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

On several occasions when I called at the Bristol I saw him sitting in the garden with Madame and Mademoiselle, doing the amiable, at which he was an adept. He was essentially a ladies’ man, and the very women who lost their diamonds recounted to him their loss and received his assistance and sympathy.

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

Where was Bindo? Day after day passed, and I remained at the Paris, but no word came from him—or from Sir Charles, for the matter of that.

Pierrette’s ardour for motoring seemed to have now cooled; for, beyond a run to St. Raphael one morning, and another to Castellane, she had each day other engagements—luncheon up at La Turbie, tea with Sir Charles at Rumpelmeyer’s, or at Vogarde’s. I was surprised, and perhaps a little annoyed, at this; for, truth to tell, I admired Mademoiselle greatly, and she had on more than one occasion flirted openly with me.

Bindo always declared that I was a fool where women were concerned. But I was, I know, not the perfect lover that the Count was.

There were many points about the mysterious affair in progress that I could not account for. If Mademoiselle had really taken the veil, then why did she still retain such a wealth of dark, silky hair? And if she were not a nun, then why had she been masquerading as one? But, further, if her father was actually missing in London, why had she not told Bindo when they had met there?

Day after day I kept my eye upon the Journal, the Temps, and the Matin, as well as upon the Paris edition of the Daily Mail, in order to see whether the mystery of Monsieur Dumont was reported.

But it was not.

Regnier was still about, smart and perfectly attired, as usual. When we passed and there was nobody to observe, he usually nodded pleasantly. At heart “The President” was not at all a bad fellow, and on many an occasion in the past season we had sipped “manhattans” together at Ciro’s.

Thus more than a week passed—a week of grave apprehension and constant wonderment—during which time the long-nosed stranger seemed to turn up everywhere in a manner quite unaccountable.

Late one night, on going to my room in the Paris, I found a welcome telegram from Bindo, dated from Milan, ordering me to meet him with the car at the Hotel Umberto, in Cuneo, on the following day. Now, Cuneo lay over the Italian frontier, in Piedmont, half-way between Monte Carlo and Turin. To cross the Alps by the Col di Tenda and the tunnel would, I knew, take about six hours from Nice by way of Sospel. The despatch was sent from Milan, from which I guessed that for some reason Bindo was about to enter France by the back door, namely, by the almost unguarded frontier at Tenda. At Calais, Boulogne, or Ventimiglia there are always agents of police, who eye the traveller entering France, but up at that rural Alpine village are only idling douaniers, who never suspected the affluent owner of a big automobile.

What, I wondered, had occurred to cause the Count to travel around vi Ostend, Brussels, and Milan, as I rightly suspected he had done?

At nine o’clock next morning I ran along to Nice, and from there commenced to ascend by that wonderful road which winds away, ever higher and higher, through Brois and Fontan to the Tenda, which it passes beneath by a long tunnel lit by electricity its whole length, and then out on to the Italian side. Though the sun was warm and balmy along the Lower Corniche, here was sharp frost and deep snow, so deep, indeed, that I was greatly delayed, and feared every moment to run into a drift.

On both sides of the Tenda were hidden fortresses, and at many points squads of Alpine soldiers were manoeuvring, for the frontier is very strongly guarded from a military point of view, and both tunnel and road is, it is said, so mined that it might be blown up and destroyed at any moment.

In the twilight of the short wintry day I at last ran into the dull little Italian town, where there is direct railway communication from Turin, and at the small, uninviting-looking Hotel Umberto I found Bindo, worn and travel-stained, impatiently awaiting me.

An hour only I remained, in order to get a hot meal, for I was half perished by the cold, and then, after refilling my petrol-tank and taking a look around the engines, we both mounted, and I turned the car back into the road along which I had travelled.

It was already nearly dark, and very soon I had to put on the search-light.

Bindo, seated at my side, appeared utterly worn-out with travel.

I was, I found, quite right in my surmise.

“I’ve come a long way round, Ewart, in order to enter France unobserved. I’ve been travelling hard these last three days. Blythe is with Mademoiselle, I suppose?” he asked, as we went along.

I responded in the affirmative.

“Tell me all that’s happened. Go on, I’m listening—everything. Tell me exactly, for a lot depends upon how matters now stand,” he said, buttoning the collar of his heavy overcoat more tightly around his neck, for the icy blast cut one like a knife at the rate we were travelling.

I settled down to the wheel, and related everything that had transpired from the moment he had left.

Fully an hour I occupied in telling him the whole story, and never once did he open his mouth. I saw by the reflection of the light upon the snowy road that his eyes were half closed behind his goggles, and more than once feared that he had gone to sleep.

Suddenly, however, he said—

“And who is the long-nosed stranger?”

“I don’t know.”

“But it’s your place to know,” he snapped. “We can’t have fellows prying into our affairs without knowing who they are. Haven’t you tried to discover?”

“I thought it too risky.”

“Then you think he’s a police-agent, eh?”

“That’s just what Blythe and I both think.”

“Describe him.”

I did so to the best of my ability.

And Bindo gave vent to a grunt of dissatisfaction, after which a long silence fell between us.

“‘The President’ is at the Hermitage, eh?” he asked at last. “Does he know where I’ve been?”

“I’m not sure. He knows you have not lately been in Monty.”

“But you say he nodded to Mademoiselle, and that afterwards she denied acquaintance with him? Didn’t that strike you as curious?”

“Of course, but I feared to press her. You don’t let me into your secrets, therefore I’m compelled always to work in the dark.”

“Let you into a secret, Ewart!” he laughed “Why, if I did, you’d either go and give it away next day quite unconsciously, or else you’d be in such a blue funk that you’d turn tail and clear out just at the very moment when I want you.”

“Well, in London, before we started, you said you had a big thing on, and I’ve been ever since trying to discover what it is.”

“The whole affair has altered,” was his quick reply. “I gave up the first idea for a second and better one.”

“And what’s that? Tell me.”

“You wait, my dear fellow. Have the car ready, and leave the brain-work to me. You can drive a car with anybody in Europe, Ewart, but when it comes to a tight corner you haven’t got enough brains to fill a doll’s thimble,” he laughed. “Permit me to speak frankly, for we know each other well enough now, I fancy.”

“Yes, you are frank,” I admitted. “But,” I added reproachfully, “in working in the dark there’s always a certain element of danger.”

“Danger be hanged! If I thought of danger I’d have been at Portland long ago. Successful men in any walk of life are those who have courage and are successfully unscrupulous,” he said, for he seemed in one of his quaint, philosophic moods. “Those who are unsuccessfully unscrupulous are termed swindlers, and eventually stand in the dock,” he went on. “What are your successful politicians but successful liars? What are your great South African magnates, before whom even Royalty bows, but successful adventurers? And what are your millionaire manufacturers but canting hypocrites who have got their money by paying a starvation wage and giving the public advertised shoddy, a quack medicine, or a soap which smells pleasantly but is injurious to the skin? No, my dear Ewart,” he laughed, as we turned into the long tunnel, with its row of electric lights, “the public are not philosophers. They worship the golden calf, and that is for them all-sufficient. At the Old Bailey I should be termed a thief, and they have, I know, a set of my finger-prints at Scotland Yard. But am I, after all, any greater thief than half the silk-hatted crowd who promote rotten companies in the City and persuade the widow to invest her little all in them? No. I live upon the wealthy—and live well, too, for the matter of that—and no one can ever say that I took a pennyworth from man or woman who could not afford it.”

I laughed. It always amused me to hear him talk like that. Yet there was a good deal of truth in his arguments. Many an open swindler nowadays, because he has successfully got money out of the pockets of other people by sharp practice just once removed from fraud, receives a knighthood, and struts in Pall Mall clubs and in the drawing-rooms of Mayfair.

We had emerged from the tunnel, successfully passed the douane, and were again in France.

With our engines stopped, we were silently descending the long decline which runs for miles towards Sospel, when my companion suddenly aroused himself and said—

“You mentioned Regnier’s friend—Raoul, I think you called him. Go over that incident again.”

I did as I was bidden. And when I had concluded he drew a long breath.

“Ah! Regnier is a wary bird,” he remarked, as though to himself. “I wonder what his game could be in warning you?” Then, after a pause, he asked, “Has Mademoiselle mentioned me again?”

“Several times. She is your great admirer.”

“Little fool!” he blurted forth impatiently. “Has she said any more about her missing father?”

“Yes, a good deal—always worrying about him.”

“That’s not surprising. And her lover, the man Martin, what about him?”

“She has said very little. You have taken his place in her heart,” I said.

“Quite against my will, I assure you, Ewart,” he laughed. “But, by Jove!” he added, “the whole affair is full of confounded complications. I had no idea of it all till I returned to town.”

“Then you’ve made inquiries regarding Monsieur Dumont and his mysterious disappearance?”

“Of course. That’s why I went.”

“And were they satisfactory? I mean did you discover whether Mademoiselle has told the truth?” I asked anxiously.

“She told you the exact truth. Her father, her lover, and the jewels are missing. Scotland Yard, at the express request of the Paris police, are preserving the secret. Not a syllable has been allowed to leak out to the Press. For that very reason I altered my plans.”

“And what do you now intend to do?”

“Not quite so fast, my dear Ewart. Just wait and see,” answered the man who had re-entered France by the back door.

And by midnight “Monsieur Charles Bellingham, de Londres,” was sleeping soundly in his room in the HÔtel de Paris at Monte Carlo.