 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 arefor 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-tabletwo five-hundred-franc notes and handed them to me, adding, "At presentI can tell you nothing more. Go out, find Pierrette--that's hername--and bring her to Monty. At the Paris I shall be 'Bellingham'; andrecollect we'll have to be careful. They haven't, in all probability,forgotten the other little affair. The police of Monaco are among thesmartest in Europe, and though they never arrest anybody within theirtin-pot Principality, they take jolly good care that the Monsieur lePrefect at Nice knows all about their suspects, and leave him to dotheir dirty work."

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

  "But what's the nature of our new scheme?" I inquired, curious to knowwhat 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 asuccessful run due South. "If it works, then we shall bring off a realgood thing."

  "Do the others come out with you?"

  "I hardly know yet. I meet them to-night at supper at the Savoy, and weshall then decide. At any rate, I shall go;" and walking to the littlewriting-table, he took up the telephone receiver and asked for theSleeping Car Company's office in Pall Mall. Then, when a reply came, heasked them to reserve a small compartment in the Mediterranean Expresson the morrow.

  "And," he exclaimed, turning again to me, "I want to impress upon youone thing, Ewart. You and I know each other well, don't we? Now in thisaffair there may be more than one mysterious feature. You'll be puzzled,perhaps,--greatly puzzled,--but don't trouble your head over the why orthe wherefore until we bring off the _coup_ successfully. Then I'll tellyou the whole facts--and, by Jove! you'll find them stranger than everyou've read in a book. When you know the truth of the affair you'll bestaggered."

  My curiosity was, I admit, excited. Count Bindo, the dare-devil Italianadventurer, who cared not a jot for any man living, and who himselflived 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 memore, 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 awayto meet the pretty Pierrette. And--again good luck to you!" he added, ashe mixed a little more whisky and tossed it off.

  Then he shook my hand warmly. I left hi
s cosy quarters, and within anhour was crossing Westminster Bridge on the first stage of my hasty runacross Europe.

  I had plenty of time to get down to Newhaven to catch the boat, but if Iwas to be in the Forest of Fontainebleau by eight o'clock next morning Iwould, I knew, be compelled to travel as hard as possible. The road waswell 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 acouple of new "non-skids" at the depot where we dealt, oiled up, filledthe petrol tank, and given the engine a general look round. But as soonas I got out of London the cold became so intense that I was compelledto 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 mymasters?

  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 thetrain from London. It proved a dark and dirty night in the Channel, andthe steamer tossed and rolled, much to the discomfort of the passengersby "the cheapest route," which, by the way, is the quickest formotorists. But the sea never troubling me, I took the opportunity ofhaving a good square meal in the saloon, got the steward to put a coupleof cold fowls and some ham and bread into a parcel, and within half anhour of the steamer touching Dieppe quay I was heading out towardsParis, with my new search-light shining far ahead, and giving such astreak of brilliancy that a newspaper could be read by it half a mileaway.

  Dark snow-clouds had gathered, and the icy wind cut my face like aknife, causing me to assume my goggles as a slight protection. My feeton 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 wasgetting light, I got a puncture on the off back tyre. A horse-nail itproved, and in twenty minutes I was on the road again, running at thehighest speed I dared along the Seine valley towards Paris. The wind haddropped with the dawn, and the snow-clouds had dispersed with thedaybreak. Though grey and very cheerless at first, the wintry sun atlast broke through, and it was already half-past seven when, avoidingParis, I had made a circuit and joined the Fontainebleau road atCharenton, south of the capital.

  I glanced at the clock. I had still half an hour to do nearly thirtymiles. 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 mylicence.

  At the end of the town of Fontainebleau, a board pointed toMarlotte--that tiny river-side village so beloved by Paris artists insummer--and I swung into a great, broad, well-kept road, cut through thebare 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 Idared--a speed which can be easily imagined when one drives a sixty"Mercedes." Suddenly, almost before I was aware of it, I had flashedacross a narrower road running at right angles, and saw, standing backout 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 theperson 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 thecentre of that great historic Forest wherein Napoleon the Great loved toroam alone and think out fresh conquests.

  Seeing the "Sister" hurrying towards me, I got down, wondering if shemeant to speak.

  "Pardon, m'sieur," she exclaimed in musical French, rendered almostbreathless by her quick walk, "but is this the automobile of M'sieurBellingham, of London?"

  I raised my eyes, and saw before me a face more pure and perfect in itsbeauty 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 ofbright dark eyes which had quite a _soupcon_ of mischief in them. For amoment I stood speechless before her.

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

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

  "Yes," I replied, also in French, for fortunately I could chatter thatmost 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 anhour for you, and I've been so afraid of being seen. I--I thought--youwere 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 mudhere and there.

  "You are coming to Monte Carlo with me," I said, "but you cannot travelin that dress--can you? Mr. Bellingham has sent you something," Iadded, taking out the cardboard box.

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

  For a moment she looked at them in hesitation. Then, glancing up anddown the road to see if she were observed, she took off her religiousheaddress and collar, twisted around her neck the silk scarf she foundin the box, pinned on her hat and adjusted her veil in such a mannerthat it struck me she was no novice at motoring, even though she were anun, and then, with my assistance, she struggled into the fur-linedcoat.

  The stiff linen cap and collar she screwed up and put into the cardboardbox, 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 lonelyfor either of us. We can talk."

  In her motor-clothes she was certainly a most dainty and delightfullittle companion. The hat, veil, and coat had completely transformedher. From a demure little nun she had in a few moments blossomed forthinto 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 rugabout her skirts and tucked it in herself, I saw that this was not thefirst 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 givenher a pair of goggles and helped her to adjust them, I also got up, andwe moved away again along that long white highway that traverses Franceby Sens, Dijon, Macon, Lyons, Valence, and Digue, and has its end at therocky shore of the blue Mediterranean at Cannes--that land of flowersand flashy adventurers, which the French term the Cote d'Azur.

  From the very first, however, the pretty Pierrette--for her beauty hadcertainly not been exaggerated by Bindo--was an entire mystery--amystery 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 mostcharming and entertaining companion, and could, I found, speak Englishquite well.

  She had lived nearly seven years in England--in London, Brighton, andother places--and as we set the car along that beautiful road that runsfor so many miles beside the Yonne, she told me quite a lot aboutherself.

  Her admiration for M'sieur Bellingham was very prono
unced. It was notdifficult to see that this pretty girl, who, I supposed, had escapedfrom her convent, was madly in love with the handsome Bindo. The Countwas a sad lady-killer, and where any profit was concerned was a mostperfect lover, as many a woman possessed of valuable jewels had known toher cost. From the pretty Pierrette's bright chatter, I began to wonderwhether or not she was marked down as a victim. She had met the gayBindo in Paris, it seemed, but how and in what circumstances, havingregard to her religious habit, she did not inform me.

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

  By dint of careful questioning I tried to obtain from her some factsconcerning her escape from the convent, but she would tell me nothingregarding it. All she replied was--

  "Ah! M'sieur Bellingham! How kind and good he is to send you for me--toget me clean away from that hateful place!" and then, drawing a deepbreath, she added, "How good it is to be free again--free!"

  The car was tearing along, the rush of wind already bringing the colourto 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 whenevernecessary as we flashed through the long string of villages betweenSens and Chatillon. The wintry landscape was rather dull and cheerless,yet with her at my side I began to find the journey delightful. There isnothing so dreary, depressing, and monotonous as to cross France alonein a car without a soul to speak to all day through.

  "I wonder when we shall arrive at Monte Carlo?" she queried presently inEnglish, with a rather pronounced accent, turning her fresh, smilingface to me--a face that was typically French, and dark eyes that wereundeniably fine.

  "It all depends upon accidents," I laughed. "With good fortune we oughtto be there to-morrow night--that is, if we keep going, and you are nottoo 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 readso much about it--and the gambling. M'sieur Bellingham said they willnot 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. Thepaternal administration don't care who or what you are as long as youare well dressed and you have money to lose. At Monte Carlo you mustalways keep up an appearance. I've known a millionaire to be refusedadmittance because his trousers were turned up."

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

  A mystery surrounded my _chic_ little travelling-companion which I couldnot make out.

  At about two o'clock in the afternoon we pulled up just beyond thelittle town of Chauceaux, about thirty miles from Dijon, and there ateour cold provisions, washing them down with a bottle of red wine. Shewas hungry, and ate with an appetite, laughing merrily, and thoroughlyenjoying 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 youcame you flew past, and I thought that you did not notice me. M'sieurBellingham 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 HotelBristol, I believe, is where Madame is staying."

  "Madame? Who is she?"

  "Madame Vernet," was all she vouchsafed. Who the lady was she seemed tohave no inclination to tell me.

  Through Dijon, Beaune, and Chalons-sur-Saone we travelled, but before weran on to the rough cobbles of old-world Macon darkness had alreadyfallen, and our big search-light was shedding a shaft of whitebrilliancy far ahead.

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

  We reached Lyons half an hour before midnight, and there got somebouillon and roast _poulet_ outside the Perache, then off again into thedark cold night, hour after hour ever beside the broad Rhone and theiron 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 warmlywith all the wraps we had, I left her to sleep, while I drove on duesouth towards the Riviera.

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

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

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

  Before we approached the cross-road the first faint flash of dawn showedaway on our left, and by the time we reached Sisterton the sun hadrisen. At an _auberge_ we pulled up, and got two big bowls of steaming_cafe au lait_, and then without much adventure continued our way downto Mirabeau, whence we turned sharp to the left for Draguignan and LesArcs. At the last-mentioned place she resumed her seat at my side, andwith the exception of her hair being slightly disarranged, she seemedquite as fresh and merry as on the previous day.

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

  "I am searching for my dear father," she answered, however. "He hasdisappeared, 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, andstayed 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 herstory.

  "Nearly," was her answer. "Accompanied by Madame Vernet, I went to seeM'sieur Lepine, the Prefect of Police of Paris, and gave him all theinformation and a photograph of my father. And I believe the police ofLondon 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 knowit?"

  Dumont's, the finest and most expensive jewellers in Paris! Of course Iknew it. Who does not who knows Paris? How many times had I--and in allprobability you also--lingered and looked into those two big windowswhere are displayed some of the most expensive jewels and choicestdesigns in ornaments in the world.

  "Ah! so Monsieur Dumont is your father?" I remarked, with somereflection. "And did he have with him any jewels in London?"

  "Yes. It was for that very reason we fear the worst. He went to Londonexpressly to show some very valuable gems to the Princess Henry ofSalzburg, at Her Highness's order. She wanted them to wear at a Court inLondon."

  "And what was t
he 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 alsodisappeared."

  "And the jewels--eh?"

  "And also the jewels."

  "But may not this man Martin have got rid of your father somehow orother and decamped? That is a rather logical conclusion, isn't it?"

  "That is Monsieur Lepine's theory; but"--and she turned to me veryseriously--"I am sure, quite sure, Monsieur Martin would never be guiltyof 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 agreat temptation, remember."

  "No, not so much--for him," was her reply.

  "Why?"

  She looked straight into my face through the talc front of hermotor-veil, and after a moment's silence exclaimed, with a girl'scharming frankness--

  "I wonder, Monsieur Ewart, whether I can trust you?"

  "I hope so, mademoiselle," was my reply. "Mr. Bellingham has entrustedyou 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 isbecause--because I--I'm engaged to be married to him;" and she blusheddeeply 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 myfather's only child."

  "Certainly, that places a fresh complexion on matters," I said; "butdoes Monsieur your father know of the engagement?"

  "_Mon Dieu!_ no! I--I dare not tell him. Monsieur Martin is only aclerk, 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 hisingenious friends was jewellery, I could not help regarding as curiousthe coincidence that the daughter of the missing man was travelling insecret with me to the Riviera. But why, if the _coup_ had really alreadybeen made in London, as it seemed it had, we should come out to theRiviera and mix ourselves up with Pierrette and the mysterious MadameVernet was beyond my comprehension. To me it seemed a distinct peril.

  "Didn't the Princess purchase any of the jewels of your father?" Iasked. "Tell me the facts as far as you know them."

  "Well, as soon as they found poor father and Monsieur Martin missingthey sent over Monsieur Boullanger, the manager, to London, and hecalled upon Her Highness at Claridge's Hotel--I think that was where shewas staying. She said that after making the appointment with my fathershe was compelled to go away to Scotland, and could not keep it untilthe morning of the day on which he disappeared. My father, accompaniedby Monsieur Martin, called upon her and showed her the gems. One diamondtiara she liked, but it was far too expensive; therefore she decidedto have nothing, declaring that she could buy the same thing cheaperin London. The jewels were repacked in the bag, and taken away. Thatappears to be the last seen of them. Four hours later my father leftthe Hotel Charing Cross alone, got into a cab, drove away, and nobodyhas seen him since. Monsieur Boullanger is still in London makinginquiries."

  "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 contractedslightly, and I saw that she had some mysterious reason for not replyingto my inquiry.

  "I--I don't think I need satisfy you on that point, m'sieur," shereplied at last, with a slight hauteur, as though her dignity wereoffended.

  "Pardon me," I said quickly, "I meant to offer you no offence,mademoiselle. You naturally are in distress regarding the unaccountabledisappearance of your father, and when one mentions jewels thoughts offoul play always arise in one's mind. The avariciousness of man, and hisunscrupulousness where either money or jewels are concerned, are wellknown even to you, at your age. I thought, however, you were confidingin me, and I wondered how you, in active search of your father as youare, 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?" Iexclaimed. "I had not gathered that fact."

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

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

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

  Since my association with Bindo and his friends I had, I admit, becomeas unscrupulous as they were. Before my engagement as the Count'schauffeur I think I was just as honest as the average man ever is; butthere is an old adage which says that you can't touch pitch withoutbeing besmirched, and in my case it was, I suppose, only too true. Ihad come to regard their ingenious plots and adventures with interestand attention, and marvelled at the extraordinary resource and cunningwith which they misled and deceived their victims, and obtained byvarious ways and means those bright little stones which, in regularconsignments, made their way to the dark little den of the crafty oldGoomans in the Kerk Straat at Amsterdam, and were exchanged for bundlesof negotiable bank-notes.

  The police of Europe knew that for the past two years there had beenactively at work a gang of the cleverest jewel-thieves ever known, yetthe combined astuteness of Scotland Yard with that of the Paris Sureteand the Pubblica Sicurezza of Italy had never suspected the smart,well-dressed, good-looking Charlie Bellingham, who lived in such easeand comfort in Clifford Street, and whose wide circle of intimatefriends at country houses included at least two members of the presentCabinet.

  The very women who lost their jewels so unaccountably--wives of wealthypeers or City magnates--were most of them Charlie Bellingham's "pals,"and on more than one occasion it was Charlie himself who gaveinformation to the police and who interviewed thirsty detectives andinquisitive reporters.

  The men who worked with him were only his assistants, shrewd cleverfellows each of them, but lacking either initiative or tact. He directedthem, and they carried out his orders to the letter. His own ever-activebrain formulated the plots and devised the plans by which those shiningstones passed into their possession, while such a thoroughgoingcosmopolitan was he that he was just as much at home in the Boulevarddes Capucines, or the Ringstrasse, as in Piccadilly, or on the Promenadedes Anglais.

  Yes, Count Bindo, when with his forty "Napier," he had engaged me, and Ihad on that well-remembered afternoon first made the acquaintance of hisfriends in the smoking-room at the Hotel Cecil, had promised me plentyof 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, withthe white villas of Cannes, the moonlit bay La Croisette, and theislands calm in the glorious night, lay before us.

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

  III

  IN WHICH THE COUNT IS PUZZLED

  My sweet-faced little charge had returned into the back of the car, andwas sound asleep nestling beneath her rugs when, about three o'clock inthe morning, we dashed through the little village of Cagnes, and ran outupon the long bridge that crosses the broad, rock-strewn river Var, amile or two from Nice.

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

  Suddenly, on reaching the opposite bank, I saw a man in the shadowwaving his arms, and heard a shout. My first impression was that it wasone of the gendarmes, who are always on duty at that spot, but nextinstant, owing to the bend of the road, my search-light fell full uponthe person in question, and I was amazed to find it to be none otherthan the audacious Bindo himself--Bindo in a light dust-coat and a softwhite felt hat of that type which is _de rigueur_ each season at Montyamong 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 broughtthe car up suddenly, while he ran up breathlessly.

  "You're through in good time. I was prepared to wait till daylight," hesaid. "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'sthe matter? Who's that?"

  "It's me, Pierrette," replied the handsome young adventurer, mountingupon the step and looking within.

  "You! Ah! Why--it's M'sieur Bellingham!" she cried excitedly, raisingherself and putting out her hand encased in one of my greasy old furgloves. "Were you waiting for us?"

  "Of course I was. Didn't I tell you I would?" replied Bindo in French--alanguage which he spoke with great fluency. "You got my telegram to saythat Ewart had started--eh? Well, how has the car been running--and howhas 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 theshoulder. "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'sieurEwart has looked after me, and given me hot bouillon, coffee, eggs, andall sorts of things--even to chocolates!"

  "Ah! Ewart is a sad dog with the ladies, I'm afraid," he said in areproving tone, glancing at me. "But if you'll make room for me, andgive me a bit of your rug, I'll go on with you."

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

  "They are, and beyond that lighthouse there, is Villefranche. Rightbehind 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, Idaresay, even at this hour."

  So ten minutes later we turned out upon that broad, beautiful esplanadewhich is one of the most noted in all the world, which is alwaysflower-bordered, and where feathery palms flourish even when the rest ofEurope 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 wentover to Beaulieu, but unfortunately Madame is not yet at the Bristol. Ihave, however, taken a room for you, and we will drop you there as wepass. 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 theMetropole at Monty on several occasions. She may be there. I'll inquirein the morning. For the next couple of days I may be away, as perhapsI'll have to go on to Genoa on some business; but Ewart and the car willbe at your disposal. I'll place you in his hands again, and he will in acouple of days show you the whole Riviera from the Var to San Remo, withthe Tenda, the upper Corniche, and Grasse thrown in. He knows thisneighbourhood like a Nicois."

  "That will be awfully jolly," she responded. "But----"

  "Well?"

  "Well, I'm sorry you are going away," declared Pierrette, with regret soundisguised that though she had admitted her engagement to her father'smissing clerk, showed me only too plainly that she had fallen veryviolently in love with the handsome, good-for-nothing owner of thesplendid car upon which they were travelling.

  I could see that curious developments were, ere long, within the boundsof probability, and I felt sorry for the pretty, innocent little girl;for her journey there was, I felt assured, connected in some way orother with her father's mysterious disappearance from the Charing CrossHotel.

  Why had Bindo taken the trouble to await me there at the foot of the Varbridge, 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 overthe whole of the queer facts in my mind, but could discern no motive forPierrette's secret journey South. Why was she, so young, a nun? Why hadshe 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 thesudden bend, close to the sea-shore, showed the great white facade ofthe 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 gravelleddrive which led through the beautiful flower-garden up to the principalentrance. The noise we created awoke the night-porter, and after somebrief explanation, Pierrette got out, wished us a merry "_Bon jour_!"and disappeared. Then, with the Count mounted at my side, I backed outinto the roadway, and we were soon speeding along that switchback of aroad with dozens of dangerous turns and irritating tram-lines that leadspast Eze into the tiny Principality of His Royal Highness Prince Rougeet Noir--the paradise of gamblers, thieves, and fools.

  "Well, Ewart," he said, almost before we got past Mr. Gordon Bennett'svilla, "I suppose the girl's been chattering to you--eh? What has shesaid?"

  "Well, she hasn't said much," was my reply, as I bent my head to themistral that was springing up. "Told me who she is, and that her fatherand 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," hedeclared. "You say her father and some shiners have disappeared inLondon. Tell me quickly, under what circumstances. What has she beentelling 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 oldbroken-down Catholic marquise--one of the weedy sort--who lives atTroyes, or some such dead-alive hole as that. Her mother tried to makeher take the veil, and hasn't succeeded."

  "She prefers the motor-veil, it appears," I laughed. "But that isn't thestory she's told me."

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

  "Her real name is, I believe, Pierrette Dumont, only daughter of thatbig 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, withhim, and a bagful of jewels worth the respectable sum of half a millionfrancs. They stayed at the Charing Cross Hotel, but five days later bothmen 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 believethat she is actually Dumont's daughter, and that the shiners have reallybeen stolen?"

  "The former question is more difficult to answer than the latter. A wireto London will clear up the truth. In all probability the police arekeeping the affair out of the papers. The girl went over to London totry and find her father, and met you, she says."

  "She met me, certainly. But the little fool told me nothing about herfather's disappearance or the missing jewels."

  "Because the Paris police had warned her not t
o, in all probability."

  "Well----" he gasped. "If that story is really true, it is the grandestslice 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 afterbreakfast. You'll remain here, look after the girl and Madame Vernet. Idon't envy you the latter. She's got yellow teeth, and is ugly enough tobreak a mirror," he laughed.

  "But why go to London?" I queried.

  "For reasons best known to myself, Ewart," he snapped; for he neverapproved 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 everhad on hand. I came out here to-day from London on one big thing, and inan hour or two I'm going back on another!"

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

  "Look here, Ewart! we've got a big thing on here--bigger than either ofus 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 herbelieve 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 dearEwart--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 carswere standing--that garage with the female directress which everymotorist knows so well.

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

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

  But the main question was whether the dainty little Pierrette had toldme 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 theoccasion warranted, and yet, like many men of brains, he usually gaveone the appearance of an idler. He could get through an enormous amountof work and scheming, and yet appear entirely unoccupied. Had he put histalents to legitimate and honest business, he would have no doubt risento the position of a Napoleon of finance.

  As it was, he made a call at the Metropole at nine, not to inquire forMadame Vernet, but no doubt to consult or give instructions to one ofhis friends, who, like himself, was a "crook."

  Bindo had a passing acquaintance with many men who followed the sameprofession as himself, and often, I know, lent a helping hand to any indistress. There is a close fraternity among the class to which hebelonged, known to the European police as "the internationals."

  The identity of the man in whose bedroom he had an interview thatmorning I was unaware. I only know that, as the _rapide_ moved off fromMonte 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 allcosts 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 theCasino, 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, Itook my _dejeuner_ at the Palmiers, a small and unpretentious hotel inthe back of the town, where I was well known, and where one gets a verygood lunch _vin compris_ for three francs.

  In order to allow Pierrette time to rest after her journey, I waitedtill 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 daysin early spring, when the Mediterranean lay without a ripple and theflowers 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, readinga 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 sopeculiarly the mode at Monte Carlo,--white shoes, and a white hat, shelooked 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 togo 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 ortwo. Meanwhile, if you will accept my escort, mademoiselle, I shall beonly too willing to be yours to obey."

  "_Bien!_ What a pretty speech!" she laughed. "I wonder whether you willsay that to Madame."

  "Has Madame arrived?"

  "She came this morning, just before noon. But," she added, "look, hereshe comes."

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

  "Madame, here is M'sieur Ewart!" cried the pretty Pierrette, as the oldlady advanced, and I bowed.

  She proved to be about the ugliest specimen of the gentler sex that Ihad ever met. Her face was wrinkled and puckered, wizened and brown; hereyes were close set, and beyond her thin lips protruded three or fouryellow fangs, rendering her perfectly hideous. Moreover, on her upperlip was quite a respectable moustache, while from her chin long whitehairs straggled at intervals.

  "Where is Mr. Bellingham?" she asked snappishly, in a shrill, raspingvoice, like the sharpening of a file.

  "He has left, and will be absent a few days, I believe. He has placedthis car and myself at your disposal, and ordered me to present hisregrets that pressing business calls him away."

  "Regrets!" she exclaimed, with a slight toss of her head. "He need nothave sent any. I know that he is a very busy man."

  "M'sieur Ewart is going to take me to Monte Carlo," Pierrette said. "Youwill 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 tootired. But do be back early, won't you? I know how anxious you are tosee the Casino."

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

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

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

  For a moment she stood in the great gilded salon as one stupefied. Ihave noticed this effect often on young girls who see the roulettetables and their crowds for the first time. Above the clink of coin, therustle 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 thecroupiers: "_Rien n'va plus!_" "_Quatre premier deux pieces!_" "_Zero!un louis!_" "_Dernier douzaine un piece!_" "_Messieurs, faites vosjeux!_"

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

  My little companion passed from one table to another, regarding theplayers and the play with keenest interest. Then she passed into the_trente-et-quarante_ rooms, where at one of the tables she stood behinda pretty, beautifully-attired Parisienne, watching her play and
lose thehandful of golden coins her elderly cavalier had handed to her.

  While we halted there an incident occurred which caused me considerablethought.

  In front of us, on the opposite side of the table, stood a tall,thin-faced, elderly, clean-shaven man of sallow complexion, and verysmartly dressed. In his black cravat he wore a splendid diamond pin, andon his finger, as he tossed a louis on the "noir," another fine gemglistened. That man, though so essentially a gentleman from his exteriorappearance, was known to me as one of "us," as shrewd and clever anadventurer 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 theCredit Lyonnais of one hundred thousand francs, and served five years atToulon for it.

  And across at him the pretty Pierrette shot a quick look of recognitionand laughed. "The President" nodded slightly, and laughed backin return. He glanced at me. Our eyes met, but we neither of usacknowledged the other. It is the rule with men of our class. We arealways strangers, except when it is to the interests of either partyto appear friends.

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

  "Do you know that man?" I asked her, as presently we moved away from thetable.

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

  "I thought you nodded recognition to a man across the table," Iremarked, disappointed at her attempt to deceive me.

  "No," she replied; "I didn't recognise anyone. You were mistaken. Heperhaps nodded to somebody else."

  This reply of hers increased the mystery. Had she deceived me when shetold 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 shestood at the first table at the left of the entrance, watching the gameintently.

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

  One of the notes she tossed upon the "rouge," and the other two shecrushed into her pocket.

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

  "Why not?" she laughed, perfectly cool, and watching the ball, whichhad already begun to spin.

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

  The one she had won she passed across to the "noir," and there wonagain, and again a second time, until people at the table began tofollow her lead. Gamblers are always superstitious when they see a younggirl playing. It is amazing and curious how often youth will win wheremiddle-age will lose.

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

  I tried to remonstrate, and urged her to leave with her winnings; buther cheeks were flushed, and she was now excited. One of the notes sheexchanged with the croupier for nine hundreds, and five louis. Thelatter she distributed _a cheval_, with one _en plein_ on the numbereighteen.

  It won. She left her stake on the table, and again the same numberturned up. Three louis placed on zero she lost, and again on the middledozen.

  But she won with two louis on thirty-six. Then what she did showed methat, if a novice at a convent, she was, at any rate, no novice atroulette, for she shifted her stake to the "first four"--a favouritehabit of gamblers--and won again.

  Then, growing suddenly calm again, she exchanged her gold for notes, andcrushing 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 heringenuousness been assumed? If it had, then I had been sadly taken inover her.

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

  "What luck you've had, mademoiselle!" I exclaimed.

  "Yes; I only had two hundred francs to commence, so I won exactly eleventhousand."

  "Then take my advice, and don't play again as long as you are in thisplace, for you're sure to lose it. Go away a winner. I once won fivehundred 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 theCasino opposite.

  "I know," she answered; "I don't think I shall risk anything more. Iwonder what Madame will say!"

  "Well, she can only congratulate you and tell you not to risk anythingfurther."

  "Isn't she quaint?" she asked. "And yet she's such a dear oldthing--although so very old-fashioned."

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

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

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

  About ten o'clock that night, when in dinner-jacket and black tie Ire-entered the Rooms again, I encountered Regnier. He was on his wayout, 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 Bindohere?"

  "He's been, but has returned to London on business."

  "Coming back, I suppose?" he asked. "I haven't seen anything of any ofyou of late. All safe, I hope?"

  "Up to now, yes," I laughed. "We've been in England a good dealrecently. But what I wanted to know was this: You saw me with a littleFrench 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 meinto the secret.

  V

  WHAT THE REVELLERS REVEALED

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

  Therefore I took them across the frontier at Ventimiglia into Italy. Wehad 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 wasfidgety about her bonnet, and clung on to it, much to Pierrette'samusement. Nevertheless, Madame seemed to enjoy her ride, for just as weslipped down the hill into Beaulieu she suggested that we should go onto Nice and there dine.

  "Oh yes!" cried Pierrette, with delight. "That will be lovely. I'll payfor a nice dinner out of my winnings of yesterday. I've heard that theLondon House is the place to dine."

  "You could not do better, mademoiselle," I said, turning back to her, myeyes still on the road, rendered dangerous by the electric trams andgreat traffic of cars in both directions. It struck me as curious thatI, the Count's chauffeur, should be treated as one of themselves. Iwondered, indeed, if they really intended to invite me to dinner.

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

  The ordering of the dinner she left in my hands, and we spent a verymerry hour at table, even Madame of the yellow teeth brightening upunder the influence of a glass of champagne, though Pierrette onlydrank Ev
ian.

  The Riviera was in Carnival. You who know Nice, know what thatmeans--plenty of fun and frolic in the streets, on the Jetee Promenade,and in the Casino Municipal. Therefore, after dinner, Pierrette decidedto walk out upon the pier, or jetee, as it is called, and watch themilk-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 sceneenchanting. A smart, well-dressed crowd were promenading to and fro,enjoying the magnificent balmy night, and as we walked towards the bigCasino at the end of the pier a man in a pierrot's dress of pale-greenand mauve silk, and apparently half intoxicated, for his mauve felt hatwas at the back of his head, came reeling in our direction. A Parisianand a boulevardier evidently, for he was singing gaily to himself thatsong of Aristide Bruant's, "La Noire," the well-known song of the 113thRegiment 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 nodoubt on his way to the ball that was to take place later that night atthe Casino Municipal--the first _bal masque_ of Carnival.

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

  "_Pardon, m'sieur!_" he exclaimed, bowing, then suddenly glancing atPierrette at my side he stood for a few seconds, glaring at her asthough utterly dumbfounded. "_Nom d'un chien!_" he gasped. "_P'titePier'tte!_--_Wouf!_"

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

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

  "Who was he?" I wondered.

  The incident was, no doubt, a disconcerting one for them both, becausefrom that moment their manner changed. The gambling within the bigrotunda had no interest for either of them, and a quarter of an hourlater Madame, with her peculiar rasping voice, said--

  "Pierrette, _ma chere_, it is time we returned," to which the girlacquiesced without comment.

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

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

  It was then about ten o'clock, but on the night of a Carnival ball theshops in the Avenue de la Gare are all open, and the dresses necessaryfor the ball are still displayed. Therefore, having put the car into thegarage again, I purchased a pierrot's kit similar to that worn by thereveller, a black velvet _loup_, or mask, put them on in the shop, andthen walked along to the Casino.

  I need not tell you of the ball, of the wild antics of the revellersof both sexes, of the games of leap-frog played by the men, of thegreat rings of dancers, joining hand in hand, or of the beautiful effectof the two shades of colour seen everywhere. It has been described ahundred times. Moreover, I had not gone there to dance, I was there towatch, and if possible to speak with the man who had so gaily sung "LaNoire" among the smart, aristocratic crowd on the Jetee.

  But in that great crowd, with nearly everyone wearing their masks, itwas impossible to recognise him. The only part I recollected that waspeculiar 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 enteringthe masters of the ceremonies would compel him to remove it as beingagainst the rules to wear anything but the colours laid down by thecommittee.

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

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

  Suddenly, however, as I was brushing past two masked dancers who werestanding chatting at one of the doors leading from the Casino into thetheatre where the ball was in progress, one of them exclaimed with aFrench accent--

  "Hulloa, Ewart!"

  "Hulloa!" I replied, for I had removed my mask for a few moments becauseof the heat. "Who are you?"

  "'The President,'" he responded in a low voice, and I knew that it wasHenri 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 wascomparatively quiet, and Regnier removed his mask, declaring that theheat was stifling.

  "Look here," he said in a tone of confidence, "I want to know--I'm veryinterested to know--how you became acquainted with little PierretteDumont. 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, whostill retained his mask, and to whom he had not introduced me. "You'reputting your head into a noose by going about with her. You should avoidher."

  "Why? She's most charming."

  "I admit that. But for your own sake you should exercise the greatestcare. I follow the same profession as you and your people do--and Imerely 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 graveface, so different from what it had been when he had shaken his bellsand 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 Icould not quite see why he took such an interest in us both, or why heshould have been watching us.

  "Oh, very well," he answered in a tone of slight annoyance. "Only tellyour people to be careful. And don't say I didn't warn you. I knowher--and you don't."

  "Yes," interposed his companion. "We both know her, Henri, don't we--toour 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 oftaking 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 couldsee 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 automobileof yours and run back to your own London. You're far too innocent to behere, on the Cote d'Azur, in Carnival time."

  "And yet I fancy I know the Riviera and its ways as well as most men," Iremarked.

  "Well, however much you know, you're evidently deceived in Pierrette."

  "She'd deceive the very devil himself," remarked the man whom my friendhad 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 suddendesire 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 theRiviera, and left you to look after her!"

  "Well, and what of that? Do you object? We're not interfering with anyof your plans, are we?"

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

  "Oh, my dear fellow, not at all!" laughed Regnier. "I'm only telling youfor 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 asyou are doing you'll one night get a knife in your back. And youwouldn't be the first fellow who's received a stab in the dark throughacquaintanceship 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, _moncher_ Regnier, is well meant, but I don't see any reason to discard mylittle 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 wellable to look after myself in case of a 'scrap'--and further, that Idon'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 furtherwords.

  VI

  THE MAN WITH THE LONG NOSE

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

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

  I took the pair up the beautiful Var valley to Puget Theniers, to Grasseand Castellane, and through the Tenda tunnel to Cuneo, in Piedmont--runswhich, in that clear, cloudless weather, both of them enjoyed. Whenalone with my dainty little companion, as I sometimes contrived to be, Imade inquiry about her missing father.

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

  Once, when we were seated together outside a little cafe up at PugetTheniers, 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 completemystery."

  "But is there no suspicion of foul play? Do not the police, forinstance, 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 asthe jewels."

  "Depend upon it, m'sieur, both gentlemen are victims of some audaciousplot. Your London is full of clever thieves."

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

  "Yes," I said sympathetically, "there are a good many expertjewel-thieves in the metropolis, and it seems very probable that theyknew, by some means, that Monsieur Dumont and his clerk were staying atthe 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, inthe meantime, Monsieur the father of Mademoiselle has disappeared ascompletely as if the earth had opened and swallowed him up."

  "What I fear is that my dear father is dead," exclaimed the prettyPierrette, with tears in her fine eyes. "One reads of such terriblethings in the journals."

  "No, no," I hastened to reassure her. "I do not think so. If one manalone lay between the thieves and jewels of that value--well, then wemight perhaps apprehend such a catastrophe. But there were two--twoable-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 areentirely unaware--which have led your father to bury himself and hisclerk for the present, to reappear later. Men often have secrets,mademoiselle--secrets that they do not tell others--not even their wivesor daughters."

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

  "But he would never have kept me in this suspense," she declared. "Hewould 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 allin order, are they not, madame?"

  "Perfectly," declared the old woman. "As I was saying last evening tothe 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, forshe 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 hisreappearance at Beaulieu showed quite plainly that there was more inprogress concerning the pretty Pierrette than even I imagined.

  "Then you told Sir Charles Blythe about Monsieur Dumont'sdisappearance?" I asked Madame, much interested in this new phase of theaffair, and yet at the same time puzzled that Pierrette had apparentlynot told Bindo about the affair when they met in London.

  "Yes," answered the queer old lady with the rough voice. "He was mostsympathetic and interested. He said that he knew one of the chiefs atyour Scot-len Yarde, and that he would write to him."

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

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

  "Sir Charles has, I believe, great influence with the police," Iremarked, with the idea of furthering my friend's interests, whateverthey were. "No doubt he will write home, and whatever can be done totrace Monsieur Dumont will be done."

  "He is extremely courteous to us," Madame said. "A lady in the hoteltells 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 Englishmembers of the Fetes Committee at Nice."

  "Well, I only hope that he will carry out his kind promise," declaredPierrette. "He seems to know everybody. Last night he was taking coffeewith the Duchess of Gozzano and her friends, who seem a most exclusiveset."

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

  To the keen observation of the baronet, who moved always in the smartestof cosmopolitan society, were due those robberies of jewels, reports ofwhich one read so constantly in the papers. He was the eye of the littlering of clever adventurers who, with capital at their command, were ableto effect _coups_ so daring, so ingenious, and so cleverly devised thateven Monsieur Lepine and his department in Paris were from time to timeutterly aghast and dumbfounded.

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

  When the pseudo-baronet lounged in and seated himself at my table, hecertainly did not present the appearance of a "crook." Tall, erect, ofpeculiarly aristocratic bearing, and dressed in a suit of light flannelsand a soft brown felt hat set jauntily on his head, he was the pictureof easy affluence. His face was narrow, his eyes sparkling with goodhumour, and his well-trimmed beard dark, with a few streaks of grey.

  He ordered a "Dubonnet," and then, finding that we were practicallyalone, 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 beentelling 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 goto 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. "Butthe whole affair is such a complete mystery that it certainly is to theinterests of all of us if I'm let into the secret. At present I'mworking in the dark."

  "And so am I, my dear fellow," was Sir Charles's response. "Bindo met mein the Constitutional, gave me a hundred pounds, and told me to go outat once. So I came."

  "And when is he returning?"

  "Only he himself knows that. He seems tremendously busy. Henderson iswith 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. Bindotold 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 totell me?"

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

  "Yes, but in certain circumstances he ought to let me know what isintended, 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 ofit?"

  "Quite. I saw them recognise each other in the Rooms the otherafternoon. I afterwards met him alone, and he admitted that he knewher."

  "Then the affair is far more complicated than I believed," exclaimed mycompanion, 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 becareful--confoundedly careful; otherwise we shall be given away."

  "By whom?"

  "By our enemies," was his ambiguous response. "Did Regnier tell youanything 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 mustwire at once to Bindo."

  While we were talking, however, a thin, rather well-dressed, long-nosedFrenchman, in a brown suit and grey suede gloves, entered, and sat at atable near. He was not thirty, but about him was the unmistakable air ofthe _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 thecafe.

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

  "Couldn't make him out," was my friend's reply. "Looks very suspiciouslylike an agent of police."

  "That's just my opinion," I said anxiously. "We must be careful--verycareful."

  "Yes. We mustn't meet again unless absolutely necessary. I'm just goingup the hill to the post-office to send a cipher message to Bindo. Heought 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 ofthe Surete?

  VII

  ON DANGEROUS GROUND

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

  On several occasions when I called at the Bristol I saw him sitting inthe garden with Madame and Mademoiselle, doing the amiable, at which hewas an adept. He was essentially a ladies' man, and the very women wholost their diamonds recounted to him their loss and received hisassistance and sympathy.

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

  Where was Bindo? Day after day passed, and I remained at the Paris, butno 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 arun to St. Raphael one morning, and another to Castellane, she had eachday other engagements--luncheon up at La Turbie, tea with Sir Charles atRumpelmeyer's, or at Vogarde's. I was surprised, and perhaps a littleannoyed, 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. ButI was, I know, not the perfect lover that the Count was.

  There were many points about the mysterious affair in progress that Icould not account for. If Mademoiselle had really taken the veil, thenwhy did she still retain such a wealth of dark, silky hair? And if shewere 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 Bindowhen 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 orderto see whether the mystery of Monsieur Dumont was reported.

  But it was not.

  Regnier was still about, smart and perfectly attired, as usual. When wepassed and there was nobody to observe, he usually nodded pleasantly. Atheart "The President" was not at all a bad fellow, and on many anoccasion in the past season we had sipped "manhattans" together atCiro's.

  Thus more than a week passed--a week o
f grave apprehension and constantwonderment--during which time the long-nosed stranger seemed to turn upeverywhere in a manner quite unaccountable.

  Late one night, on going to my room in the Paris, I found a welcometelegram from Bindo, dated from Milan, ordering me to meet him with thecar at the Hotel Umberto, in Cuneo, on the following day. Now, Cuneo layover the Italian frontier, in Piedmont, half-way between Monte Carloand Turin. To cross the Alps by the Col di Tenda and the tunnel would,I knew, take about six hours from Nice by way of Sospel. The despatchwas sent from Milan, from which I guessed that for some reason Bindo wasabout to enter France by the back door, namely, by the almost unguardedfrontier at Tenda. At Calais, Boulogne, or Ventimiglia there are alwaysagents of police, who eye the traveller entering France, but up at thatrural Alpine village are only idling _douaniers_, who never suspectedthe 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 therecommenced to ascend by that wonderful road which winds away, ever higherand higher, through Brois and Fontan to the Tenda, which it passesbeneath by a long tunnel lit by electricity its whole length, and thenout on to the Italian side. Though the sun was warm and balmy along theLower 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 pointssquads of Alpine soldiers were manoeuvring, for the frontier is verystrongly guarded from a military point of view, and both tunnel and roadis, it is said, so mined that it might be blown up and destroyed at anymoment.

  In the twilight of the short wintry day I at last ran into the dulllittle Italian town, where there is direct railway communication fromTurin, 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 halfperished by the cold, and then, after refilling my petrol-tank andtaking a look around the engines, we both mounted, and I turned the carback into the road along which I had travelled.

  It was already nearly dark, and very soon I had to put on thesearch-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 withMademoiselle, 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. Tellme 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 transpiredfrom the moment he had left.

  Fully an hour I occupied in telling him the whole story, and never oncedid he open his mouth. I saw by the reflection of the light upon thesnowy road that his eyes were half closed behind his goggles, and morethan 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 pryinginto our affairs without knowing who they are. Haven't you tried todiscover?"

  "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 longsilence fell between us.

  "'The President' is at the Hermitage, eh?" he asked at last. "Does heknow 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 deniedacquaintance with him? Didn't that strike you as curious?"

  "Of course, but I feared to press her. You don't let me into yoursecrets, therefore I'm compelled always to work in the dark."

  "Let you into a secret, Ewart!" he laughed "Why, if I did, you'd eithergo and give it away next day quite unconsciously, or else you'd be insuch a blue funk that you'd turn tail and clear out just at the verymoment 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 thefirst 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-workto me. You can drive a car with anybody in Europe, Ewart, but when itcomes to a tight corner you haven't got enough brains to fill a doll'sthimble," he laughed. "Permit me to speak frankly, for we know eachother well enough now, I fancy."

  "Yes, you _are_ frank," I admitted. "But," I added reproachfully, "inworking 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 longago. Successful men in any walk of life are those who have courage andare successfully unscrupulous," he said, for he seemed in one of hisquaint, philosophic moods. "Those who are unsuccessfully unscrupulousare termed swindlers, and eventually stand in the dock," he went on."What are your successful politicians but successful liars? What areyour great South African magnates, before whom even Royalty bows, butsuccessful adventurers? And what are your millionaire manufacturers butcanting hypocrites who have got their money by paying a starvation wageand giving the public advertised shoddy, a quack medicine, or a soapwhich smells pleasantly but is injurious to the skin? No, my dearEwart," he laughed, as we turned into the long tunnel, with its row ofelectric lights, "the public are not philosophers. They worship thegolden calf, and that is for them all-sufficient. At the Old BaileyI should be termed a thief, and they have, I know, a set of myfinger-prints at Scotland Yard. But am I, after all, any greater thiefthan half the silk-hatted crowd who promote rotten companies in the Cityand persuade the widow to invest her little all in them? No. I live uponthe wealthy--and live well, too, for the matter of that--and no one canever say that I took a pennyworth from man or woman who could not affordit."

  I laughed. It always amused me to hear him talk like that. Yet there wasa good deal of truth in his arguments. Many an open swindler nowadays,because he has successfully got money out of the pockets of other peopleby 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_, andwere again in France.

  With our engines stopped, we were silently descending the long declinewhich runs for miles towards Sospel, when my companion suddenly arousedhimself and said--

  "You mentioned Regnier's friend--Raoul, I think you called him. Go overthat 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. "Iwonder 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 moreabout 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," Isaid.

  "Quite against my will, I assure you, Ewart," he laughed. "But, byJove!" 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 mysteriousdisappearance?"

  "Of course. That's why I went."

  "And were they satisfactory? I mean did you discover whetherMademoiselle has told the truth?" I asked anxiously.

  "She told you the exact truth. Her father, her lover, and the jewels aremissing. Scotland Yard, at the express request of the Paris police, arepreserving the secret. Not a syllable has been allowed to leak out tothe 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 manwho had re-entered France by the back door.

  And by midnight "Monsieur Charles Bellingham, de Londres," was sleepingsoundly 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 ina suit of cream flannels and Panama hat, sunning himself on the terracebefore the Casino, or lunching at the Hermitage or Metropole with peoplehe knew, appearing to the world to lead the idle life of a well-to-doman about town--one of a thousand other good-looking, wealthy men whosehabit it was annually to spend the worst weeks in the year beside theblue 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 foracting as his spy, whether there, or at Aix, or at Ostend. But so lazywas his present attitude that I was surprised.

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

  Madame of the yellow teeth had introduced Sir Charles to him, and thepair 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, onbeing introduced, they would gradually begin a conversation regardingmutual acquaintances.

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

  One afternoon I drove Bindo, with Blythe, Madame, and Mademoiselle, overto the Beau Site, at Cannes, to tea, and the party was certainly a verymerry one. Yet it puzzled me to discover in what direction Bindo'sactive brain was working, and what were his designs.

  The only facts that were apparent were that first he was ingratiatinghimself further with Mademoiselle,--who regarded him with undisguisedlove-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 theCasino, with their faces turned to the moonlit sea and the gaily-litrock of Monaco.

  They were in deep, earnest conversation; therefore I turned back andleft them. It would not do, I knew, if Bindo discovered me in thevicinity.

  In crossing the Place I came face to face with the long-nosed strangerwhom I suspected as a police-agent, but he seemed in a hurry, and I donot think he noticed me.

  Next day I saw nothing of Bindo, who, strangely enough, did not sleepat the Paris. We did not meet till about eight o'clock at night, when Icaught 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 hadclosed, 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 handedit 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 todo, except that I want you to go over to Nice and spend the evening. Goto the Casino, and watch to see if Raoul is there. Be back here by thetwelve-twenty-five, and come up and report to me."

  I went to my own room, dressed, and then took train to Nice. But thoughI lounged about the Casino Municipal all that evening, I saw nothing ofeither Regnier or Raoul. It struck me, however, that Bindo had sent meover to Nice in order to get rid of me, and this surmise was somewhatconfirmed 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 awayat seven. The quicker we're out of this place, the better."

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

  "Where are we going?"

  "I'll tell you to-morrow. Give this wire to the night-porter and tellhim 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 notcall, as he was compelled to go to Hyeres, but that he would dine at theBristol that evening.

  "And," he added, "get your traps together. We're leaving here, and weleave no trace behind--you understand?"

  I nodded.

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

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

  Motorists often start early on long excursions on the Riviera; thereforeit was deemed nothing unusual when, at a quarter-past seven, we mountedon 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 settleddetermination.

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

  Hour after hour, with a perfect wall of white dust behind us, we kept onuntil about three o'clock in the afternoon, when we pulled up at anhotel close to the station in busy Genoa. Here we swallowed a hastymeal, and at Bindo's directions we turned north up the Ronco valley forAlessandria and Turin, my companion explaining that it was his intentionto re-enter France again by crossing the Mont Cenis.

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

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

  From Dijon we left the Paris road and struck due north by Chaumont andBar-le-duc to Verdun, Sedan, and Givet, where we passed into Belgium. Atthe Metropole, in Brussels, we spent a welcome twenty-four hours, andslept 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 acrossEurope--Bindo practically preserved a complete silence as to hisintentions or as to what had happened.

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

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

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

  "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 whywe took such a roundabout route."

  "And now we are here," I exclaimed, glancing over the dull, greylandscape, "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 ourlives," he laughed.

  "How?"

  "Let's get up and drive on," he said; "we won't stop in Utrecht, it'ssuch 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 ourjourney.

  * * * * *

  "It was like this, you see," he commenced. "I own I was entirely misledin the beginning. That little girl played a trick on me. She's evidentlynot the ingenuous miss that I took her to be."

  "You mean Pierrette?" I laughed. "No, I quite agree with you. She's beento Monte Carlo before, I believe."

  "Well," exclaimed the debonnair Bindo, "I met her in London, as youknow. Our acquaintance was quite a casual one, in the big hall of theCecil--where I afterwards discovered she was staying with Madame. Shewas an adventurous little person, and met me at the lions, in TrafalgarSquare, 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 daughterof a wealthy Frenchman. Our conversation naturally turned upon hermother, as I wanted to find out if the latter possessed any jewels worthlooking 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 atthe Cecil, was her companion, and her father had, I understood, a finechateau near Troyes. Her parents, religious bigots, were, however,sending her, very much against her will, to the seclusion of a conventclose to Fontainebleau--not as a scholastic pupil--but to be actuallytrained for the Sisterhood! She seemed greatly perturbed about this, andI could see that the poor girl did not know how to act, and had nooutside friend to assist her. To me, it at once occurred that by aidingher I could obtain her confidence, and so get to know this mother withthe valuable sparklers. Therefore I arranged that you should, on acertain morning, travel to Fontainebleau, and that she should manage toescape from the good Sisters and travel down to Beaulieu. Madame Vernetwas to be in the secret, and should join her later."

  "Yes," I said, "I understood all that. She misled you regarding hermother."

  "And she was still more artful, for she never told me the truth as towho her father really was, or the reason why they were there inLondon--in search of him," he remarked. "I learnt the truth for thefirst 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 withjewels of great value."

  "Then another idea struck you, I presume?"

  "Of course," he answered, laughing. "I wondered for what reasonMademoiselle was to be placed in a convent; why she had misled meregarding her parentage; and, above all, why she was so very desirous ofcoming to the Riviera. So I returned, first to Paris--where I found thatDumont and Martin were actually both missing. I managed to getphotographs of both men, and then crossed to London, and there commencedactive inquiries. Within a week I had the whole of the mysterious affairat 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, butgradually 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 directionin which I was working, and had warned the Paris Surete. I was thereforebound to travel back to Monte Carlo, if I intended to be successful, soI 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'dbeen taken completely aback."

  "How?"

  "Because when I returned to Monty I made some absolutely surprisingdiscoveries. Among them was that Mademoiselle was in the habit ofsecretly 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 jewellerDumont had arranged for Mademoiselle to go into the convent. The fatherhad, no doubt, discovered his daughter's secret love affair. Martin knewthis, and with the connivance of Pierrette and Madame had decamped withthe 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 complainedto the police it would get into the papers, and his creditors--who hadlately been very pressing--would lose confidence in the stability of thebusiness in the Rue de la Paix. So he resolved to disappear, get away toNorway, and, if possible, follow Martin and regain possession of thejewels. In this he very nearly succeeded, but fortunately for us, Martinwas no fool."

  "How?"

  "Why, he took the jewels to Nice with him when he went to meetPierrette, and, having acquaintance with Regnier through his friendRaoul, gave them over to 'The President' to sell for him, well knowingthat 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 twoprevious dealings with Regnier while in various situations in Paris."

  "Well?" I asked, astounded at all this. "That's the reason they warnedme against her. What else?"

  "What else?" he asked. "You may well ask what else? Well, I actedboldly."

  "How do you mean?"

  "I simply told the dainty Mademoiselle, Raoul, Martin, and the rest ofthem, of my intention--to explain to the police the whole queer story. Iknew quite well that Regnier had the jewels intact in a bag in his roomat the Hermitage, and rather feared lest he might pitch the whole lotinto the sea, and so get rid of them. That there were grave suspicionsagainst him regarding the mysterious death of a banker at Aix six monthsbefore--you recollect the case--I knew quite well, and I was equallycertain that he dare not risk any police inquiries. I had a tremendouslydifficult fight for it, I can assure you; but I stood quite firm, andnotwithstanding 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 toAmsterdam--if not on business?" he answered, with a smile.

  "But where are they? I haven't seen them when our luggage has beenoverhauled 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 andmoved it about.

  "Feel anything?" he asked, giving me the stick.

  I felt, and surely enough in the bottom of the tank was a quantity ofsmall 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, thenight before we left. Come, let's get on again;" and he re-screwed thecap over one of the finest hauls of jewels ever made in modern criminalhistory.

  "Well--I'm hanged!" I cried, utterly dumbfounded. "But what ofMademoiselle's fa
ther?"

  Bindo merely raised his shoulders and laughed. "Mademoiselle may be leftto tell him the truth--if she thinks it desirable," he said. "Martinhas already cleared out--to Buenos Ayres, minus everything; Regnier iscompletely sold, for no doubt the too confiding Martin would have gotnothing out of 'The President'; while Mademoiselle and Madame are nowwondering how best to return to Paris and face the music. Old Dumontwill probably have to close his doors in the Rue de la Paix, for we havehere a selection of his very best. But, after all, Mademoiselle--whoseplan to go to London in search of her father was a rather ingeniousone--certainly has me to thank that she is not under arrest for criminalconspiracy 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 emptiedfrom it its precious contents, which half an hour later had been washedand were safely reposing from the eyes of the curious between tissuepaper in the safe in the old Jew's dark den in the Kerk Straat, inAmsterdam.

  That was a year ago, and old Dumont still carries on business in the Ruede la Paix. Sir Charles Blythe, who is our informant, as always, tellsus that although the pretty Pierrette is back in her convent, thejeweller is still in ignorance of Martin's whereabouts, of how hisproperty passed from hand to hand, or of any of the real factsconcerning its disappearance.

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

  Honesty spells poverty, Bindo always declares to me.

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

  And yet how hard it is--how very hard! One can never, alas! retractone's downward steps. I am "The Count's Chauffeur," and shall, Isuppose, continue to remain so until the black day when we all fall intothe 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 fardistant.

  For the present, therefore, I must write

  THE END.

  Printed by BALLANTYNE & CO. LIMITED Tavistock Street, London