f since."

"And that was a month ago, mademoiselle?" I remarked, surprised at her
story.

"Nearly," was her answer. "Accompanied by Madame Vernet, I went to see
M'sieur Lepine, the Prefect of Police of Paris, and gave him all the
information and a photograph of my father. And I believe the police of
London are making inquiries."

"And what profession is your father?" I asked.

"He is a jeweller. His shop is in the Rue de la Paix, on the right,
going down to the Place Vendome. Maison Dumont--perhaps you may know
it?"

Dumont's, the finest and most expensive jewellers in Paris! Of course I
knew it. Who does not who knows Paris? How many times had I--and in all
probability you also--lingered and looked into those two big windows
where are displayed some of the most expensive jewels and choicest
designs in ornaments in the world.

"Ah! so Monsieur Dumont is your father?" I remarked, with some
reflection. "And did he have with him any jewels in London?"

"Yes. It was for that very reason we fear the worst. He went to London
expressly to show some very valuable gems to the Princess Henry of
Salzburg, at Her Highness's order. She wanted them to wear at a Court in
London."

"And what was the value of the jewels?"

"They were diamonds and emeralds worth, they tell me at the _magasin_,
over half a million francs."

"And did nobody go with him to London?"

"Yes, Monsieur Martin, my father's chief clerk. But he has also
disappeared."

"And the jewels--eh?"

"And also the jewels."

"But may not this man Martin have got rid of your father somehow or
other and decamped? That is a rather logical conclusion, isn't it?"

"That is Monsieur Lepine's theory; but"--and she turned to me very
seriously--"I am sure, quite sure, Monsieur Martin would never be guilty
of such a thing. He is far too devoted."

"To your father--eh?" I asked, with a smile.

"Yes," she answered, with a little hesitation.

"And how can you vouch for his honesty? Half a million francs is a
great temptation, remember."

"No, not so much--for him," was her reply.

"Why?"

She looked straight into my face through the talc front of her
motor-veil, and after a moment's silence exclaimed, with a girl's
charming frankness--

"I wonder, Monsieur Ewart, whether I can trust you?"

"I hope so, mademoiselle," was my reply. "Mr. Bellingham has entrusted
you to my care, hasn't he?"

I hoped she was about to confide in me, but all she said was--

"W