uestion was whether the dainty little Pierrette had told
me the truth.

IV

IS STILL MORE MYSTERIOUS

At ten o'clock that same morning I saw Bindo off by the Paris _rapide_.

Though he did not get to his room at the Hotel de Paris till nearly six,
he was about again at eight. He was a man full of activity when the
occasion warranted, and yet, like many men of brains, he usually gave
one the appearance of an idler. He could get through an enormous amount
of work and scheming, and yet appear entirely unoccupied. Had he put his
talents to legitimate and honest business, he would have no doubt risen
to the position of a Napoleon of finance.

As it was, he made a call at the Metropole at nine, not to inquire for
Madame Vernet, but no doubt to consult or give instructions to one of
his friends, who, like himself, was a "crook."

Bindo had a passing acquaintance with many men who followed the same
profession as himself, and often, I know, lent a helping hand to any in
distress. There is a close fraternity among the class to which he
belonged, known to the European police as "the internationals."

The identity of the man in whose bedroom he had an interview that
morning I was unaware. I only know that, as the _rapide_ moved off from
Monte Carlo Station on its way back to Paris, he waved his hand,
saying--

"Remain here, and if anything happens wire me to Clifford Street. At all
costs keep Pierrette at Beaulieu. _Au revoir!_"

And he withdrew his head into the first-class compartment.

Then I turned away, wondering how next to act.

After a stroll around Monty, a cigarette on the terrace before the
Casino, where the gay world was sunning itself beside the sapphire sea,
prior to the opening of the Rooms, and a cocktail at my friend Ciro's, I
took my _dejeuner_ at the Palmiers, a small and unpretentious hotel in
the back of the town, where I was well known, and where one gets a very
good lunch _vin compris_ for three francs.

In order to allow Pierrette time to rest after her journey, I waited
till three o'clock before I got out the car and ran over to Beaulieu.
The day was glorious, one of those bright, cloudless, sunny Riviera days
in early spring, when the Mediterranean lay without a ripple and the
flowers sent forth their perfume everywhere.

Mademoiselle was in the garden, the concierge of the Bristol told me;
therefore I went out and found her seated alone before the sea, reading
a book. Her appearance was