ce I had met that long-nosed man,
and it struck me that he was taking a very unnecessary interest in
all of us.

Where was Bindo? Day after day passed, and I remained at the Paris, but
no word came from him--or from Sir Charles, for the matter of that.

Pierrette's ardour for motoring seemed to have now cooled; for, beyond a
run to St. Raphael one morning, and another to Castellane, she had each
day other engagements--luncheon up at La Turbie, tea with Sir Charles at
Rumpelmeyer's, or at Vogarde's. I was surprised, and perhaps a little
annoyed, at this; for, truth to tell, I admired Mademoiselle greatly,
and she had on more than one occasion flirted openly with me.

Bindo always declared that I was a fool where women were concerned. But
I was, I know, not the perfect lover that the Count was.

There were many points about the mysterious affair in progress that I
could not account for. If Mademoiselle had really taken the veil, then
why did she still retain such a wealth of dark, silky hair? And if she
were not a nun, then why had she been masquerading as one? But, further,
if her father was actually missing in London, why had she not told Bindo
when they had met there?

Day after day I kept my eye upon the _Journal_, the _Temps_, and the
_Matin_, as well as upon the Paris edition of the _Daily Mail_, in order
to see whether the mystery of Monsieur Dumont was reported.

But it was not.

Regnier was still about, smart and perfectly attired, as usual. When we
passed and there was nobody to observe, he usually nodded pleasantly. At
heart "The President" was not at all a bad fellow, and on many an
occasion in the past season we had sipped "manhattans" together at
Ciro's.

Thus more than a week passed--a week of grave apprehension and constant
wonderment--during which time the long-nosed stranger seemed to turn up
everywhere in a manner quite unaccountable.

Late one night, on going to my room in the Paris, I found a welcome
telegram from Bindo, dated from Milan, ordering me to meet him with the
car at the Hotel Umberto, in Cuneo, on the following day. Now, Cuneo lay
over the Italian frontier, in Piedmont, half-way between Monte Carlo
and Turin. To cross the Alps by the Col di Tenda and the tunnel would,
I knew, take about six hours from Nice by way of Sospel. The despatch
was sent from Milan, from which I guessed that for some reason Bindo was
about to enter France by the back door, namely, by the almost unguarded