LITMIR.BIZ

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my friend’s interests, whatever they were. “No doubt he will write home, and whatever can be done to trace Monsieur Dumont will be done.”

      “He is extremely courteous to us,” Madame said. “A lady in the hotel tells 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 English members of the Fêtes Committee at Nice.”

      “Well, I only hope that he will carry out his kind promise,” declared Pierrette. “He seems to know everybody. Last night he was taking coffee with the Duchess of Gozzano and her friends, who seem a most exclusive set.”

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

      To the keen observation of the baronet, who moved always in the smartest of cosmopolitan society, were due those robberies of jewels, reports of which one read so constantly in the papers. He was the eye of the little ring of clever adventurers who, with capital at their command, were able to effect coups so daring, so ingenious, and so cleverly devised that even Monsieur Lepine and his department in Paris were from time to time utterly aghast and dumbfounded.

      That night I wrote a note to him, and at eleven o’clock next morning we met in a small café down in La Condamine. It was never judicious for any of our quartette to meet openly, and when on the Riviera we usually used the quiet little place if we wished to consult.

      When the pseudo-baronet lounged in and seated himself at my table, he certainly did not present the appearance of a “crook.” Tall, erect, of peculiarly aristocratic bearing, and dressed in a suit of light flannels and a soft brown felt hat set jauntily on his head, he was the picture of easy affluence. His face was narrow, his eyes sparkling with good humour, and his well-trimmed beard dark, with a few streaks of grey.

      He ordered a “Dubonnet,” and then, finding that we were practically alone, 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 been telling 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 go to 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. “But the whole affair is such a complete mystery that it certainly is to the interests of all of us if I’m let into the secret. At present I’m working in the dark.”

      “And so am I, my dear fellow,” was Sir Charles’s response. “Bindo met me in the Constitutional, gave me a hundred pounds, and told me to go out at once. So I came.”

      “And when is he returning?”

      “Only he himself knows that. He seems tremendously busy. Henderson is with 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. Bindo told 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 to tell me?”

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

      “Yes, but in certain circumstances he ought to let me know what is intended, 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 of it?”

      “Quite. I saw them recognise each other in the Rooms the other afternoon. I afterwards met him alone, and he admitted that he knew her.”

      “Then the affair is far more complicated than I believed,” exclaimed my companion, 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 be careful—confoundedly careful; otherwise we shall be given away.”

      “By whom?”

      “By our enemies,” was his ambiguous response. “Did Regnier tell you anything 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 must wire at once to Bindo.”

      While we were talking, however, a thin, rather well-dressed, long-nosed Frenchman, in a brown suit and grey suede gloves, entered, and sat at a table near. He was not thirty, but about him was the unmistakable air of the 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 the café.

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

      “Couldn’t make him out,” was my friend’s reply. “Looks very suspiciously like an agent of police.”

      “That’s just my opinion,” I said anxiously. “We must be careful—very careful.”

      “Yes. We mustn’t meet again unless absolutely necessary. I’m just going up the hill to the post-office to send a cipher message to Bindo. He ought 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 of the Sureté?

      VII

      ON DANGEROUS GROUND

      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

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