LITMIR.BIZ

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as the car which had carried away the clever jewel-thief from Bond Street.

      Since the adventure at Leghorn I had seen nothing of La Belle Valentine. With Bindo, however, I had driven the car across from Rome to Calais by way of Ventimiglia and Marseilles, and, after crossing the Channel, I had gone alone to Northampton, and there awaited the making of the smart new racing-body.

      Count Bindo di Ferraris, who seemed ever on the move, with an eye open for “a good thing,” wrote me from Ilfracombe, Southampton, Manchester, Perth, Aberdeen, and other places, remitting me the necessary money, and urging me to push on the work, as he wanted the car again immediately.

      At last, when it was finished, I drove it to a garage I knew at the back of Regent Street, and that same evening met him at the Royal Automobile Club. At his request, I dressed smartly and gave no outward appearance of the chauffeur; therefore he invited me to dine, and afterwards, while we sat alone in a corner of the smoking-room, he began to unfold a series of plans for the future. They were, however, hazy, and only conveyed to me an idea that we were going on a long tour in England.

      I ventured to remark that to be in England, after the little affair in Bond Street, might be somewhat dangerous. He replied, however, with his usual nonchalant air—

      “My dear Ewart, there’s not the slightest fear. Act as I bid, and trust in me. To-morrow, at eleven, we go North together—into Yorkshire. You will be my servant again after to-night. You understand—eh?”

      “Perfectly. Shall we start from here?”

      “Yes. But before we set out I can only warn you that you’ll want all your wits about you this time. If we have luck, we shall bring off a big thing—a very big thing.”

      “And if we have no luck?”

      “Well—well, we shan’t bring it off—that’s all,” he laughed.

      “Where are we going?”

      “Yorkshire. To spend a week at the seaside. It will do us both good. I’ve decided that the Scarborough air will be extremely beneficial to us. One of our friends is already there—at the Grand.”

      “Sir Charles?”

      “Exactly. He’s very fond of Scarborough—likes the church parade on Sundays, the music on the Spa, and all that kind of thing. So we’ll join him. I wonder if we shall get through in a day?”

      “We ought to—with luck,” was my response; and then, after urging me to leave everything in his hands, he told me that I’d better get early to bed, and thoroughly overhaul the car early next morning, before starting.

      So next day at ten he took his seat by my side outside the Club in Piccadilly, and we drove away into the traffic towards Regent’s Park, on our way to that much overrated highway, the Great North Road. The day was warm and dusty, and as it was a Saturday there were police-traps out everywhere. Therefore progress was slow, for I was forced at every few miles to slow down, to escape a ten-pound fine.

      Leafy Hatfield, crooked Hitchin, quaint old Stamford, we passed, until we swung into the yard of “The Angel,” that antique and comfortable hotel well known to all motorists at Grantham, where we had a hasty meal.

      Then out again in the sunset, we headed through Doncaster to York, and in the darkness, with our big head-lamps shining, we tore through Malton, and slipped down the hill into Scarborough. The run had been a long and dusty one, the last fifty miles in darkness and at a high speed, therefore when we pulled up before the Grand I leaned heavily upon the steering-wheel, weary and fagged.

      It was about eleven o’clock at night, and Sir Charles, who had evidently been expecting our arrival in the big hall of the hotel, rushed out and greeted Bindo effusively. Then, directed by a page-boy, who sat in the Count’s seat, I took the car round to Hutton’s garage, close by.

      With Sir Charles I noticed another man, young, with very fair hair—a mere boy, he seemed—in evening clothes of the latest cut. When I returned to the hotel I saw them all seated in the big hall over whiskies and sodas, laughing merrily together. It was late, all the other guests having retired.

      Next day Bindo took the young man, whose name I discovered to be Paul Clayton, for a run on the car to Bridlington. Bindo drove, and I sat upon the step. The racing-body gave the “forty” a rakish appearance, and each time we went up and down the Esplanade, or across the Valley Bridge, we created considerable interest. After lunch we went on to Hornsea, and returned to Scarborough at tea-time.

      That same evening, after dinner, I saw Bindo’s new friend walking on the Esplanade with a fair-haired, well-dressed young girl. They were deep in conversation, and it struck me that she was warning him regarding something.

      Days passed—warm, idle August days. Scarborough was full of visitors. The Grand was overrun by a smartly dressed crowd, and the Spa was a picturesque sight during the morning promenade. The beautiful “Belvedere” grounds were a blaze of roses, and, being private property, were regarded with envy by thousands who trod the asphalte of the Esplanade. Almost daily Bindo took Paul for a run on the car. To York, to Castle Howard, to Driffield, and to Whitby we went—the road to the last-named place, by the way, being execrable. Evidently Bindo’s present object was to ingratiate himself with young Clayton, but with what ulterior motive I could not conceive.

      Sir Charles remained constantly in the background. Well dressed and highly respectable, he presented a rather superior air, and walked on the Spa at certain hours, establishing a kind of custom from which he did not depart. He had now changed his name to Sinclair, while Bindo di Ferraris went under the less foreign cognomen of Albert Cornforth. I alone kept my own name, George Ewart.

      As day succeeded day, I kept wondering what was really in the wind. Why were they so friendly with Paul Clayton? Of one fact I felt assured, and it was that jewels were not the object of the manœuvre on this occasion. That Bindo and his friends had laid some deep plot was, of course, quite certain, but the Count never took me into his confidence until the last moment, when the coup was made. Therefore, try how I would, I could not discover the intentions of the gang.

      From Leghorn to Scarborough is a far cry. At least we were safe from detection from all our little business affairs, save that of the Bond Street jewellers. Continually I reflected that our description had been circulated by the police, and that some enterprising constable or detective might pick upon us on the off-chance of being correct.

      Count Bindo—or Albert Cornforth, as he now chose to be known—was having a most excellent time. He soon grew to know many people in the hotel, and being so essentially a ladies’ man was greatly in request at the dances. Continually he apologised to the ladies for being unable to take them motoring, but, as he explained, the space on a racing-car is limited.

      Thus a fortnight passed. Round at the garage were a number of cars from London, Manchester, and elsewhere, and I soon grew friendly with several expert chauffeurs, two of whom were old friends.

      One day Bindo and I had been to Harrogate, dined at the Majestic, and returned. After taking the car to the garage, I went out for a turn along the Esplanade, in order to stretch my legs. It was midnight, brightly starlit, and silent save for the low soughing of the waves upon the shore. I had lit my pipe and walked nearly to the Holbeck Gardens, at the extreme end of the South Cliff, when, in the darkness, I discerned two figures sitting upon a seat in the shadow. One was a man, and the other a woman in a light evening dress, with a wrap thrown over her head and shoulders. As I passed I managed to get a glimpse of their faces. One was Paul Clayton, and the other the pretty, fair-haired young woman I had seen him with before. They were sitting in the attitude of lovers. He held her hand and, I believe, had just raised it to his lips.

      I hurried on, annoyed with myself for being so inquisitive. But the beautiful face of the girl became impressed upon my memory.

      Count Bindo, the nonchalant, audacious cosmopolitan, who spent money so freely, was a veritable marvel of cleverness and cunning in all matters of chicanery and fraud. He was evidently a man who, though still young, had a pretty dark record. But what it really was he carefully concealed from me. I can only admit that

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