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 manoeuvre 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. H