r-bordered, and where feathery palms flourish even when the rest of
Europe is under snow.

"When did you arrive?" I heard the girl ask.

"At eight o'clock last night. I haven't been to Monte Carlo yet. I went
over to Beaulieu, but unfortunately Madame is not yet at the Bristol. I
have, however, taken a room for you, and we will drop you there as we
pass. Your baggage arrived by rail this afternoon."

"But where is Madame, I wonder?" inquired the girl in a tone of dismay.
"She would surely never disappoint us?"

"Certainly she would not. She told me once that she had stayed at the
Metropole at Monty on several occasions. She may be there. I'll inquire
in the morning. For the next couple of days I may be away, as perhaps
I'll have to go on to Genoa on some business; but Ewart and the car will
be at your disposal. I'll place you in his hands again, and he will in a
couple of days show you the whole Riviera from the Var to San Remo, with
the Tenda, the upper Corniche, and Grasse thrown in. He knows this
neighbourhood like a Nicois."

"That will be awfully jolly," she responded. "But----"

"Well?"

"Well, I'm sorry you are going away," declared Pierrette, with regret so
undisguised that though she had admitted her engagement to her father's
missing clerk, showed me only too plainly that she had fallen very
violently in love with the handsome, good-for-nothing owner of the
splendid car upon which they were travelling.

I could see that curious developments were, ere long, within the bounds
of probability, and I felt sorry for the pretty, innocent little girl;
for her journey there was, I felt assured, connected in some way or
other with her father's mysterious disappearance from the Charing Cross
Hotel.

Why had Bindo taken the trouble to await me there at the foot of the Var
bridge, when he had given me instructions where to go at Monte Carlo?

As I drove out of Nice and up the hill to Villefranche, I turned over
the whole of the queer facts in my mind, but could discern no motive for
Pierrette's secret journey South. Why was she, so young, a nun? Why had
she left her convent, if not at the instigation of the merry-eyed,
devil-may-care Bindo?

Around Mont Boron and down into Villefranche we went, until around the
sudden bend, close to the sea-shore, showed the great white facade of
the Bristol at Beaulieu, that fine hotel so largely patronised by kings,
princes, and other notabilities.

The gate was open, and