eh?"

"Perfectly," was my reply, for my curiosity was now thoroughly whetted.

There was a desperate project in the air, and the spirit of adventure
had now entered thoroughly into me.

Early next morning I drove the Count back to Nice, where, at a quiet
spot beyond the Magnan, he met the pretty Gabrielle clandestinely.

When we drew up to where she was apparently awaiting us, I saw that she
was annoyed at my presence.

"Ewart, my chauffeur," he explained, introducing me, "will say nothing
about this meeting. He knows how to be discreet."

I raised my peaked motor-cap, as our eyes met. I thought I detected a
curiously timid glance in them, for in an instant she dropped her gaze.

That she was an intimate friend of the Count was shown by the
instructions he gave her.

"You two walk along the Promenade des Anglais, and I'll meet you at the
other end, by the Hotel Suisse. I'll take the car myself on to the
garage."

This meant that I was to walk with her a full three-quarters of an hour
along the whole of the beautiful sea-front of Nice. Why? I wondered.

"But, Bindo, can't you come?"

"I'll meet you outside the Suisse. It's better to do that," was his
answer. "Go along; you'll find Ewart a clever fellow. He'll tell you how
to drive a motor-car."

She laughed lightly, and then, as Bindo mounted into the car again and
turned away, we strolled together on the broad asphalte back towards the
town.

The morning was delightful, with bright sunshine and blue sea. The
sweet-smelling wallflowers were already out, and the big palms waved
lazily in the soft breeze.

I quickly found my companion most charming, and envied the Count his
acquaintanceship. Was she marked down as a victim? Or was she an
accomplice? I could not grasp the motive for being sent to walk the
whole length of the Promenade with her. But the Count and his companions
were, they admitted, working a "big thing," and this was part of it, I
supposed.

"This is the first time you have been in Nice, eh?" she asked in her
pretty broken English as she stopped a moment to open her sunshade.

"Yes," I answered; "but the Count is an old _habitue_, I believe?"

"Oh yes," she laughed; "he knows everybody. Last year he was on the
Fetes Committee and one of the judges at the Battle of Flowers."

And so we gossiped on, walking leisurely, and passing many who, like
ourselves, were idling in the winter sunshine.

There was an air of refined ingenuousness abo