e learnt from the blue-and-gold concierge
that Monsieur Courtin, of the Ministry of Justice, had left at
ten-fifteen o'clock on the previous night by the _rapide_ for Paris. He
had been recalled urgently, and a special _coupe-lit_ had been reserved
for him from Ventimiglia.

That day Hugh Henfrey wandered about the well-kept palm-lined gardens
with their great beds of geraniums, carnations and roses. Brock had
accepted the invitation of a bald-headed London stock-broker he knew to
motor over to lunch and tennis at the Beau Site, at Cannes, while Dorise
and her mother had gone with some people to lunch at the Reserve at
Beaulieu, one of the best and yet least pretentious restaurants in all
Europe, only equalled perhaps by Capsa's, in Bucharest.

"Ah! If she would only tell!" Hugh muttered fiercely to himself as he
walked alone and self-absorbed. His footsteps led him out of Monte Carlo
and up the winding road which runs to La Turbie, above the beautiful
bay. Ever and anon powerful cars climbing the hill smothered him in
white dust, yet he heeded them not. He was too full of thought.

"Ah!" he kept on repeating to himself. "If she would only tell the
truth--if she would only tell!"

Hugh Henfrey had not travelled to Monte Carlo without much careful
reflection and many hours of wakefulness. He intended to clear up the
mystery of his father's death--and more, the reason of that strange
incomprehensible will which was intended to wed him to Louise.

At four o'clock that afternoon he entered the Rooms to gain another
surreptitious look at Mademoiselle. Yes! She was there, still playing
on as imperturbably as ever, with that half-suppressed sinister smile
always upon her full red lips.

Sight of her aroused his fury. Was that smile really intended for
himself? People said she was a sphinx, but he drew his breath, and when
outside the Casino again in the warm sunshine he halted upon the broad
red-carpeted steps and beneath his breath said in a hard, determined
tone:

"Gad! She shall tell me! She shall! I'll compel her to speak--to tell me
the truth--or--or----!"

That evening he wrote a note to Dorise explaining to her that he was not
feeling very well and excusing himself from going round to the hotel.
This he sent by hand to the Metropole.

Brock did not turn up at dinner. Indeed, he did not expect his friend
back till late. So he ate his meal alone, and then went out to the
Cafe de Paris, where for an hour he sat