Several times I re-read the account of the dastardly outrage.

Too well I knew how dangerous and desperate a man was Jules Jeanjean, the studious, and apparently harmless, Belgian doctor, who had lodged in the Overstrand Road, and had strolled about the pier and promenade of Cromer. His name, during the last three years or so, had become well known from end to end of Europe as an Anarchist who defied all the powers of law and order; a man who moved from place to place with marvellous swiftness, and who passed from frontier to frontier under the very noses of the commissaries of police stationed there.

His narrowest escape of capture had been one day in Charleroi, where, while sitting before the CafÉ des XXV, he had been recognized by an inspector of the French SÛretÉ, who was in Belgium upon another matter. The inspector called a local agent of police, who suddenly pounced upon him, but in an instant Jeanjean had drawn a revolver, with which he shot the unfortunate policeman dead, and, in the confusion, escaped.

He then wrote an impudent letter to the Prefecture of Police in Paris, telling them that his intention was to serve any other police agent the same who might attempt to arrest him.

I took from my dispatch-box the copy I had made of the letter in Italian, found at Beacon House. In the light of that newspaper report it proved curious and interesting reading.

Who was the writer, Egisto? Evidently one of the conspirators. It was a report to his "Illustrious Master," of what had been done. Who was his Master? Surely not Jules Jeanjean, because one sentence read, "J. arrives back in Algiers to-morrow."

Was it possible that the "Illustrious Master"—the man who actually plotted and directed those dramatic coups—was none other than old Gregory himself!

The letter was certainly a report to the head of an association of dangerous malefactors. Who "H." was, who had "left as arranged," I knew not, but "J." evidently indicated Jules Jeanjean, and the fact that he would arrive back in Algiers on the morrow, showed first, that his hiding-place was on the other side of the Mediterranean; and, secondly, that after the crime a dash had been made to the south to join the mail-boat at Marseilles. The writer, Egisto, had left the other, travelling via Brindisi, to Port Said, so leaving the Paris police to again search for them in vain.

"Does H. know anything, do you think?" was the question Egisto had asked in his letter.

Did "H." indicate Monsieur Hamard, the Chef de la SÛretÉ?

My own theory was that "H." did indicate that well-known official, whom the gang had so often defied.

The writer, too, declared that "The Nightingale" still sang on blithely.

I knew the singer, the pretty, refined, fair-haired girl, so neat and dainty, with the sweet, clear contralto voice. It was Lola—Lola Sorel!

On the morning of August 24, I was standing with Mr. Day on the well-kept lawn outside the coast-guard station, watching the life-boat being launched for the benefit of the visitors, and in order to collect funds for the Life-boat Institution. The morning was perfect, with bright sunshine, a clear sky and glassy sea. Below us, the promenade and beach were thronged with summer visitors in light clothes, and the scene was one of brightness and merriment.

Amid the cheers of the waiting crowd the life-boat, guided by its gallant crew of North Sea fishermen, wearing their cork belts, went slowly down to the water's edge. The instant it was launched, Mr. Day, who held a huge pistol in his hand, fired a green rocket high into the air—the signal to the Haisboro' Lightship that aid was on its way.

Just as he had done so, a telegraph-boy handed me a message.

I tore it open and read the words—

"Can you meet me at the Maid's Head Hotel, Norwich, this afternoon at four? Urgent. Reply, King's Head Hotel, Beccles—Lola."

My heart gave a great bound.

From the messenger I obtained a telegraph-form, and at once replied in the affirmative.

Just before four o'clock I entered the covered courtyard of the old Maid's Head Hotel, in Norwich, one of the most famous and popular hostelries in Norfolk. John Peston mentioned it in 1472, when its sign was The Murtel or Molde Fish, and to-day, remodelled with taste, and its ancient features jealously preserved, it is well known to every motorist who visits the capital of Norfolk, the metropolis of Eastern England.

I engaged a small private sitting-room on the first-floor, a pretty, old-fashioned apartment with bright chintzes, and a bowl of fresh roses upon the polished table in the centre. Telling the waiter I expected a lady, I stood at the window to await my visitor.

As I stood there, all-impatient, the Cathedral chimes close by told the hour of four, and shortly afterwards I heard the noise of a car turning from the street into the courtyard.

Was it Lola?

From the room in which I was I could not see either roadway or courtyard, therefore I waited, my ears strained to catch the sound of footsteps upon the stairs.

Suddenly I heard some one ascending. The handle of the door was turned, and next second I found myself face to face with the slim, fair-haired girl whose coming I had so long awaited.

She came forward smiling, her white-gloved hand outstretched, her pretty countenance slightly flushed, exclaiming in French—

"Ah! M'sieu' Vidal! After all this time!"

"It is not my fault, Mademoiselle, that we are such strangers," I replied with a smile, bowing over her hand as the waiter closed the door.

She was a charming little person, sweet and dainty from head to foot. Dressed in a black coat and skirt, the former relieved with a collar of turquoise silk, and the latter cut short, so that her silk-encased ankles and small shoes were revealed. She wore a tiny close-fitting felt hat, and a boa of grey ostrich feathers around her neck.

Her countenance was pale with well-moulded features of soft sympathetic beauty, a finely-poised head with pretty dimpled chin, and a straight nose, well-defined eyebrows, and a pair of eyes of that clear blue that always seemed to me unfathomable.

I drew forward a chair, and she sank into it, stretching forth her small feet and displaying her neat black silk stockings from beneath the hem of her short skirt, which, adorned with big ball buttons, was discreetly opened at the side to allow freedom in walking.

"Well, and why did you not call again upon me in Cromer?" I asked in English, for I knew that she spoke our language always perfectly.

"Because—well, because I was unable," was her reply.

"Why did you not write?" I asked. "I've been waiting weeks for you."

"I know. I heard so," she said with a smile. "I am ve-ry sorry, but I was prevented," she went on with a pretty, musical accent. "That same evening I called upon you, I had to leave Cromer ve-ry hurriedly."

A strange thought flashed across my mind. Had her sudden departure been due to the theft at Beacon House? Had she been present then and lost her shoe?

I glanced at the shoes she wore. They were very smart, of black patent leather, with a strip of white leather along the upper edge. Yes, the size looked to me just the same as that of the little shoe which so exactly fitted the imprint I had made in the sand.

"Why did you leave so quickly?" I asked, standing before her, and leaning against the table, as I looked into the wonderful eyes of the chic little Parisienne.

"I was compelled," was her brief response.

"You might have written to me."

"What was the use, M'sieu' Vidal? I went straight back to France. Then to Austria, Hungary, and Russia," she answered. "Only the day before yesterday I returned to London."

"From where?"

"From Algiers."

Algiers! The mention of that town recalled the fact that it was the hiding-place of the notorious Jules Jeanjean.

"Why have you been in Algiers—and in August, too?"

"Not for pleasure," she replied with a grim smile. "The place is a perfect oven just now—as you may well imagine. But I was forced to go."

"Forced against your will, Lola, eh?" I asked, bending towards her, and looking her full in the face very seriously.

"Yes," she admitted, her eyes cast down, "against my will. I had a message to deliver."

"To whom?"

"To my uncle."

"Not a message," I said, correcting her. "Something more valuable than mere words. Is not that so?"

The Nightingale nodded in the affirmative, her blue eyes still downcast in shame.

"Where was your starting-point?" I asked.

"In St. Petersburg, a fortnight ago. I was given the little box in the HÔtel de l'Europe, and that night I concealed its contents in the clothes I wore. Some of them I sewed into the hem of my travelling-coat, and, and——"

"Stones they were, I suppose?" I said, interrupting.

"Yes, from Lobenski's, the jeweller's in the Nevski," she replied. "Well, that night I left Petersburg and travelled to Vienna, thence to Trieste, where I found my uncle's yacht awaiting me, and we went down the Adriatic and along the Mediterranean to Algiers. My uncle was already at home. The coup was a large one, I believe. Have you seen reports of it in the English papers?" she asked.

"Certainly," I replied. For a fortnight before I had read in several of the newspapers of the daring robbery committed at the shop of Lobenski, the Russian Court Jeweller, and of the theft of a large quantity of diamonds, emeralds, and rubies. The safe, believed to be impregnable, had been fused by an oxygen acetylene jet, and the whole of its contents stolen. From what Lola had revealed, it seemed that Jeanjean had had no actual hand in the theft, for he had been in Algiers awaiting the booty. But he always travelled swiftly after a coup.

"Did the papers say much about it?" asked Lola, with interest.

"Oh, just a sensational story," I replied. "But I never dreamt that you were in Russia, Lola—that you had carried the stones across Europe sewn in your dress!"

"Ah! It is not the first time, as you know, M'sieu' Vidal," she sighed. "There is always danger of some customs officer or agent of police recognizing me. But uncle says I am unsuspected, and hence the work is assigned always to me."

"And you have come to England to see me—eh? Why?" I asked, looking again into her clear blue eyes.

"I have come, M'sieu' Vidal, in order to ask a further favour of you—a request I almost fear to make after your great generosity towards me."

"Oh! Don't let us speak of that," I said. "It is all past and over. I only acted as any other man would have done in the circumstances, Lola!"

"You acted as a gentleman would act," she said. "But, alas! How few real gentlemen are met by a wretched girl like myself," she added bitterly. "Suppose you had acted as thousands would have done. Where should I be now? Spending my days in one of your female prisons here."

"Instead of which you are still the little Nightingale, who sings so blithely, and who is so inexpressibly dainty and charming," I said with a smile. "At the best hotels up and down Europe, Lola Sorel is a well-known figure, always ready to flirt with the idle youngsters, and to make herself pleasant to those of her own sex. Only they must be wealthy—eh?"

She made a quick movement as though to arrest the flow of my words.

"You are, alas! right, M'sieu' Vidal," she replied. "Ah, if you only knew how I hate it all—how day by day, hour by hour—I fear that I may blunder and consequently find myself in the hands of the police—if——"

"Never, if you follow your uncle, Jules Jeanjean," I interrupted. "And, I suppose, you are still doing so?"

She sighed heavily, and a hard expression crossed her pretty face.

"Alas! I am forced to. You know the bitter truth, M'sieu' Vidal—the tragedy of my life."

For a few moments I remained silent, my eyes upon her.

I knew full well the strange, romantic story of that pretty French girl seated before me—the sweet, refined little person—scarcely more than a child—whose present, and whose future, were so entirely in the hands of that notorious criminal.

Why had I not telegraphed to the Paris police on discovering Jeanjean's presence in Cromer? For one reason alone. Because his arrest would also mean hers. He had too vowed in my presence that if he were ever taken alive, he would betray his niece, because she had once, in a moment of despair and horror, at one of his cold-blooded crimes, threatened to give him away.

As she sat there, her face sweet and soft as a child's, her blue eyes so clear and innocent, one would never dream that she was the cat's-paw of the most ingenious and dangerous association of jewel thieves in the whole of Europe.

Truly her story was a strange one—one of the strangest of any girl in the world.

She noticed my thoughtfulness, and suddenly put out her little hand until it touched mine; then, looking into my eyes, she asked, in a low, intense voice—

"What are you thinking about?"

"I am thinking of you, Lola," I replied. "I am wondering what really happened in Cromer, back in the month of June. You are here to explain—eh? Will you tell me?"

Her brows contracted slightly, and she drew her hand back from mine.

"You know what happened," she said.

"I don't. Explain it all to me in confidence," I urged. "You surely know me well enough to rely upon my keeping the secret."

"Ah, no!" she cried, starting up suddenly, a strange light of fear in her eyes. "Never, M'sieu' Vidal! I—I can tell you nothing of that—nothing more than what you already know. Please don't ask me—never ask me again, for I—I can't tell you! It was all too dastardly, too terrible!"

And the girl, with a wild gesture, covered her pale face with her little hands as though to shut out from memory the grim recollection of a scene that was full of bitterness and horror.

"But you will tell me the truth, Lola. Do. I beg of you?" I urged, placing my hand tenderly upon her shoulder.

"No," she cried in a voice scarcely above a whisper. "No. Don't ask me. Please don't ask me."