white balustrade of the broad magnificent terrace the
calm sapphire sea was deepening as the winter afternoon drew in. An
engine whistled--that of the flower train which daily travels express
from Cannes to Boulogne faster than the passenger train-deluxe, and
bearing mimosa, carnations, and violets from the Cote d'Azur to Covent
Garden, and to the florists' shops in England.

"You've never told me the exact circumstances of your father's death,
Hugh," remarked Brock at last.

"Exact circumstances? Ah! That's what I want to know. Only that woman
knows the secret," answered the young man. "All I know is that the
poor old guv'-nor was called up to London by an urgent letter. We had
a shooting party at Woodthorpe and he left me in charge, saying that he
had some business in London and might return on the following night--or
he might be away a week. Days passed and he did not return. Several
letters came for him which I kept in the library. I was surprised that
he neither wrote nor returned, when, suddenly, ten days later, we had a
telegram from the London police informing me that my father was lying in
St. George's Hospital. I dashed up to town, but when I arrived I found
him dead. At the inquest, evidence was given to show that at half-past
two in the morning a constable going along Albemarle Street found him in
evening dress lying huddled up in a doorway. Thinking him intoxicated,
he tried to rouse him, but could not. A doctor who was called pronounced
that he was suffering from some sort of poisoning. He was taken to
St. George's Hospital in an ambulance, but he never recovered. The
post-mortem investigation showed a small scratch on the palm of the
hand. That scratch had been produced by a pin or a needle which had
been infected by one of the newly discovered poisons which, administered
secretly, give a post-mortem appearance of death from heart disease."

"Then your father was murdered--eh?" exclaimed the elder man.

"Most certainly he was. And that woman is aware of the whole
circumstances and of the identity of the assassin."

"How do you know that?"

"By a letter I afterwards opened--one that had been addressed to him at
Woodthorpe in his absence. It was anonymous, written in bad English,
in an illiterate hand, warning him to 'beware of that woman you
know--Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo.' It bore the French stamp and the
postmark of Tours."

"I never knew all this," Brock said. "You are quite right, Hugh! The