"I don't think there is any fear," I laughed. "How old are you?"

"Nineteen next birthday."

"Well, tell them you are twenty-one, and they will give you a card. The
paternal administration don't care who or what you are as long as you
are well dressed and you have money to lose. At Monte Carlo you must
always keep up an appearance. I've known a millionaire to be refused
admittance because his trousers were turned up."

At this she laughed, and then lapsed into a long silence, for on a
stretch of wide, open road I was letting the car rip, and at such a pace
it was well-nigh impossible to talk.

A mystery surrounded my _chic_ little travelling-companion which I could
not make out.

At about two o'clock in the afternoon we pulled up just beyond the
little town of Chauceaux, about thirty miles from Dijon, and there ate
our cold provisions, washing them down with a bottle of red wine. She
was hungry, and ate with an appetite, laughing merrily, and thoroughly
enjoying the adventure.

"I was so afraid this morning that you were not coming," she declared.
"I was there at seven, quite an hour before you were due. And when you
came you flew past, and I thought that you did not notice me. M'sieur
Bellingham sent me word last night that you had started."

"And where are you staying when you get to Monte Carlo?"

"At Beaulieu, I think. That's near Monte Carlo, isn't it? The Hotel
Bristol, I believe, is where Madame is staying."

"Madame? Who is she?"

"Madame Vernet," was all she vouchsafed. Who the lady was she seemed to
have no inclination to tell me.

Through Dijon, Beaune, and Chalons-sur-Saone we travelled, but before we
ran on to the rough cobbles of old-world Macon darkness had already
fallen, and our big search-light was shedding a shaft of white
brilliancy far ahead.

With the sundown the cold again became intense, therefore I got out my
thick mackintosh from the back and made her get into it. Then I wrapped
a fur rug around her legs, and gave her a spare pair of fur gloves that
I happened to have. They were somewhat oily, but warm.

We reached Lyons half an hour before midnight, and there got some
bouillon and roast _poulet_ outside the Perache, then off again into the
dark cold night, hour after hour ever beside the broad Rhone and the
iron way to the Mediterranean.

After an hour I saw that she was suffering intensely from the cold,
therefore I compelled her to get inside, and having tucked her up warml