Pierrette Dumont—for that was her name, she told me—proved a most charming and entertaining companion, and could, I found, speak English quite well.

She had lived nearly seven years in England—in London, Brighton, and other places—and as we set the car along that beautiful road that runs for so many miles beside the Yonne, she told me quite a lot about herself.

Her admiration for M’sieur Bellingham was very pronounced. It was not difficult to see that this pretty girl, who, I supposed, had escaped from her convent, was madly in love with the handsome Bindo. The Count was a sad lady-killer, and where any profit was concerned was a most perfect lover, as many a woman possessed of valuable jewels had known to her cost. From the pretty Pierrette’s bright chatter, I began to wonder whether or not she was marked down as a victim. She had met the gay Bindo in Paris, it seemed, but how and in what circumstances, having regard to her religious habit, she did not inform me.

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

By dint of careful questioning I tried to obtain from her some facts concerning her escape from the convent, but she would tell me nothing regarding it. All she replied was—

“Ah! M’sieur Bellingham! How kind and good he is to send you for me—to get me clean away from that hateful place!” and then, drawing a deep breath, she added, “How good it is to be free again—free!”

The car was tearing along, the rush of wind already bringing the colour to her soft, delicate cheeks. The bulb of a wind-horn was at her side, and she sat with her hands upon it, sounding a warning note whenever necessary as we flashed through the long string of villages between Sens and Chatillon. The wintry landscape was rather dull and cheerless, yet with her at my side I began to find the journey delightful. There is nothing so dreary, depressing, and monotonous as to cross France alone in a car without a soul to speak to all day through.

“I wonder when we shall arrive at Monte Carlo?” she queried presently in English, with a rather pronounced accent, turning her fresh, smiling face to me—a face that was typically French, and dark eyes that were undeniably fine.

“It all depends upon accidents,” I laughed. “With good fortune we ought to be there to-morrow night—that is, if we keep going, and you are not too tired.”

“Tired? No. I love motoring! It will be such fun to go on all night,” she exclaimed enthusiastically. “And what a fine big lamp you’ve got! I’ve never been in Monte Carlo, and am so anxious to see it. I’ve read so much about it—and the gambling. M’sieur Bellingham said they will not admit me to the Casino, as I’m too young. Do you think they will?”

“I don’t think there is any fear,” I laughed. “How old are you?”

“Nineteen next birthday.”

“Well, tell them you are twenty-one, and they will give you a card. The paternal administration don’t care who or what you are as long as you are well dressed and you have money to lose. At Monte Carlo you must always keep up an appearance. I’ve known a millionaire to be refused admittance because his trousers were turned up.”

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

A mystery surrounded my chic little travelling-companion which I could not make out.

At about two o’clock in the afternoon we pulled up just beyond the little town of Chauceaux, about thirty miles from Dijon, and there ate our cold provisions, washing them down with a bottle of red wine. She was hungry, and ate with an appetite, laughing merrily, and thoroughly enjoying the adventure.

“I was so afraid this morning that you were not coming,” she declared. “I was there at seven, quite an hour before you were due. And when you came you flew past, and I thought that you did not notice me. M’sieur Bellingham sent me word last night that you had started.”

“And where are you staying when you get to Monte Carlo?”

“At Beaulieu, I think. That’s near Monte Carlo, isn’t it? The HÔtel Bristol, I believe, is where Madame is staying.”

“Madame? Who is she?”

“Madame Vernet,” was all she vouchsafed. Who the lady was she seemed to have no inclination to tell me.

Through Dijon, Beaune, and ChÂlons-sur-SaÔne we travelled, but before we ran on to the rough cobbles of old-world MaÇon darkness had already fallen, and our big search-light was shedding a shaft of white brilliancy far ahead.

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

We reached Lyons half an hour before midnight, and there got some bouillon and roast poulet outside the Perache, then off again into the dark cold night, hour after hour ever beside the broad Rhone and the iron way to the Mediterranean.

After an hour I saw that she was suffering intensely from the cold, therefore I compelled her to get inside, and having tucked her up warmly with all the wraps we had, I left her to sleep, while I drove on due south towards the Riviera.

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

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

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

Before we approached the cross-road the first faint flash of dawn showed away on our left, and by the time we reached Sisterton the sun had risen. At an auberge we pulled up, and got two big bowls of steaming cafÉ au lait, and then without much adventure continued our way down to Mirabeau, whence we turned sharp to the left for Draguignan and Les Arcs. At the last-mentioned place she resumed her seat at my side, and with the exception of her hair being slightly disarranged, she seemed quite as fresh and merry as on the previous day.

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

“I am searching for my dear father,” she answered, however. “He has disappeared, and we fear that something terrible has happened to him.”

“Disappeared? Where from?”

“From London. He left Paris a month ago for London to do business, and stayed at the Hotel Charing Cross—I think you call it—for five days. On the sixth he went out of the hotel at four o’clock in the afternoon, and has never been seen or heard of since.”

“And that was a month ago, mademoiselle?” I remarked, surprised at her story.

“Nearly,” was her answer. “Accompanied by Madame Vernet, I went to see M’sieur Lepine, the Prefect of Police of Paris, and gave him all the information and a photograph of my father. And I believe the police of London are making inquiries.”

“And what profession is your father?” I asked.

“He is a jeweller. His shop is in the Rue de la Paix, on the right, going down to the Place VendÔme. Maison Dumont—perhaps you may know it?”

Dumont’s, the finest and most expensive jewellers in Paris! Of course I knew it. Who does not who knows Paris? How many times had I—and in all probability you also—lingered and looked into those two big windows where are displayed some of the most expensive jewels and choicest designs in ornaments in the world.

“Ah! so Monsieur Dumont is your father?” I remarked, with some reflection. “And did he have with him any jewels in London?”

“Yes. It was for that very reason we fear the worst. He went to London expressly to show some very valuable gems to the Princess Henry of Salzburg, at Her Highness’s order. She wanted them to wear at a Court in London.”

“And what was the value of the jewels?”

“They were diamonds and emeralds worth, they tell me at the magasin, over half a million francs.”

“And did nobody go with him to London?”

“Yes, Monsieur Martin, my father’s chief clerk. But he has also disappeared.”

“And the jewels—eh?”

“And also the jewels.”

“But may not this man Martin have got rid of your father somehow or other and decamped? That is a rather logical conclusion, isn’t it?”

“That is Monsieur Lepine’s theory; but”—and she turned to me very seriously—“I am sure, quite sure, Monsieur Martin would never be guilty of such a thing. He is far too devoted.”

“To your father—eh?” I asked, with a smile.

“Yes,” she answered, with a little hesitation.

“And how can you vouch for his honesty? Half a million francs is a great temptation, remember.”

“No, not so much—for him,” was her reply.

“Why?”

She looked straight into my face through the talc front of her motor-veil, and after a moment’s silence exclaimed, with a girl’s charming frankness—

“I wonder, Monsieur Ewart, whether I can trust you?”

“I hope so, mademoiselle,” was my reply. “Mr. Bellingham has entrusted you to my care, hasn’t he?”

I hoped she was about to confide in me, but all she said was—

“Well, then, the reason I am so certain of Monsieur Martin’s honesty is because—because I—I’m engaged to be married to him;” and she blushed deeply as she made the admission.

“Oh, I see! Now I begin to understand.”

“Yes. Has he not more than half a million francs at stake?—for I am my father’s only child.”

“Certainly, that places a fresh complexion on matters,” I said; “but does Monsieur your father know of the engagement?”

“Mon Dieu! no! I—I dare not tell him. Monsieur Martin is only a clerk, remember.”

“And how long has he been in the service of the house?”

“Not a year yet.”

I was silent. There was trickery somewhere without a doubt, but where?

As the especial line of the debonnair Count Bindo di Ferraris and his ingenious friends was jewellery, I could not help regarding as curious the coincidence that the daughter of the missing man was travelling in secret with me to the Riviera. But why, if the coup had really already been made in London, as it seemed it had, we should come out to the Riviera and mix ourselves up with Pierrette and the mysterious Madame Vernet was beyond my comprehension. To me it seemed a distinct peril.

“Didn’t the Princess purchase any of the jewels of your father?” I asked. “Tell me the facts as far as you know them.”

“Well, as soon as they found poor father and Monsieur Martin missing they sent over Monsieur Boullanger, the manager, to London, and he called upon Her Highness at Claridge’s Hotel—I think that was where she was staying. She said that after making the appointment with my father she was compelled to go away to Scotland, and could not keep it until the morning of the day on which he disappeared. My father, accompanied by Monsieur Martin, called upon her and showed her the gems. One diamond tiara she liked, but it was far too expensive; therefore she decided to have nothing, declaring that she could buy the same thing cheaper in London. The jewels were repacked in the bag, and taken away. That appears to be the last seen of them. Four hours later my father left the Hotel Charing Cross alone, got into a cab, drove away, and nobody has seen him since. Monsieur Boullanger is still in London making inquiries.”

“And now, mademoiselle, permit me to ask you a question,” I said, looking straight at her. “How came you to be acquainted with Mr. Bellingham?”

Her countenance changed instantly. Her well-marked brows contracted slightly, and I saw that she had some mysterious reason for not replying to my inquiry.

“I—I don’t think I need satisfy you on that point, m’sieur,” she replied at last, with a slight hauteur, as though her dignity were offended.

“Pardon me,” I said quickly, “I meant to offer you no offence, mademoiselle. You naturally are in distress regarding the unaccountable disappearance of your father, and when one mentions jewels thoughts of foul play always arise in one’s mind. The avariciousness of man, and his unscrupulousness where either money or jewels are concerned, are well known even to you, at your age. I thought, however, you were confiding in me, and I wondered how you, in active search of your father as you are, could have met my employer, Mr. Bellingham.”

“I met him in London, I have already told you.”

“How long ago?”

“Three weeks.”

“Ah! Then you have been in London since the supposed robbery?” I exclaimed. “I had not gathered that fact.”

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

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

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

Since my association with Bindo and his friends I had, I admit, become as unscrupulous as they were. Before my engagement as the Count’s chauffeur I think I was just as honest as the average man ever is; but there is an old adage which says that you can’t touch pitch without being besmirched, and in my case it was, I suppose, only too true. I had come to regard their ingenious plots and adventures with interest and attention, and marvelled at the extraordinary resource and cunning with which they misled and deceived their victims, and obtained by various ways and means those bright little stones which, in regular consignments, made their way to the dark little den of the crafty old Goomans in the Kerk Straat at Amsterdam, and were exchanged for bundles of negotiable bank-notes.

The police of Europe knew that for the past two years there had been actively at work a gang of the cleverest jewel-thieves ever known, yet the combined astuteness of Scotland Yard with that of the Paris SuretÉ and the Pubblica Sicurezza of Italy had never suspected the smart, well-dressed, good-looking Charlie Bellingham, who lived in such ease and comfort in Clifford Street, and whose wide circle of intimate friends at country houses included at least two members of the present Cabinet.

The very women who lost their jewels so unaccountably—wives of wealthy peers or City magnates—were most of them Charlie Bellingham’s “pals,” and on more than one occasion it was Charlie himself who gave information to the police and who interviewed thirsty detectives and inquisitive reporters.

The men who worked with him were only his assistants, shrewd clever fellows each of them, but lacking either initiative or tact. He directed them, and they carried out his orders to the letter. His own ever-active brain formulated the plots and devised the plans by which those shining stones passed into their possession, while such a thoroughgoing cosmopolitan was he that he was just as much at home in the Boulevard des Capucines, or the Ringstrasse, as in Piccadilly, or on the Promenade des Anglais.

Yes, Count Bindo, when with his forty “Napier,” he had engaged me, and I had on that well-remembered afternoon first made the acquaintance of his friends in the smoking-room at the Hotel Cecil, had promised me plenty of driving, with a leaven of adventure.

And surely he had fulfilled his promise!

The long white road, winding like a ribbon through the dark olives, with the white villas of Cannes, the moonlit bay La Croisette, and the islands calm in the glorious night, lay before us.

And beside me, interested and trustful, sat the pretty Pierrette—the victim.