Produced by Steven desJardins, Mary Meehan, and the Online

                         MR. GREX OF MONTE CARLO

                        BY E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM

AUTHOR OF "THE VANISHED MESSENGER," "A PEOPLE'S MAN," "THE MISCHIEF
MAKER"

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
WILL GREFÉ

BOSTON
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
1915

THE COLONIAL PRESS
C. H. SIMONDS CO., BOSTON, U. S. A.

[Illustration: She leaned across and with trembling fingers backed
number fourteen _en plein_.]

CONTENTS

      I. An Unexpected Meeting

     II. By Accident or Design

    III. A Warning

     IV. Enter the American

      V. "Who is Mr. Grex?"

     VI. Cakes and Counsels

    VII. The Effrontery of Richard

   VIII. Up the Mountain

     IX. In the Mists

      X. Signs of Trouble

     XI. Hints to Hunterleys

    XII. "I Cannot Go!"

   XIII. Miss Grex at Home

    XIV. Dinner for Two

     XV. International Politics

    XVI. A Bargain with Jean Coulois

   XVII. Duty Interferes Again

  XVIII. A Midnight Conference

    XIX. "Take Me Away!"

     XX. Wily Mr. Draconmeyer

    XXI. Assassination!

   XXII. The Wrong Man

  XXIII. Trouble Brewing

   XXIV. Hunterleys Scents Murder

    XXV. Draconmeyer is Desperate

   XXVI. Extraordinary Love-Making

  XXVII. Playing for High Stakes

 XXVIII. To the Villa Mimosa

   XXIX. For His Country

    XXX. "Supposing I Take This Money"

   XXXI. Nearing a Crisis

  XXXII. An Interesting Meeting

 XXXIII. The Fates Are Kind

  XXXIV. Coffee for One Only

   XXXV. A New Map of the Earth

  XXXVI. Checkmate!

 XXXVII. An Amazing Elopement

XXXVIII. Honeymooning

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

She leaned across and with trembling fingers backed number fourteen _en
plein_

"For the last time, then--to Monte Carlo!"

"Come on, you fellows!" he shouted

"What we ask of France is that she looks the other way"

"That two hundred shall be five hundred, but it must be a cemetery to
which they take him!"

Mr. Grex, with his daughter and Lady Hunterleys on one side and Monsieur
Douaille on the other, were in the van.

MR. GREX OF MONTE CARLO

CHAPTER I

AN UNEXPECTED MEETING

The eyes of the man who had looked in upon a scene inordinately,
fantastically brilliant, underwent, after those first few moments of
comparative indifference, a curious transformation. He was contemplating
one of the sights of the world. Crowded around the two roulette tables,
promenading or lounging on the heavily cushioned divans against the
wall, he took note of a conglomeration of people representing, perhaps,
every grade of society, every nationality of importance, yet with a
curious common likeness by reason of their tribute paid to fashion. He
glanced unmoved at a beautiful Englishwoman who was a duchess but looked
otherwise; at an equally beautiful Frenchwoman, who looked like a
duchess but was--otherwise. On every side of him were women gowned by
the great artists of the day, women like flowers, all perfume and
softness and colour. His eyes passed them over almost carelessly. A
little tired with many weeks' travel in countries where the luxuries of
life were few, his senses were dulled to the magnificence of the scene,
his pulses as yet had not responded to its charm and wonder. And then
the change came. He saw a woman standing almost exactly opposite to him
at the nearest roulette table, and he gave a noticeable start. For a
moment his pale, expressionless face was transformed, his secret was at
any one's mercy. That, however, was the affair of an instant only. He
was used to shocks and he survived this one. He moved a little on one
side from his prominent place in the centre of the wide-flung doorway.
He stood by one of the divans and watched.

She was tall and fair and slight. She wore a high-necked gown of
shimmering grey, a black hat, under which her many coils of hair shone
like gold, and a necklace of pearls around her throat, pearls on which
his eyes had rested with a curious expression. She played, unlike many
of her neighbours, with restraint, yet with interest, almost enthusiasm.
There was none of the strain of the gambler about her smooth, beautiful
face. Her delicately curved lips were free from the grim lines of
concentrated acquisitiveness. She was thirty-two years old but she
looked much younger as she stood there, her lips a little parted in a
pleased smile of anticipation. She was leaning a little over the table
and her eyes were fixed with humorous intentness upon the spinning
wheel. Even amongst that crowd of beautiful women she possessed a
certain individual distinction. She not only looked what she was--an
Englishwoman of good birth--but there was a certain delicate aloofness
about her expression and bearing which gave an added charm to a
personality which seemed to combine the two extremes of provocativeness
and reserve. One would have hesitated to address to her even the chance
remarks which pass so easily between strangers around the tables.

"Violet here!" the man murmured under his breath. "Violet!"

There was tragedy in the whisper, a gleam of something like tragedy,
too, in the look which passed between the man and the woman a few
moments later. With her hands full of plaques which she had just won,
she raised her eyes at last from the board. The smile upon her lips was
the delighted smile of a girl. And then, as she was in the act of
sweeping her winnings into her gold bag, she saw the man opposite. The
smile seemed to die from her lips; it appeared, indeed, to pass with all
else of expression from her face. The plaques dropped one by one through
her fingers, into the satchel. Her eyes remained fixed upon him as
though she were looking upon a ghost. The seconds seemed drawn out into
a grim hiatus of time. The croupier's voice, the muttered imprecation of
a loser by her side, the necessity of making some slight movement in
order to allow the passage of an arm from some one in search of
change--some such trifle at last brought her back from the shadows. Her
expression became at once more normal. She did not remove her eyes but
she very slightly inclined her head towards the man. He, in return,
bowed very gravely and without a smile.

The table in front of her was cleared now. People were beginning to
consider their next coup. The voice of the croupier, with his
parrot-like cry, travelled down the board.

_"Faites vos jeux, mesdames et messieurs."_

The woman made no effort to stake. After a moment's hesitation she
yielded up her place, and moving backwards, seated herself upon an empty
divan. Rapidly the thoughts began to form themselves in her mind. Her
delicate eyebrows drew closer together in a distinct frown. After that
first shock, that queer turmoil of feeling, beyond analysis, yet having
within it some entirely unexpected constituent, she found herself
disposed to be angry. The sensation had not subsided when a moment or
two later she was conscious that the man whose coming had proved so
disturbing was standing before her.

"Good afternoon," he said, a little stiffly.

She raised her eyes. The frown was still upon her forehead, although to
a certain extent it was contradicted by a slight tremulousness of the
lips.

"Good afternoon, Henry!"

For some reason or other, further speech seemed to him a difficult
matter. He moved towards the vacant place.

"If you have no objection," he observed, as he seated himself.

She unfurled her fan--an ancient but wonderful weapon of defence. It
gave her a brief respite. Then she looked at him calmly.

"Of all places in the world," she murmured, "to meet you here!"

"Is it so extraordinary?"

"I find it so," she admitted. "You don't at all fit in, you know. A
scene like this," she added, glancing around, "would scarcely ever be
likely to attract you for its own sake, would it?"

"It doesn't particularly," he admitted.

"Then why have you come?"

He remained silent. The frown upon her forehead deepened.

"Perhaps," she went on coldly, "I can help you with your reply. You have
come because you are not satisfied with the reports of the private
detective whom you have engaged to watch me. You have come to supplement
them by your own investigation."

His frown matched hers. The coldness of his tone was rendered even more
bitter by its note of anger.

"I am surprised that you should have thought me capable of such an
action," he declared. "All I can say is that it is thoroughly in keeping
with your other suspicions of me, and that I find it absolutely
unworthy."

She laughed a little incredulously, not altogether naturally.

"My dear Henry," she protested, "I cannot flatter myself that there is
any other person in the world sufficiently interested in my movements to
have me watched."

"Are you really under the impression that that is the case?" he enquired
grimly.

"It isn't a matter of impression at all," she retorted. "It is the
truth. I was followed from London, I was watched at Cannes, I am watched
here day by day--by a little man in a brown suit and a Homburg hat, and
with a habit of lounging. He lounges under my windows, he is probably
lounging across the way now. He has lounged within fifty yards of me for
the last three weeks, and to tell you the truth I am tired of him.
Couldn't I have a week's holiday? I'll keep a diary and tell you all
that you want to know."

"Is it sufficient," he asked, "for me to assure you, upon my word of
honour, that I know nothing of this?"

She was somewhat startled. She turned and looked at him. His tone was
convincing. He had not the face of a man whose word of honour was a
negligible thing.

"But, Henry," she protested, "I tell you that there is no doubt about
the matter. I am watched day and night--I, an insignificant person whose
doings can be of no possible interest save to you and you only."

The man did not at once reply. His thoughts seemed to have wandered off
for a moment. When he spoke again, his tone had lost its note of
resentment.

"I do not blame you for your suspicion," he said calmly, "although I can
assure you that I have never had any idea of having you watched. It is
not a course which could possibly have suggested itself to me, even in
my most unhappy moments."

She was puzzled--at once puzzled and interested.

"I am so glad to hear this," she said, "and of course I believe you, but
there the fact is. I think that you will agree with me that it is
curious."

"Isn't it possible," he ventured to suggest, "that it is your companions
who are the object of this man's vigilance? You are not, I presume,
alone here?"

She eyed him a little defiantly.

"I am here," she announced, "with Mr. and Mrs. Draconmeyer."

He heard her without any change of expression, but somehow or other it
was easy to see that her news, although more than half expected, had
stung him.

"Mr. and Mrs. Draconmeyer," he repeated, with slight emphasis on the
latter portion of the sentence.

"Certainly! I am sorry," she went on, a moment late, "that my companions
do not meet with your approval. That, however, I could scarcely expect,
considering--"

"Considering what?" he insisted, watching her steadfastly.

"Considering all things," she replied, after a moment's pause.

"Mrs. Draconmeyer is still an invalid?"

"She is still an invalid."

The slightly satirical note in his question seemed to provoke a certain
defiance in her manner as she turned a little sideways towards him. She
moved her fan slowly backwards and forwards, her head was thrown back,
her manner was almost belligerent. He took up the challenge. He asked
her in plain words the question which his eyes had already demanded.

"I find myself constrained to ask you," he said, in a studiously
measured tone, "by what means you became possessed of the pearls you are
wearing? I do not seem to remember them as your property."

Her eyes flashed.

"Don't you think," she returned, "that you are a little outstepping your
privileges?"

"Not in the least," he declared. "You are my wife, and although you have
defied me in a certain matter, you are still subject to my authority. I
see you wearing jewels in public of which you were certainly not
possessed a few months ago, and which neither your fortune nor mine--"

"Let me set your mind at rest," she interrupted icily. "The pearls are
not mine. They belong to Mrs. Draconmeyer."

"Mrs. Draconmeyer!"

"I am wearing them," she continued, "at Linda's special request. She is
too unwell to appear in public and she is very seldom able to wear any
of her wonderful jewelry. It gives her pleasure to see them sometimes
upon other people."

He remained quite silent for several moments. He was, in reality,
passionately angry. Self-restraint, however, had become such a habit of
his that there were no indications of his condition save in the slight
twitchings of his long fingers and a tightening at the corners of his
lips. She, however, recognised the symptoms without difficulty.

"Since you defy my authority," he said, "may I ask whether my wishes
have any weight with you?"

"That depends," she replied.

"It is my earnest wish," he went on, "that you do not wear another
woman's jewelry, either in public or privately."

She appeared to reflect for a moment. In effect she was struggling
against a conviction that his request was reasonable.

"I am sorry," she said at last. "I see no harm whatever in my doing so
in this particular instance. It gives great pleasure to poor Mrs.
Draconmeyer to see her jewels and admire them, even if she is unable to
wear them herself. It gives me an intense joy which even a normal man
could scarcely be expected to understand; certainly not you. I am sorry
that I cannot humour you."

He leaned towards her.

"Not if I beg you?"

She looked at him fixedly, looked at him as though she searched for
something in his face, or was pondering over something in his tone. It
was a moment which might have meant much. If she could have seen into
his heart and understood the fierce jealousy which prompted his words,
it might have meant a very great deal. As it was, her contemplation
appeared to be unsatisfactory.

"I am sorry that you should lay so much stress upon so small a thing,"
she said. "You were always unreasonable. Your present request is another
instance of it. I was enjoying myself very much indeed until you came,
and now you wish to deprive me of one of my chief pleasures. I cannot
humour you."

He turned away. Even then chance might have intervened. The moment her
words had been spoken she realised a certain injustice in them, realised
a little, perhaps, the point of view of this man who was still her
husband. She watched him almost eagerly, hoping to find some sign in his
face that it was not only his stubborn pride which spoke. She failed,
however. He was one of those men who know too well how to wear the mask.

"May I ask where you are staying here?" he enquired presently.

"At the Hotel de Paris."

"It is unfortunate," he observed. "I will move my quarters to-morrow."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"Monte Carlo is full of hotels," she remarked, "but it seems a pity that
you should move. The place is large enough for both of us."

"It is not long," he retorted, "since you found London itself too small.
I should be very sorry to spoil your holiday."

Her eyes seemed to dwell for a moment upon the Spanish dancer who sat at
the table opposite them, a woman whose name had once been a household
word, dethroned now, yet still insistent for notice and homage;
commanding them, even, with the wreck of her beauty and the splendour of
her clothes.

"It seems a queer place, this," she observed, "for domestic
disagreements. Let us try to avoid disputable subjects. Shall I be too
inquisitive if I ask you once more what in the name of all that is
unsuitable brought you to such a place as Monte Carlo?"

He fenced with her question. Perhaps he resented the slightly ironical
note in her tone. Perhaps there were other reasons.

"Why should I not come to Monte Carlo?" he enquired. "Parliament is not
particularly amusing when one is in opposition, and I do not hunt. The
whole world amuses itself here."

"But not you," she replied quickly. "I know you better than that, my
dear Henry. There is nothing here or in this atmosphere which could
possibly attract you for long. There is no work for you to do--work, the
very breath of your body; work, the one thing you live for and were made
for; work, you man of sawdust and red tape."

"Am I as bad as all that?" he asked quietly.

She fingered her pearls for a moment.

"Perhaps I haven't the right to complain," she acknowledged. "I have
gone my own way always. But if one is permitted to look for a moment
into the past, can you tell me a single hour when work was not the
prominent thought in your brain, the idol before which you worshipped?
Why, even our honeymoon was spent canvassing!"

"The election was an unexpected one," he reminded her.

"It would have been the same thing," she declared. "The only literature
which you really understand is a Blue Book, and the only music you hear
is the chiming of Big Ben."

"You speak," he remarked, "as though you resented these things. Yet you
knew before you married me that I had ambitions, that I did not propose
to lead an idle life."

"Oh, yes, I knew!" she assented drily. "But we are wandering from the
point. I am still wondering what has brought you here. Have you come
direct from England?"

He shook his head.

"I came to-day from Bordighera."

"More and more mysterious," she murmured. "Bordighera, indeed! I thought
you once told me that you hated the Riviera."

"So I do," he agreed.

"And yet you are here?"

"Yet I am here."

"And you have not come to look after me," she went on, "and the mystery
of the little brown man who watches me is still unexplained."

"I know nothing about that person," he asserted, "and I had no idea that
you were here."

"Or you would not have come?" she challenged him.

"Your presence," he retorted, nettled into forgetting himself for a
moment, "would not have altered my plans in the slightest."

"Then you have a reason for coming!" she exclaimed quickly.

He gave no sign of annoyance but his lips were firmly closed. She
watched him steadfastly.

"I wonder at myself no longer," she continued. "I do not think that any
woman in the world could ever live with a man to whom secrecy is as
great a necessity as the very air he breathes. No wonder, my dear Henry,
the politicians speak so well of you, and so confidently of your
brilliant future!"

"I am not aware," he observed calmly, "that I have ever been unduly
secretive so far as you are concerned. During the last few months,
however, of our life together, you must remember that you chose to
receive on terms of friendship a person whom I regard--"

Her eyes suddenly flashed him a warning. He dropped his voice almost to
a whisper. A man was approaching them.

"As an enemy," he concluded, under his breath.

CHAPTER II

BY ACCIDENT OR DESIGN

The newcomer, who had presented himself now before Hunterleys and his
wife, was a man of somewhat unusual appearance. He was tall,
thickly-built, his black beard and closely-cropped hair were streaked
with grey, he wore gold-rimmed spectacles, and he carried his head a
little thrust forward, as though, even with the aid of his glasses, he
was still short-sighted. He had the air of a foreigner, although his
tone, when he spoke, was without accent. He held out his hand a little
tentatively, an action, however, which Hunterleys appeared to ignore.

"My dear Sir Henry!" he exclaimed. "This is a surprise, indeed! Monte
Carlo is absolutely the last place in the world in which I should have
expected to come across you. The Sporting Club, too! Well, well, well!"

Hunterleys, standing easily with his hands behind his back, raised his
eyebrows. The two men were of curiously contrasting types. Hunterleys,
slim and distinguished, had still the frame of an athlete,
notwithstanding his colourless cheeks and the worn lines about his eyes.
He was dressed with extreme simplicity. His deep-set eyes and sensitive
mouth were in marked contrast to the other's coarser mould of features
and rather full lips. Yet there was about both men an air of strength,
strength developed, perhaps, in a different manner, but still an
appreciable quality.

"They say that the whole world is here," Hunterleys remarked. "Why may
not I form a harmless unit of it?"

"Why not, indeed?" Draconmeyer assented heartily. "The most serious of
us must have our frivolous moments. I hope that you will dine with us
to-night? We shall be quite alone."

Hunterleys shook his head.

"Thank you," he said, "I have another engagement pending."

Mr. Draconmeyer was filled with polite regrets, but he did not renew the
invitation.

"When did you arrive?" he asked.

"A few hours ago," Hunterleys replied.

"By the Luxe? How strange! I went down to meet it."

"I came from the other side."

"Ah!"

Mr. Draconmeyer's ejaculation was interrogative, Hunterleys hesitated
for a moment. Then he continued with a little shrug of the shoulders.

"I have been staying at San Remo and Bordighera."

Mr. Draconmeyer was much interested.

"So that is where you have been burying yourself," he remarked. "I saw
from the papers that you had accepted a six months' pair. Surely,
though, you don't find the Italian Riviera very amusing?"

"I am abroad for a rest," Hunterleys replied.

Mr. Draconmeyer smiled curiously.

"A rest?" he repeated. "That rather belies your reputation, you know.
They say that you are tireless, even when you are out of office."

Hunterleys turned from the speaker towards his wife.

"I have not tempted fortune myself yet," he observed. "I think that I
shall have a look into the baccarat room. Do you care to stroll that
way?"

Lady Hunterleys rose at once to her feet. Mr. Draconmeyer, however,
intervened. He laid his fingers upon Hunterleys' arm.

"Sir Henry," he begged, "our meeting has been quite unexpected, but in a
sense it is opportune. Will you be good enough to give me five minutes'
conversation?"

"With pleasure," Hunterleys replied. "My time is quite at your disposal,
if you have anything to say."

Draconmeyer led the way out of the crowded room, along the passage and
into the little bar. They found a quiet corner and two easy-chairs.
Draconmeyer gave an order to a waiter. For a few moments their
conversation was conventional.

"I trust that you think your wife looking better for the change?"
Draconmeyer began. "Her companionship is a source of great pleasure and
relief to my poor wife."

"Does the conversation you wish to have with me refer to Lady
Hunterleys?" her husband asked quietly. "If so, I should like to say a
few preliminary words which would, I hope, place the matter at once
beyond the possibility of any misunderstanding."

Draconmeyer moved a little uneasily in his place.

"I have other things to say," he declared, "yet I would gladly hear what
is in your mind at the present moment. You do not, I fear, approve of
this friendship between my wife and Lady Hunterleys."

Hunterleys was uncompromising, almost curt.

"I do not," he agreed. "It is probably no secret to you that my wife and
I are temporarily estranged," he continued. "The chief reason for that
estrangement is that I forbade her your house or your acquaintance."

Draconmeyer was a little taken back. Such extreme directness of speech
was difficult to deal with.

"My dear Sir Henry," he protested, "you distress me. I do not understand
your attitude in this matter at all."

"There is no necessity for you to understand it," Hunterleys retorted
coolly. "I claim the right to regulate my wife's visiting list. She
denies that right."

"Apart from the question of marital control," Mr. Draconmeyer persisted,
"will you tell me why you consider my wife and myself unfit persons to
find a place amongst Lady Hunterleys' acquaintances?"

"No man is bound to give the reason for his dislikes," Hunterleys
replied. "Of your wife I know nothing. Nobody does. I have every
sympathy with her unfortunate condition, and that is all. You personally
I dislike. I dislike my wife to be seen with you, I dislike having her
name associated with yours in any manner whatsoever. I dislike sitting
with you here myself. I only hope that the five minutes' conversation
which you have asked for will not be exceeded."

Mr. Draconmeyer had the air of a benevolent person who is deeply pained.

"Sir Henry," he sighed, "it is not possible for me to disregard such
plain speaking. Forgive me if I am a little taken aback by it. You are
known to be a very skilful diplomatist and you have many weapons in your
armoury. One scarcely expected, however--one's breath is a little taken
away by such candour."

"I am not aware," Hunterleys said calmly, "that the question of
diplomacy need come in when one's only idea is to regulate the personal
acquaintances of oneself and one's wife."

Mr. Draconmeyer sat quite still for a moment, stroking his black beard.
His eyes were fixed upon the carpet. He seemed to be struggling with a
problem.

"You have taken the ground from beneath my feet," he declared. "Your
opinion of me is such that I hesitate to proceed at all in the matter
which I desired to discuss with you."

"That," Hunterleys replied, "is entirely for you to decide. I am
perfectly willing to listen to anything you have to say--all the more
ready because now there can be no possibility of any misunderstanding
between us."

"Very well," Mr. Draconmeyer assented, "I will proceed. After all, I am
not sure that the personal element enters into what I was about to say.
I was going to propose not exactly an alliance--that, of course, would
not be possible--but I was certainly going to suggest that you and I
might be of some service to one another."

"In what way?"

"I call myself an Englishman," Mr. Draconmeyer went on. "I have made
large sums of money in England, I have grown to love England and English
ways. Yet I came, as you know, from Berlin. The position which I hold in
your city is still the position of president of the greatest German bank
in the world. It is German finance which I have directed, and with
German money I have made my fortune. To be frank with you, however,
after these many years in London I have grown to feel myself very much
of an Englishman."

Hunterleys was sitting perfectly still. His face was rigid but
expressionless. He was listening intently.

"On the other hand," Mr. Draconmeyer proceeded slowly, "I wish to be
wholly frank with you. At heart I must remain always a German. The
interests of my country must always be paramount. But listen. In Germany
there are, as you know, two parties, and year by year they are drawing
further apart. I will not allude to factions. I will speak broadly.
There is the war party and there is the peace party. I belong to the
peace party. I belong to it as a German, and I belong to it as a devoted
friend of England, and if the threatened conflict between the two should
come, I should take my stand as a peace-loving German-cum-Englishman
against the war party even of my own country."

Hunterleys still made no sign. Yet for one who knew him it was easy to
realise that he was listening and thinking with absorbed interest.

"So far," Draconmeyer pointed out, "I have laid my cards on the table. I
have told you the solemn truth. I regret that it did not occur to me to
do so many months ago in London. Now to proceed. I ask you to emulate my
frankness, and in return I will give you information which should enable
us to work hand in hand for the peace which we both desire."

"You ask me," Hunterleys said thoughtfully, "to be perfectly frank with
you. In what respect? What is it that you wish from me?"

"Not political information," Mr. Draconmeyer declared, his eyes blinking
behind his glasses. "For that I certainly should not come to you. I only
wish to ask you a question, and I must ask it so that we may meet on a
common ground of confidence. Are you here in Monte Carlo to look after
your wife, or in search of change of air and scene? Is that your honest
motive for being here? Or is there any other reason in the world which
has prompted you to come to Monte Carlo during this particular month--I
might almost say this particular week?"

Hunterleys' attitude was that of a man who holds in his hand a puzzle
and is doubtful where to commence in his efforts to solve it.

"Are you not a little mysterious this afternoon, Mr. Draconmeyer?" he
asked coldly. "Or are you trying to incite a supposititious curiosity? I
really cannot see the drift of your question."

"Answer it," Mr. Draconmeyer insisted.

Hunterleys took a cigarette from his case, tapped it upon the table and
lit it in leisurely fashion.

"If you have any idea," he said, "that I came here to confront my wife,
or to interfere in any way with her movements, let me assure you that
you are mistaken. I had no idea that Lady Hunterleys was in Monte Carlo.
I am here because I have a six months' holiday, and a holiday for the
average Englishman between January and April generally means, as you
must be aware, the Riviera. I have tried Bordighera and San Remo. I have
found them, as I no doubt shall find this place, wearisome. In the end I
suppose I shall drift back to London."

Mr. Draconmeyer frowned.

"You left London," he remarked tersely, "on December first. It is to-day
February twentieth. Do you wish me to understand that you have been at
Bordighera and San Remo all that time?"

"How did you know when I left London?" Hunterleys demanded.

Mr. Draconmeyer pursed his lips.

"I heard of your departure from London entirely by accident," he said.
"Your wife, for some reason or other, declined to discuss your
movements. I imagine that she was acting in accordance with your
wishes."

"I see," Hunterleys observed coolly. "And your present anxiety is to
know where I spent the intervening time, and why I am here in Monte
Carlo? Frankly, Mr. Draconmeyer, I look upon this close interest in my
movements as an impertinence. My travels have been of no importance, but
they concern myself only. I have no confidence to offer respecting them.
If I had, it would not be to you that I should unburden myself."

"You suspect me, then? You doubt my integrity?"

"Not at all," Hunterleys assured his questioner. "For anything I know to
the contrary, you are, outside the world of finance, one of the dullest
and most harmless men existing. My own position is simply as I explained
it during the first few sentences we exchanged. I do not like you, I
detest my wife's name being associated with yours, and for that reason,
the less I see of you the better I am pleased."

Mr. Draconmeyer nodded thoughtfully. He was, to all appearance, studying
the pattern of the carpet. For once in his life he was genuinely
puzzled. Was this man by his side merely a jealous husband, or had he
any idea of the greater game which was being played around them? Had he,
by any chance, arrived to take part in it? Was it wise, in any case, to
pursue the subject further? Yet if he abandoned it at this juncture, it
must be with a sense of failure, and failure was a thing to which he was
not accustomed.

"Your frankness," he admitted grimly, "is almost exhilarating. Our
personal relations being so clearly defined, I am inclined to go further
even than I had intended. We cannot now possibly misunderstand one
another. Supposing I were to tell you that your arrival in Monte Carlo,
accidental though it may be, is in a sense opportune; that you may, in a
short time meet here one or two politicians, friends of mine, with whom
an interchange of views might be agreeable? Supposing I were to offer my
services as an intermediary? You would like to bring about better
relations with my country, would you not, Sir Henry? You are admittedly
a statesman and an influential man in your Party. I am only a banker, it
is true, but I have been taken into the confidence of those who direct
the destinies of my country."

Hunterleys' face reflected none of the other's earnestness. He seemed,
indeed, a little bored, and he answered almost irritably.

"I am much obliged to you," he said, "but Monte Carlo seems scarcely the
place to me for political discussions, added to which I have no official
position. I could not receive or exchange confidences. While my Party is
out of power, there is nothing left for us but to mark time. I dare say
you mean well, Mr. Draconmeyer," he added, rising to his feet, "but I am
here to forget politics altogether, if I can. If you will excuse me, I
think I will look in at the baccarat rooms."

He was on the point of departure when through the open doorway which
communicated with the baccarat rooms beyond came a man of sufficiently
arresting personality, a man remarkably fat, with close-cropped grey
hair which stuck up like bristles all over his head; a huge,
clean-shaven face which seemed concentrated at that moment in one
tremendous smile of overwhelming good-humour. He held by the hand a
little French girl, dark, small, looking almost like a marionette in her
slim tailor-made costume. He recognised Draconmeyer with enthusiasm.

"My friend Draconmeyer," he exclaimed, in stentorian tones, "baccarat is
the greatest game in the world. I have won--I, who know nothing about
it, have won a hundred louis. It is amazing! There is no place like this
in the world. We are here to drink a bottle of wine together,
mademoiselle and I, mademoiselle who was at once my instructress and my
mascot. Afterwards we go to the jeweler's. Why not? A fair division of
the spoils--fifty louis for myself, fifty louis for a bracelet for
mademoiselle. And then--"

He broke off suddenly. His gesture was almost dramatic.

"I am forgotten!" he cried, holding out his hand to
Hunterleys,--"forgotten already! Sir Henry, there are many who forget me
as a humble Minister of my master, but there are few who forget me
physically. I am Selingman. We met in Berlin, six years ago. You came
with your great Foreign Secretary."

"I remember you perfectly," Hunterleys assured him, as he submitted to
the newcomer's vigorous handshake. "We shall meet again, I trust."

Selingman thrust his arm through Hunterleys' as though to prevent his
departure.

"You shall not run away!" he declared. "I introduce both of you--Mr.
Draconmeyer, the great Anglo-German banker; Sir Henry Hunterleys, the
English politician--to Mademoiselle Estelle Nipon, of the Opera House.
Now we all know one another. We shall be good friends. We will share
that bottle of champagne."

"One bottle between four!" mademoiselle laughed, poutingly. "And I am
parched! I have taught monsieur baccarat. I am exhausted."

"A magnum!" Selingman ordered in a voice of thunder, shaking his fist at
the startled waiter. "We seat ourselves here at the round table.
Mademoiselle, we will drink champagne together until the eyes of all of
us sparkle as yours do. We will drink champagne until we do not believe
that there is such a thing as losing at games or in life. We will drink
champagne until we all four believe that we have been brought up
together, that we are bosom friends of a lifetime. See, this is how we
will place ourselves. Mademoiselle, if the others make love to you, take
no notice. It is I who have put fifty louis in one pocket for that
bracelet. Do not trust Sir Henry there; he has a reputation."

As usual, the overpowering Selingman had his way. Neither Draconmeyer
nor Hunterleys attempted to escape. They took their places at the table.
They drank champagne and they listened to Selingman. All the time he
talked, save when mademoiselle interrupted him. Seated upon a chair
which seemed absurdly inadequate, his great stomach with its vast
expanse of white waistcoat in full view, his short legs doubled up
beneath him, he beamed upon them all with a smile which never failed.

"It is a wonderful place," he declared, as he lifted his glass for the
fifth time. "We will drink to it, this Monte Carlo. It is here that they
come from all quarters of the world--the ladies who charm away our
hearts," he added, bowing to mademoiselle, "the financiers whose word
can shake the money-markets of the world, and the politicians who
unbend, perhaps, just a little in the sunshine here, however cold and
inflexible they may be under their own austere skies. For the last time,
then--to Monte Carlo! To Monte Carlo, dear mademoiselle!--messieurs!"

[Illustration: "For the last time, then--to Monte Carlo!"]

They drank the toast and a few minutes later Hunterleys slipped away.
The two men looked after him. The smile seemed gradually to leave
Selingman's lips, his face was large and impressive.

"Run and fetch your cloak, dear," he said to the girl.

She obeyed at once. Selingman leaned across the table towards his
companion.

"What does Hunterleys do here?" he asked.

Draconmeyer shook his head.

"Who knows?" he answered. "Perhaps he has come to look after his wife.
He has been to Bordighera and San Remo."

"Is that all he told you of his movements?"

"That is all," Draconmeyer admitted. "He was suspicious. I made no
progress."

"Bordighera and San Remo!" Selingman muttered under his breath. "For a
day, perhaps, or two."

"What do you know about him?" Draconmeyer asked, his eyes suddenly
bright beneath his spectacles. "I have been suspicious ever since I met
him, an hour ago. He left England on December first."

"It is true," Selingman assented. "He crossed to Paris, and--mark the
cunning of it--he returned to England. That same night he travelled to
Germany. We lost him in Vienna and found him again in Sofia. What does
it mean, I wonder? What does it mean?"

"I have been talking to him for twenty minutes in here before you came,"
Draconmeyer said. "I tried to gain his confidence. He told me nothing.
He never even mentioned that journey of his."

Selingman was sitting drumming upon the table with his broad fingertips.

"Sofia!" he murmured. "And now--here! Draconmeyer, there is work before
us. I know men, I tell you. I know Hunterleys. I watched him, I listened
to him in Berlin six years ago. He was with his master then but he had
nothing to learn from him. He is of the stuff diplomats are fashioned
of. He has it in his blood. There is work before us, Draconmeyer."

"If monsieur is ready!" mademoiselle interposed, a little petulantly,
letting the tip of her boa play for a moment on his cheek.

Selingman finished his wine and rose to his feet. Once more the smile
encompassed his face. Of what account, after all, were the wanderings of
this melancholy Englishman! There was mademoiselle's bracelet to be
bought, and perhaps a few flowers. Selingman pulled down his waistcoat
and accepted his grey Homburg hat from the vestiaire. He held
mademoiselle's fingers as they descended the stairs. He looked like a
school-boy of enormous proportions on his way to a feast.

"We drank to Monte Carlo in champagne," he declared, as they turned on
to the terrace and descended the stone steps, "but, dear Estelle, we
drink to it from our hearts with every breath we draw of this wonderful
air, every time our feet touch the buoyant ground. Believe me, little
one, the other things are of no account. The true philosophy of life and
living is here in Monte Carlo. You and I will solve it."

A WARNING

Hunterleys dined alone at a small round table, set in a remote corner of
the great restaurant attached to the Hotel de Paris. The scene around
him was full of colour and interest. A scarlet-coated band made
wonderful music. The toilettes of the women who kept passing backwards
and forwards, on their way to the various tables, were marvellous; in
their way unique. The lights and flowers of the room, its appointments
and adornments, all represented the last word in luxury. Everywhere was
colour, everywhere an almost strained attempt to impress upon the
passerby the fact that this was no ordinary holiday resort but the giant
pleasure-ground of all in the world who had money to throw away and the
capacity for enjoyment. Only once a more somber note seemed struck when
Mrs. Draconmeyer, leaning on her husband's arm and accompanied by a
nurse and Lady Hunterleys, passed to their table. Hunterleys' eyes
followed the little party until they had reached their destination and
taken their places. His wife was wearing black and she had discarded the
pearls which had hung around her neck during the afternoon. She wore
only a collar of diamonds, his gift. Her hair was far less elaborately
coiffured and her toilette less magnificent than the toilettes of the
women by whom she was surrounded. Yet as he looked from his corner
across the room at her, Hunterleys realised as he had realised instantly
twelve years ago when he had first met her, that she was incomparable.
There was no other woman in the whole of that great restaurant with her
air of quiet elegance; no other woman so faultless in the smaller
details of her toilette and person. Hunterleys watched with
expressionless face but with anger growing in his heart, as he saw
Draconmeyer bending towards her, accepting her suggestions about the
dinner, laughing when she laughed, watching almost humbly for her
pleasure or displeasure. It was a cursed mischance which had brought him
to Monte Carlo!

Hunterleys hurried over his dinner, and without even going to his room
for a hat or coat, walked across the square in the soft twilight of an
unusually warm February evening and took a table outside the Café de
Paris, where he ordered coffee. Around him was a far more cosmopolitan
crowd, increasing every moment in volume. Every language was being
spoken, mostly German. As a rule, such a gathering of people was, in its
way, interesting to Hunterleys. To-night his thoughts were truant. He
forgot his strenuous life of the last three months, the dangers and
discomforts through which he had passed, the curious sequence of events
which had brought him, full of anticipation, nerved for a crisis, to
Monte Carlo of all places in the world. He forgot that he was in the
midst of great events, himself likely to take a hand in them. His
thoughts took, rarely enough for him, a purely personal and sentimental
turn. He thought of the earliest days of his marriage, when he and his
wife had wandered about the gardens of his old home in Wiltshire on
spring evenings such as these, and had talked sometimes lightly,
sometimes seriously, of the future. Almost as he sat there in the midst
of that noisy crowd, he could catch the faint perfume of hyacinths from
the borders along which they had passed and the trimly-cut flower-beds
which fringed the deep green lawn. Almost he could hear the chiming of
the old stable clock, the clear note of a thrush singing. A puff of wind
brought them a waft of fainter odour from the wild violets which
carpeted the woods. Then the darkness crept around them, a star came
out. Hand in hand they turned towards the house and into the library,
where a wood fire was burning on the grate. His thoughts travelled on. A
wave of tenderness had assailed him. Then he was awakened by the
waiter's voice at his elbow.

"Le café, monsieur."

He sat up in his chair. His dreaming moments were few and this one had
passed. He set his heel upon that tide of weakening memories, sipped his
coffee and looked out upon the crowd. Three or four times he glanced at
his watch impatiently. Precisely at nine o'clock, a man moved from
somewhere in the throng behind and took the vacant chair by his side.

"If one could trouble monsieur for a match!"

Hunterleys turned towards the newcomer as he handed his matchbox. He was
a young man of medium height, with sandy complexion, a little freckled,
and with a straggling fair moustache. He had keen grey eyes and the
faintest trace of a Scotch accent. He edged his chair a little nearer to
Hunterleys.

"Much obliged," he said. "Wonderful evening, isn't it?"

Hunterleys nodded.

"Have you anything to tell me, David?" he asked.

"We are right in the thick of it," the other replied, his tone a little
lowered. "There is more to tell than I like."

"Shall we stroll along the Terrace?" Hunterleys suggested.

"Don't move from your seat," the young man enjoined. "You are watched
here, and so am I, in a way, although it's more my news they want to
censor than anything personal. This crowd of Germans around us, without
a single vacant chair, is the best barrier we can have. Listen.
Selingman is here."

"I saw him this afternoon at the Sporting Club," Hunterleys murmured.

"Douaille will be here the day after to-morrow, if he has not already
arrived," the newcomer continued. "It was given out in Paris that he was
going down to Marseilles and from there to Toulon, to spend three days
with the fleet. They sent a paragraph into our office there. As a matter
of fact, he's coming straight on here. I can't learn how, exactly, but I
fancy by motor-car."

"You're sure that Douaille is coming himself?" Hunterleys asked
anxiously.

"Absolutely! His wife and family have been bustled down to Mentone, so
as to afford a pretext for his presence here if the papers get hold of
it. I have found out for certain that they came at a moment's notice and
were not expecting to leave home at all. Douaille will have full powers,
and the conference will take place at the Villa Mimosa. That will be the
headquarters of the whole thing.... Look out, Sir Henry. They've got
their eyes on us. The little fellow in brown, close behind, is hand in
glove with the police. They tried to get me into a row last night. It's
only my journalism they suspect, but they'd shove me over the frontier
at the least excuse. They're certain to try something of the sort with
you, if they get any idea that we are on the scent. Sit tight, sir, and
watch. I'm off. You know where to find me."

The young man raised his hat and left Hunterleys with the polite
farewell of a stranger. His seat was almost immediately seized by a
small man dressed in brown, a man with a black imperial and moustache
curled upwards. As Hunterleys glanced towards him, he raised his Hamburg
hat politely and smiled.

"Monsieur's friend has departed?" he enquired. "This seat is
disengaged?"

"As you see," Hunterleys replied.

The little man smiled his thanks, seated himself with a sigh of content
and ordered coffee from a passing waiter.

"Monsieur is doubtless a stranger to Monte Carlo?"

"It is my second visit only," Hunterleys admitted.

"For myself I am an habitué," the little man continued, "I might almost
say a resident. Therefore, all faces soon become familiar to me.
Directly I saw monsieur, I knew that he was not a frequenter."

Hunterleys turned a little in his chair and surveyed his neighbour
curiously. The man was neatly dressed and he spoke English with scarcely
any accent. His shoulders and upturned moustache gave him a military
appearance.

"There is nothing I envy any one so much in life," he proceeded, "as
coming to Monte Carlo for the first or second time. There is so much to
know, to see, to understand."

Hunterleys made no effort to discourage his companion's obvious attempts
to be friendly. The latter talked with spirit for some time.

"If it would not be regarded as a liberty," he said at last, as
Hunterleys rose to move off, "may I be permitted to present myself? My
name is Hugot? I am half English, half French. Years ago my health broke
down and I accepted a position in a bank here. Since then I have come in
to money. If I have a hobby in life, it is to show my beloved Monte
Carlo to strangers. If monsieur would do me the honour to spare me a few
hours to-night, later on, I would endeavour to see that he was amused."

Hunterleys shook his head. He remained, however, perfectly courteous. He
had a conviction that this was the man who had been watching his wife.

"You are very kind, sir," he replied. "I am here only for a few days and
for the benefit of my health. I dare not risk late hours. We shall meet
again, I trust."

He strolled off and as he hesitated upon the steps of the Casino he
glanced across towards the Hotel de Paris. At that moment a woman came
out, a light cloak over her evening gown. She was followed by an
attendant. Hunterleys recognised his wife and watched them with a
curious little thrill. They turned towards the Terrace. Very slowly he,
too, moved in the same direction. They passed through the gardens of the
Hotel de Paris, and Hunterleys, keeping to the left, met them upon the
Terrace as they emerged. As they came near he accosted them.

"Violet," he began.

She started.

"I beg your pardon," she said. "I did not recognise you."

"Haven't you been told," he asked stiffly, "that the Terrace is unsafe
for women after twilight?"

"Very often," she assented, with that little smile at the corners of her
lips which once he had found so charming and which now half maddened
him. "Unfortunately, I have a propensity for doing things which are
dangerous. Besides, I have my maid."

"Another woman is no protection," he declared.

"Susanne can shriek," Lady Hunterleys assured him. "She has wonderful
lungs and she loves to use them. She would shriek at the least
provocation."

"And meanwhile," Hunterleys observed drily, "while she is indulging in
her vocal exercises, things happen. If you wish to promenade here,
permit me to be your escort."

She hesitated for a moment, frowning. Then she continued her walk.

"You are very kind," she assented. "Perhaps you are like me, though, and
feel the restfulness of a quiet place after these throngs and throngs of
people."

They passed slowly down the broad promenade, deserted now save for one
or two loungers like themselves, and a few other furtive, hurrying
figures. In front of them stretched an arc of glittering lights--the
wonderful Bay of Mentone, with Bordighera on the distant sea-board;
higher up, the twinkling lights from the villas built on the rocky
hills. And at their feet the sea, calm, deep, blue, lapping the narrow
belt of hard sand, scintillating with the reflection of a thousand
lights; on the horizon a blood-red moon, only half emerged from the sea.

"Since we have met, Henry," Lady Hunterleys said at last, "there is
something which I should like to say to you."

"Certainly!"

She glanced behind. Susanne had fallen discreetly into the rear. She was
a new importation and she had no idea as to the identity of the tall,
severe-looking Englishman who walked by her mistress's side.

"There is something going on in Monte Carlo," Lady Hunterleys went on,
"which I cannot understand. Mr. Draconmeyer knows about it, I believe,
although he is not personally concerned in it. But he will tell me
nothing. I only know that for some reason or other your presence here
seems to be an annoyance to certain people. Why it should be I don't
know, but I want to ask you about it. Will you tell me the truth? Are
you sure that you did not come here to spy upon me?"

"I certainly did not," Hunterleys answered firmly. "I had no idea that
you were near the place. If I had--"

She turned her head. The smile was there once more and a queer, soft
light in her eyes.

"If you had?" she murmured.

"My visit here, under the present circumstances, would have been more
distasteful than it is," Hunterleys replied stiffly.

She bit her lip and turned away. When she resumed the conversation, her
tone was completely changed.

"I speak to you now," she said, "in your own interests. Mr. Draconmeyer
is, of course, not personally connected with this affair, whatever it
may be, but he is a wonderful man and he hears many things. To-night,
before dinner, he gave me a few words of warning. He did not tell me to
pass them on to you but I feel sure that he hoped I would. You would not
listen to them from him because you do not like him. I am afraid that
you will take very little more heed of what I say, but at least you will
believe that I speak in your own interests. Mr. Draconmeyer believes
that your presence here is misunderstood. A person whom he describes as
being utterly without principle and of great power is incensed by it. To
speak plainly, you are in danger."

"I am flattered," Hunterleys remarked, "by this interest on my behalf."

She turned her head and looked at him. His face, in this cold light
before the moon came up, was almost like the face of some marble statue,
lifeless, set, of almost stonelike severity. She knew the look so well
and she sighed.

"You need not be," she replied bitterly. "Mine is merely the ordinary
feeling of one human creature for another. In a sense it seems absurd, I
suppose, to speak to you as I am doing. Yet I do know that this place
which looks so beautiful has strange undercurrents. People pass away
here in the most orthodox fashion in the world, outwardly, but their
real ending is often never known at all. Everything is possible here,
and Mr. Draconmeyer honestly believes that you are in danger."

They had reached the end of the Terrace and they turned back.

"I thank you very much, Violet," Hunterleys said earnestly. "In return,
may I say something to you? If there is any danger threatening me or
those interests which I guard, the man whom you have chosen to make your
intimate friend is more deeply concerned in it than you think. I told
you once before that Draconmeyer was something more than the great
banker, the king of commerce, as he calls himself. He is ambitious
beyond your imaginings, a schemer in ways you know nothing of, and his
residence in London during the last fifteen years has been the worst
thing that ever happened for England. To me it is a bitter thing that
you should have ignored my warning and accepted his friendship--"

"It is not Mr. Draconmeyer who is my friend, Henry," she interrupted.
"You continually ignore that fact. It is Mrs. Draconmeyer whom I cannot
desert. I knew her long before I did her husband. We were at school
together, and there was a time before her last illness when we were
inseparable."

"That may have been so at first," Hunterleys agreed, "but how about
since then? You cannot deny, Violet, that this man Draconmeyer has in
some way impressed or fascinated you. You admire him. You find great
pleasure in his society. Isn't that the truth, now, honestly?"

Her face was a little troubled.

"I do certainly find pleasure in his society," she admitted. "I cannot
conceive any one who would not. He is a brilliant, a wonderful musician,
a delightful talker, a generous host and companion. He has treated me
always with the most scrupulous regard, and I feel that I am entirely
reasonable in resenting your mistrust of him."

"You do resent it still, then?"

"I do," she asserted emphatically.

"And if I told you," Hunterleys went on, "that the man was in love with
you. What then?"

"I should say that you were a fool!"

Hunterleys shrugged his shoulders.

"There is no more to be said," he declared, "only, for a clever woman,
Violet, you are sometimes woefully or wilfully blind. I tell you that I
know the type. Sooner or later--before very long, I should think--you
will have the usual scene. I warn you of it now. If you are wise, you
will go back to England."

"Absurd!" she scoffed. "Why, we have only just come! I want to win some
money--not that your allowance isn't liberal enough," she added hastily,
"but there is a fascination in winning, you know. And besides, I could
not possibly desert Mrs. Draconmeyer. She would not have come at all if
I had not joined them."

"You are the mistress of your own ways," Hunterleys said. "According to
my promise, I shall attempt to exercise no authority over you in any
way, but I tell you that Draconmeyer is my enemy, and the enemy of all
the things I represent, and I tell you, too, that he is in love with
you. When you realise that these things are firmly established in my
brain, you can perhaps understand how thoroughly distasteful I find your
association with him here. It is all very well to talk about Mrs.
Draconmeyer, but she goes nowhere. The consequence is that he is your
escort on every occasion. I am quite aware that a great many people in
society accept him. I personally am not disposed to. I look upon him as
an unfit companion for my wife and I resent your appearance with him in
public."

"We will discuss this subject no further," she decided. "From the moment
of our first disagreement, it has been your object to break off my
friendship with the Draconmeyers. Until I have something more than words
to go by, I shall continue to give him my confidence."

They crossed the stone flags in front of the Opera together, and turned
up towards the Rooms.

"I think, perhaps, then," he said, "that we may consider the subject
closed. Only," he added, "you will forgive me if I still--"

He hesitated. She turned her head quickly. Her eyes sought his but
unfortunately he was looking straight ahead and seeing gloomy things. If
he had happened to turn at that moment, he might have concluded his
speech differently.

"If I still exhibit some interest in your doings."

"I shall always think it most kind of you," she replied, her face
suddenly hardening. "Have I not done my best to reciprocate? I have even
passed on to you a word of warning, which I think you are very unwise to
ignore."

They were outside the hotel. Hunterleys paused.

"I have nothing to fear from the mysterious source you have spoken of,"
he assured her. "The only enemy I have in Monte Carlo is Draconmeyer
himself."

"Enemy!" she repeated scornfully. "Mr. Draconmeyer is much too wrapped
up in his finance, and too big a man, in his way, to have enemies. Oh,
Henry, if only you could get rid of a few of your prejudices, how much
more civilised a human being you would be!"

He raised his hat. His expression was a little grim.

"The man without prejudices, my dear Violet," he retorted, "is a man
without instincts.... I wish you luck."

She ran lightly up the steps and waved her hand. He watched her pass
through the doors into the hotel.

CHAPTER IV

ENTER THE AMERICAN

Lady Weybourne was lunching on the terrace of Ciro's restaurant with her
brother. She was small, dark, vivacious. Her friends, of whom she had
thousands, all called her Flossie, and she was probably the most popular
American woman who had ever married into the English peerage. Her
brother, Richard Lane, on the other hand, was tall, very
broad-shouldered, with a strong, clean-shaven face, inclined by
disposition to be taciturn. On this particular morning he had less even
than usual to say, and although Lady Weybourne, who was a great
chatterbox, was content as a rule to do most of the talking for herself,
his inattention became at last a little too obvious. He glanced up
eagerly as every newcomer appeared, and his answers to his sister's
criticisms were sometimes almost at random.

"Dicky, I'm not at all sure that I'm liking you this morning," she
observed finally, looking across at him with a critically questioning
smile. "A certain amount of non-responsiveness to my advances I can put
up with--from a brother--but this morning you are positively
inattentive. Tell me your troubles at once. Has Harris been bothering
you, or did you lose a lot of money last night?"

Considering that the young man's income was derived from an exceedingly
well-invested capital of nine million dollars, and that Harris was the
all too perfect captain of his yacht lying then in the harbour, whose
worst complaint was that he had never enough work to do, Lady
Weybourne's enquiries might have been considered as merely tentative.
Richard shook his head a little gloomily.

"Those things aren't likely to trouble me," he remarked. "Harris is all
right, and I've promised him we'll make up a little party and go over to
Cannes in a day or two."

"What a ripping idea!" Lady Weybourne declared, breaking up her thin
toast between her fingers. "I'd love it, and so would Harry. We could
easily get together a delightful party. The Pelhams are here and simply
dying for a change, and there's Captain Gardner and Frank Clowes, and
lots of nice girls. Couldn't we fix a date, Dick?"

"Not just yet," her brother replied.

"And why not?"

"I am waiting," he told her, "until I can ask the girl I want to go."

"And why can't you now?" she demanded, with upraised eyebrows. "I'll be
hostess and chaperone all in one."

"I can't ask her because I don't know her yet," the young man explained
doggedly.

Lady Weybourne leaned back in her chair and laughed.

"So that's it!" she exclaimed. "Now I know why you're sitting there like
an owl this morning! In love with a fair unknown, are you, Dick? Be
careful. Monte Carlo is full of young ladies whom it would be just as
well to know a little about before you thought of taking them yachting."

"This one isn't that sort," the young man said.

"How do you know that?" she asked, leaning across the table, her head
resting on her clasped hands.

He looked at her almost contemptuously.

"How do I know!" he repeated. "There are just one or two things that
happen in this world which a man can be utterly and entirely sure of.
She is one of them. Say, Flossie," he added, the enthusiasm creeping at
last into his tone, "you never saw any one quite like her in all your
life!"

"Do I know her, I wonder?" Lady Weybourne enquired.

"That's just what I've asked you here to find out," her brother replied
ingenuously. "I heard her tell the man she was with this morning--her
father, I believe--about an hour ago, that she would be at Ciro's at
half-past one. It's twenty minutes to two now."

Lady Weybourne laughed heartily.

"So that's why you dragged me out of bed and made me come to lunch with
you! Dick, what a fraud you are! I was thinking what a dear,
affectionate brother you were, and all the time you were just making use
of me."

"Sorry," the young man said briskly, "but, after all, we needn't stand
on ceremony, need we? I've always been your pal; gave you a leg up with
the old man, you know, when he wasn't keen on the British alliance."

She nodded.

"Oh, I'll do what I can for you," she promised. "If she is any one in
particular I expect I shall know her. What's happening, Dick?"

The young man's face was almost transformed. His eyes were bright and
very fixed. His lips had come together in a firm, straight line, as
though he were renewing some promise to himself. Lady Weybourne followed
the direction of his gaze. A man and a girl had reached the entrance to
the restaurant and were looking around them as though to select a table.
The chief maître d'hôtel had hastened out to receive them. They were,
without doubt, people of importance. The man was of medium height, with
iron-grey hair and moustache, and a small imperial. He wore light
clothes of perfect cut; patent shoes with white linen gaiters; a black
tie fastened with a pin of opals. He carried himself with an air which
was unmistakable and convincing. The girl by his side was beautiful. She
was simply dressed in a tailor-made gown of white serge. Her black hat
was a miracle of smartness. Her hair was of a very light shade of
golden-brown, her complexion wonderfully fair. Lady Weybourne glanced at
her shoes and gloves, at the bag which she was carrying, and the handle
of her parasol. Then she nodded approvingly.

"You don't know her?" Richard asked, in a disappointed whisper.

She shook her head.

"Sorry," she admitted, "but I don't. They've probably only just
arrived."

With great ceremony the newcomers were conducted to the best table upon
the terrace. The man was evidently an habitué. He had scarcely taken his
seat before, with a very low bow, the sommelier brought him a small
wine-glass filled with what seemed to be vermouth. While he sipped it he
smoked a Russian cigarette and with a gold pencil wrote out the menu of
his luncheon. In a few minutes the manager himself came hurrying out
from the restaurant. His salute was almost reverential. When, after a
few moments' conversation, he departed, he did so with the air of one
taking leave of royalty. Lady Weybourne, who was an inquisitive little
person, was puzzled.

"I don't know who they are, Dick," she confessed, "but I know the ways
of this place well, and I can tell you one thing--they are people of
importance. You can tell that by the way they are received. These
restaurant people don't make mistakes."

"Of course they are people of importance," the young man declared. "Any
one can see that by a glance at the girl. I am sorry you don't know
them," he went on, "but you've got to find out who they are, and pretty
quickly, too. Look here, Flossie. I am a bit useful to you now and then,
aren't I?"

"Without you, my dear Dick," she murmured, "I should never be able to
manage those awful trustees. You are invaluable, a perfect jewel of a
brother."

"Well, I'll give you that little electric coupé you were so keen on last
time we were in London, if you'll get me an introduction to that girl
within twenty-four hours."

Lady Weybourne gasped.

"What a whirlwind!" she exclaimed. "Dicky, are you, by any chance, in
earnest?"

"In earnest for the first time in my life," he assured her. "Something
has got hold of me which I'm not going to part with."

She considered him reflectively. He was twenty-seven years of age, and
notwithstanding the boundless opportunities of his youth and great
wealth he had so far shown an almost singular indifference to the whole
of the opposite sex, from the fascinating chorus girls of London and New
York to the no less enterprising young women of his own order. As she
sat there studying his features, she felt a sensation almost of awe.
There was something entirely different, something stronger in his face.
She thought for a moment of their father as she had known him in her
childhood, the founder of their fortunes, a man who had risen from a
moderate position to immense wealth through sheer force of will, of
pertinacity. For the first time she saw the same look upon her brother's
face.

"Well," she sighed, "I shall do my best to earn it. I only hope, Dick,
that she is--"

"She is what?" he demanded, looking at her steadfastly.

"Oh! not engaged or anything, I mean," Lady Weybourne explained hastily.
"I must admit, Dick, although I don't suppose any sister is particularly
keen upon her brother's young women, that I think you've shown excellent
taste. She is absolutely the best style of any one I've seen in Monte
Carlo."

"How are you going to manage that introduction?" he asked bluntly. "Have
you made any plans?"

"I don't suppose it will be difficult," she assured him, lighting a
cigarette and shaking her head at the tray of liqueurs which the
sommelier was offering. "Get me some cream for my coffee, Dick. Now I'll
tell you," she continued, as the waiter disappeared. "You will have to
call that under-maître d'hôtel. You had better give him a substantial
tip and ask him quietly for their names. Then I'll see about the rest."

"That seems sensible enough," he admitted.

"And look here, Dick," she went on, "I know how impetuous you are. Don't
do anything foolish. Remember this isn't an ordinary adventure. If you
go rushing in upon it you'll come to grief."

"I know," he answered shortly. "I was fool enough to hang about the
flower shops and that milliner's this morning. I couldn't help it. I
don't know whether she noticed. I believe she did. Once our eyes did
meet, and although I'll swear she never changed her expression, I felt
that the whole world didn't hold so small a creature as I. Here comes
Charles. I'll ask him."

He beckoned to the maître d'hôtel and talked for a moment about the
luncheon. Then he ordered a table for the next day, and slipping a louis
into the man's hand, leaned over and whispered in his ear.

"I want you to tell me the name of the gentleman and young lady who are
sitting over there at the corner table?"

The maître d'hôtel glanced covertly in the direction indicated. He did
not at once reply. His face was perplexed, almost troubled.

"I am very sorry, sir," he said hesitatingly, "but our orders are very
strict. Monsieur Ciro does not like anything in the way of gossip about
our clients, and the gentleman is a very honoured patron. The young lady
is his daughter."

"Quite right," the young man agreed bluntly. "This isn't an ordinary
case, Charles. You go over to the desk there, write me down the name and
bring it, and there's a hundred franc note waiting here for you. No need
for the name to pass your lips."

The man bowed and retreated. In a few minutes he came back again and
laid a small card upon the table.

"Monsieur will pardon my reminding him," he begged earnestly, "but if he
will be so good as to never mention this little matter--"

Richard nodded and waved him away.

"Sure!" he promised.

He drew the card towards him and looked at it in a puzzled manner. Then
he passed it to his sister. Her expression, too, was blank.

"Who in the name of mischief," he exclaimed softly, "is Mr. Grex!"

CHAPTER V

"WHO IS MR. GREX?"

Lady Weybourne insisted, after a reasonable amount of time spent over
their coffee, that her brother should pay the bill and leave the
restaurant. They walked slowly across the square.

"What are you going to do about it?" he asked.

"There is only one thing to be done," she replied. "I shall speak to
every one I meet this afternoon--I shall be, in fact, most sociable--and
sooner or later in our conversation I shall ask every one if they know
Mr. Grex and his daughter. When I arrive at some one who does, that will
be the first step, won't it?"

"I wonder whether we shall see some one soon!" he grumbled, looking
around. "Where are all the people to-day!"

She laughed softly.

"Just a little impetuous, aren't you?"

"I should say so," he admitted. "I'd like to be introduced to her before
four o'clock, propose to her this evening, and--and--"

"And what?"

"Never mind," he concluded, marching on with his head turned towards the
clouds. "Let's go and sit down upon the Terrace and talk about her."

"But, my dear Dicky," his sister protested, "I don't want to sit upon
the Terrace. I am going to my dressmaker's across the way there, and
afterwards to Lucie's to try on some hats. Then I am going back to the
hotel for an hour's rest and to prink, and afterwards into the Sporting
Club at four o'clock. That's my programme. I shall be doing what I can
the whole of the time. I shall make discreet enquiries of my dressmaker,
who knows everybody, and I sha'n't let a single acquaintance go by. You
will have to amuse yourself till four o'clock, at any rate. There's Sir
Henry Hunterleys over there, having coffee. Go and talk to him. He may
put you out of your misery. Thanks ever so much for my luncheon, and au
revoir!"

She turned away with a little nod. Her brother, after a moment's
hesitation, approached the table where Hunterleys was sitting alone.

"How do you do, Sir Henry?"

Hunterleys returned his greeting, a little blankly at first. Then he
remembered the young man and held out his hand.

"Of course! You are Richard Lane, aren't you? Sit down and have some
coffee. What are you doing here?"

"I've got a little boat in the harbour," Richard replied, as he drew up
a chair. "I've been at Algiers for a time with some friends, and I've
brought them on here. Just been lunching with my sister. Are you alone?"

Hunterleys hesitated.

"Yes, I am alone."

"Wonderful place," the young man went on. "Wonderful crowd of people
here, too. I suppose you know everybody?" he added, warming up as he
approached his subject.

"On the contrary," Hunterleys answered, "I am almost a stranger here. I
have been staying further down the coast."

"Happen to know any one of the name of Grex?" Lane asked, with elaborate
carelessness.

Hunterleys made no immediate reply. He seemed to be considering the
name.

"Grex," he repeated, knocking the ash from his cigarette. "Rather an
uncommon name, isn't it? Why do you ask?"

"Oh, I've seen an elderly man and a young lady about once or twice,"
Lane explained. "Very interesting-looking people. Some one told me that
their name was Grex."

"There is a person living under that name, I think," Hunterleys said,
"who has taken the Villa Mimosa for the season."

"Do you know him personally?" the young man asked eagerly.

"Personally? No, I can scarcely say that I do."

Richard Lane sighed. It was disappointment number one. For some reason
or other, too, Hunterleys seemed disposed to change the conversation.

"The young lady who is always with him," Richard persisted, "would that
be his daughter?"

Hunterleys turned a little in his seat and surveyed his questioner. He
had met Lane once or twice and rather liked him.

"Look here, young fellow," he said, good humouredly, "let me ask you a
question for a change. What is the nature of these enquiries of yours?"

Lane hesitated. Something in Hunterleys' face and manner induced him to
tell the truth.

"I have fallen head over heels in love with the young lady," he
confessed. "Don't think I am a confounded jackass. I am not in the habit
of doing such things. I'm twenty-seven and I have never gone out of my
way to meet a girl yet. This is something--different. I want to find out
about them and get an introduction."

Hunterleys shook his head regretfully.

"I am afraid," he said, "that I can be of no use to you--no practical
use, that is. I can only give you one little piece of advice."

"Well, what is it?" Richard asked eagerly.

"If you are in earnest," Hunterleys continued, "and I will do you the
credit to believe that you are, you had better pack up your things,
return to your yacht and take a cruise somewhere."

"Take a cruise somewhere!"

Hunterleys nodded.

"Get out of Monte Carlo as quickly as you can, and, above all, don't
think anything more of that young lady. Get the idea out of your head as
quickly as you can."

The young man was sitting upright in his chair. His manner was half
minatory.

"Say, what do you mean by this?" he demanded.

"Exactly what I said just now," Hunterleys rejoined. "If you are in
earnest, and I have no doubt that you are, I should clear out."

"What is it you are trying to make me understand?" Richard asked
bluntly.

"That you have about as much chance with that young lady," Hunterleys
assured him, "as with that very graceful statue in the square yonder."

Richard sat for a moment with knitted brows.

"Then you know who she is, any way?"

"Whether I do or whether I do not," the older man said gravely, "so far
as I am concerned, the subject is exhausted. I have given you the best
advice you ever had in your life. It's up to you to follow it."

Richard looked at him blankly.

"Well, you've got me puzzled," he confessed.

Hunterleys rose to his feet, and, summoning a waiter, paid his bill.

"You'll excuse me, won't you?" he begged. "I have an appointment in a
few minutes. If you are wise, young man," he added, patting him on the
shoulder as he turned to go, "you will take my advice."

Left to himself, Richard Lane strolled around the place towards the
Terrace. He had no fancy for the Rooms and he found a seat as far
removed as possible from the Tir du Pigeons. He sat there with folded
arms, looking out across the sun-dappled sea. His matter-of-fact brain
offered him but one explanation as to the meaning of Hunterleys' words,
and against that explanation his whole being was in passionate revolt.
He represented a type of young man who possesses morals by reason of a
certain unsuspected idealism, mingled with perfect physical sanity. It
seemed to him, as he sat there, that he had been waiting for this day
for years. The old nights in New York and Paris and London floated
before his memory. He pushed them on one side with a shiver, and yet
with a curious feeling of exultation. He recalled a certain sensation
which had been drawn through his life like a thin golden thread, a
sensation which had a habit of especially asserting itself in the midst
of these youthful orgies, a curious sense of waiting for something to
happen, a sensation which had been responsible very often for what his
friends had looked upon as eccentricity. He knew now that this thing had
arrived, and everything else in life seemed to pale by the side of it.
Hunterleys' words had thrown him temporarily into a strange turmoil.
Solitude for a few moments he had felt to be entirely necessary. Yet
directly he was alone, directly he was free to listen to his
convictions, he could have laughed at that first mad surging of his
blood, the fierce, instinctive rebellion against the conclusion to which
Hunterleys' words seemed to point. Now that he was alone, he was not
even angry. No one else could possibly understand!

Before long he was once more upon his feet, starting out upon his quest
with renewed energy. He had scarcely taken a dozen steps, however, when
he came face to face with Lady Hunterleys and Mr. Draconmeyer. Quite
oblivious of the fact that they seemed inclined to avoid him, he greeted
them both with unusual warmth.

"Saw your husband just now, Lady Hunterleys," he remarked, a little
puzzled. "I fancied he said he was alone here."

She smiled.

"We did not come together," she explained; "in fact, our meeting was
almost accidental. Henry had been at Bordighera and San Remo and I came
out with Mr. and Mrs. Draconmeyer."

The young man nodded and turned towards Draconmeyer, who was standing a
little on one side as though anxious to proceed.

"Mr. Draconmeyer doesn't remember me, perhaps. I met him at my sister's,
Lady Weybourne's, just before Christmas."

"I remember you perfectly," Mr. Draconmeyer assured him courteously. "We
have all been admiring your beautiful yacht in the harbour there."

"I was thinking of getting up a little cruise before long," Richard
continued. "If so, I hope you'll all join us. Flossie is going to be
hostess, and the Montressors are passengers already."

They murmured something non-committal. Lady Hunterleys seemed as though
about to pass on but Lane blocked the way.

"I only arrived the other day from Algiers," he went on, making frantic
efforts to continue the conversation. "I brought Freddy Montressor and
his sister, and Fothergill."

"Mr. Montressor has come to the Hotel de Paris," Lady Hunterleys
remarked. "What sort of weather did you have in Algiers?"

"Ripping!" the young man replied absently, entirely oblivious of the
fact that they had been driven away by incessant rain. "This place is
much more fun, though," he added, with sudden inspiration. "Crowds of
interesting people. I suppose you know every one?"

Lady Hunterleys shook her head.

"Indeed I do not. Mr. Draconmeyer here is my guide. He is as good as a
walking directory."

"I wonder if either of you know some people named Grex?" Richard asked,
with studious indifference.

Mr. Draconmeyer for the first time showed some signs of interest. He
looked at their questioner steadfastly.

"Grex," he repeated. "A very uncommon name."

"Very uncommon-looking people," Richard declared. "The man is elderly,
and looks as though he took great care of himself--awfully well turned
out and all that. The daughter is--good-looking."

Mr. Draconmeyer took off his gold-rimmed spectacles and rubbed them with
his handkerchief.

"Why do you ask?" he enquired. "Is this just curiosity?"

"Rather more than that," Richard said boldly. "It's interest."

Mr. Draconmeyer readjusted his spectacles.

"Mr. Grex," he announced, "is a gentleman of great wealth and
illustrious birth, who has taken a very magnificent villa and desires
for a time to lead a life of seclusion. That is as much as I or any one
else knows."

"What about the young lady?" Richard persisted.

"The young lady," Mr. Draconmeyer answered, "is, as you surmised, his
daughter.... Shall we finish our promenade, Lady Hunterleys?"

Richard stood grudgingly a little on one side.

"Mr. Draconmeyer," he said desperately, "do you think there'd be any
chance of my getting an introduction to the young lady?"

Mr. Draconmeyer at first smiled and then began to laugh, as though
something in the idea tickled him. He looked at the young man and
Richard hated him.

"Not the slightest in the world, I should think," he declared. "Good
afternoon!"

Lady Hunterleys joined in her companion's amusement as they continued
their promenade.

"Is the young man in love, do you suppose?" she enquired lightly.

"If so," her companion replied, "he has made a somewhat unfortunate
choice. However, it really doesn't matter. Love at his age is nothing
more than a mood. It will pass as all moods pass."

She turned and looked at him.

"Do you mean," she asked incredulously, "that youth is incapable of
love?"

They had paused for a moment, looking out across the bay towards the
glittering white front of Bordighera. Mr. Draconmeyer took off his hat.
Somehow, without it, in that clear light, one realised, notwithstanding
his spectacles, his grizzled black beard of unfashionable shape, his
over-massive forehead and shaggy eyebrows, that his, too, was the face
of one whose feet were not always upon the earth.

"Perhaps," he answered, "it is a matter of degree, yet I am almost
tempted to answer your question absolutely. I do not believe that youth
can love, because from the first it misapprehends the meaning of the
term. I believe that the gift of loving comes only to those who have
reached the hills."

She looked at him, a little surprised. Always thoughtful, always
sympathetic, generally stimulating, it was very seldom that she had
heard him speak with so much real feeling. Suddenly he turned his head
from the sea. His eyes seemed to challenge hers.

"Your question," he continued, "touches upon one of the great tragedies
of life. Upon those who are free from their youth there is a great tax
levied. Nature has decreed that they should feel something which they
call love. They marry, and in this small world of ours they give a
hostage as heavy as a millstone of their chances of happiness. For it is
only in later life, when a man has knowledge as well as passion, when
unless he is fortunate it is too late, that he can know what love is."

She moved a little uneasily. She felt that something was coming which
she desired to avoid, some confidence, something from which she must
escape. The memory of her husband's warning was vividly present with
her. She felt the magnetism of her companion's words, his compelling
gaze.

"It is so with me," he went on, leaning a little towards her, "only in
my case--"

Providence was intervening. Never had the swish of a woman's skirt
sounded so sweet to her before.

"Here's Dolly Montressor," she interrupted, "coming up to speak to us."

CHAPTER VI

CAKES AND COUNSELS

The Sporting Club seemed to fill up that afternoon almost as soon as the
doors were opened. At half-past four, people were standing two or three
deep around the roulette tables. Selingman, very warm, and looking
somewhat annoyed, withdrew himself from the front row of the lower
table, and taking Mr. Grex and Draconmeyer by the arm, led them towards
the tea-room.

"I have lost six louis!" he exclaimed, fretfully. "I have had the
devil's own luck. I shall play no more for the present. We will have tea
together."

They appropriated a round table in a distant corner of the restaurant.

"History," Selingman continued, heaping his plate with rich cakes, "has
been made before now in strange places. Why not here? We sit here in
close touch with one of the most interesting phases of modern life. We
can even hear the voice of fate, the click of the little ball as it
finishes its momentous journey and sinks to rest. Why should we, too,
not speak of fateful things?"

Mr. Draconmeyer glanced around.

"For myself," he muttered, "I must say that I prefer a smaller room and
a locked door."

Selingman demolished a chocolate éclair and shook his head vigorously.

"The public places for me," he declared. "Now look around. There is no
one, as you will admit, within ear-shot. Very well. What will they say,
those who suspect us, if they see us drinking tea and eating many cakes
together? Certainly not that we conspire, that we make mischief here. On
the other hand, they will say 'There are three great men at play, come
to Monte Carlo to rest from their labours, to throw aside for a time the
burden from their shoulders; to flirt, to play, to eat cakes.' It is a
good place to talk, this, and I have something in my mind which must be
said."

Mr. Grex sipped his pale, lemon-flavoured tea and toyed with his
cigarette-case. He was eating nothing.

"Assuming you to be a man of sense, my dear Selingman," he remarked, "I
think that what you have to say is easily surmised. The Englishman!"

Selingman agreed with ponderous emphasis.

"We have before us," he declared, "a task of unusual delicacy. Our
friend from Paris may be here at any moment. How we shall fare with him,
heaven only knows! But there is one thing very certain. At the sight of
Hunterleys he will take alarm. He will be like a frightened bird, all
ruffled feathers. He will never settle down to a serious discussion.
Hunterleys knows this. That is why he presents himself without reserve
in public, why he is surrounded with Secret Service men of his own
country, all on the _qui vive_ for the coming of Douaille."

"It appears tolerably certain," Mr. Draconmeyer said calmly, "that we
must get rid of Hunterleys."

Mr. Grex looked out of the window for a moment.

"To some extent," he observed, "I am a stranger here. I come as a guest
to this conference, as our other friend from Paris comes, too. Any small
task which may arise from the necessities of the situation, devolves, I
think I may say without unfairness, upon you, my friend."

Selingman assented gloomily.

"That is true," he admitted, "but in Hunterleys we have to do with no
ordinary man. He does not gamble. To the ordinary attractions of Monte
Carlo he is indifferent. He is one of these thin-blooded men with
principles. Cromwell would have made a lay preacher of him."

"You find difficulties?" Mr. Grex queried, with slightly uplifted
eyebrows.

"Not difficulties," Selingman continued quickly. "Or if indeed we do
call them difficulties, let us say at once that they are very minor
ones. Only the thing must be done neatly and without ostentation, for
the sake of our friend who comes."

"My own position," Mr. Draconmeyer intervened, "is, in a way, delicate.
The unexplained disappearance of Sir Henry Hunterleys might, by some
people, be connected with the great friendship which exists between my
wife and his."

Mr. Grex polished his horn-rimmed eyeglass. Selingman nodded
sympathetically. Neither of them looked at Draconmeyer. Finally
Selingman heaved a sigh and brushed the crumbs from his waistcoat.

"If one were assured," he murmured thoughtfully, "that Hunterleys'
presence here had a real significance--"

Draconmeyer pushed his chair forward and leaned across the table. The
heads of the three men were close together. His tone was stealthily
lowered.

"Let me tell you something, my friend Selingman, which I think should
strengthen any half-formed intention you may have in your brain.
Hunterleys is no ordinary sojourner here. You were quite right when you
told me that his stay at Bordighera and San Remo was a matter of days
only. Now I will tell you something. Three weeks ago he was at
Bukharest. He spent two days with Novisko. From there he went to Sofia.
He was heard of in Athens and Constantinople. My own agent wrote me that
he was in Belgrade. Hunterleys is the bosom friend of the English
Foreign Secretary. That I know for myself. You have your reports. You
can read between the lines. I tell you that Hunterleys is the man who
has paralysed our action amongst the Balkan States. He has played a neat
little game out there. It is he who was the inspiration of Roumania. It
is he who drafted the secret understanding with Turkey. The war which we
hoped for will not take place. From there Hunterleys came in a gunboat
and landed on the Italian coast. He lingered at Bordighera for
appearances only. He is here, if he can, to break up our conference. I
tell you that you none of you appreciate this man. Hunterleys is the
most dangerous Englishman living--"

"One moment," Selingman interrupted. "To some extent I follow you, but
when you speak of Hunterleys as a power in the present tense, doesn't it
occur to you that his Party is not in office? He is simply a member of
the Opposition. If his Party get in again at the next election, I grant
you that he will be Foreign Minister and a dangerous one, but to-day he
is simply a private person."

"It is not every one," Mr. Draconmeyer said slowly, "who bows his knee
to the shibboleth of party politics. Remember that I come to you from
London and I have information of which few others are possessed.
Hunterleys is of the stuff of which patriots are made. Party is no
concern of his. He and the present Foreign Secretary are the greatest of
personal friends. I know for a fact that Hunterleys has actually been
consulted and has helped in one or two recent crises. The very
circumstance that he is not of the ruling Party makes a free lance of
him. When his people are in power, he will have to take office and wear
the shackles. To-day, with every quality which would make him the
greatest Foreign Minister England has ever had since Disraeli, he is
nothing more nor less than a roving diplomatist, Emperor of his
country's Secret Service, if you like to put it so. Furthermore, look a
little into that future of which I have spoken. The present English
Government will last, at the most, another two years. I tell you that
when they go out of power, whoever comes in, Hunterleys will go to the
Foreign Office. We shall have to deal with a man who knows, a man--"

"I am not wholly satisfied with these éclairs," Selingman interrupted,
gazing into the dish. "Maître d'hôtel, come and listen to an awful
complaint," he went on, and, addressing one of the head-waiters. "Your
éclairs are too small, your cream-cakes too irresistible. I eat too much
here. How, I ask you in the name of common sense, can a man dine who
takes tea here! Bring the bill."

The man, smiling, hastened away. Not a word had passed between the
three, yet the other two understood the situation perfectly. Hunterleys
and Richard Lane had entered the room together and were seated at an
adjoining table. Selingman plunged into a fresh tirade, pointing to the
half-demolished plateful of cakes.

"I will eat one more," he declared. "We will bilk the management. The
bill is made out. I shall not be observed. Our friend," he continued,
under his breath, "has secured a valuable bodyguard, something very
large and exceedingly powerful."

Draconmeyer hesitated for a moment. Then he turned to Mr. Grex.

"You have perhaps observed," he said, "the young man who is seated at
the next table. It may amuse you to hear of a very extraordinary piece
of impertinence of which, only this afternoon, he was guilty. He
accosted me upon the Terrace--he is a young American whom I have met in
London--and asked me for information respecting a Mr. and Miss Grex."

Mr. Grex looked slowly towards the speaker. There was very little change
in his face, yet Draconmeyer seemed in some way confused.

"You will understand, I am sure, sir," he continued, a little hastily,
"that I was in no way to blame for the question which the young man
addressed to me. He had the presumption to enquire whether I could
procure for him an introduction to the young lady whom he knew as Miss
Grex. Even at this moment," Draconmeyer went on, lowering his voice, "he
is trying to persuade Hunterleys to let him come over to us."

"The young man," Mr. Grex said deliberately, "is ignorant. If necessary,
he must be taught his lesson."

Selingman intervened. He breathed a heavy sigh.

"Well," he observed, "I perceive that the task at which we have hinted
is to fall upon my shoulders. We must do what we can. I am a
tender-hearted man, and if extremes can be avoided, I shall like my task
better.... And now I have changed my mind. The loss of that six louis
weighs upon me. I shall endeavour to regain it. Let us go."

They rose and passed out into the roulette rooms. Richard Lane, who
remained in his seat with an effort, watched them pass with a frown upon
his face.

"Say, Sir Henry," he complained, "I don't quite understand this. Why,
I'd only got to go over to Draconmeyer there and stand and talk for a
moment, and he must have introduced me."

Hunterleys shook his head.

"Let me assure you," he said, "that Draconmeyer would have done nothing
of the sort. For one thing, we don't introduce over here as a matter of
course, as you do in America. And for another--well, I won't trouble you
with the other reason.... Look here, Lane, take my advice, there's a
sensible fellow. I am a man of the world, you know, and there are
certain situations in which one can make no mistake. If you are as hard
hit as you say you are, go for a cruise and get over it. Don't hang
around here. No good will come of it."

The young man set his teeth. He was looking very determined indeed.

"There isn't anything in this world, short of a bomb," he declared,
"which is going to blow me out of Monte Carlo before I have made the
acquaintance of Miss Grex!"

CHAPTER VII

THE EFFRONTERY OF RICHARD

Hunterleys took leave of his companion as soon as they arrived at the
roulette rooms.

"Take my advice, Lane," he said seriously. "Find something to occupy
your thoughts. Throw a few hundred thousand of your dollars away at the
tables, if you must do something foolish. You'll get into far less
trouble."

Richard made no direct reply. He watched Hunterleys depart and took up
his place opposite the door to await his sister's arrival. It was a
quarter to five before she appeared and found him waiting for her in the
doorway.

"Say, you're late, Flossie!" he grumbled. "I thought you were going to
be here soon after four."

She glanced at the little watch upon her wrist.

"How the time does slip away!" she sighed. "But really, Dicky, I am late
in your interests as much as anything. I have been paying a few calls. I
went out to the Villa Rosa to see some people who almost live here, and
then I met Lady Crawley and she made me go in and have some tea."

"Well?" he asked impatiently. "Well?"

She laid her fingers upon his arm and drew him into a less crowded part
of the room.

"Dicky," she confessed, "I don't seem to have had a bit of luck. The
Comtesse d'Hausson, who lives at the Villa Rosa, knows them and showed
me from the window the Villa Mimosa, where they live, but she would tell
me absolutely nothing about them. The villa is the finest in Monte
Carlo, and has always been taken before by some one of note. She
declares that they do not mix in the society of the place, but she
admits that she has heard a rumour that Grex is only an assumed name."

"I begin to believe that myself," he said doggedly. "Hunterleys knows
who they are and won't tell me. So does that fellow Draconmeyer."

"Sir Henry and Mr. Draconmeyer!" she repeated, raising her eyes. "My
dear Dick, that doesn't sound very reasonable, does it?"

"I tell you that they do," he persisted. "They as good as told me so.
Hunterleys, especially, left me here only half-an-hour ago, and his last
words were advising me to chuck it. He's a sensible chap enough but he
won't even tell me why. I've had enough of it. I've a good mind to take
the bull by the horns myself. Mr. Grex is here now, somewhere about. He
was sitting with Mr. Draconmeyer and a fat old German a few minutes ago,
at the next table to ours. If I had been alone I should have gone up and
chanced being introduced, but Hunterleys wouldn't let me."

"Well, so far," Lady Weybourne admitted, "I fear that I haven't done
much towards that electric coupé; but," she added, in a changed tone,
looking across the tables, "there is just one thing, Dicky. Fate
sometimes has a great deal to do with these little affairs. Look over
there."

Richard left his sister precipitately, without even a word of farewell.
She watched him cross the room, and smiled at the fury of a little
Frenchman whom he nearly knocked over in his hurry to get round to the
other side of the table. A moment later he was standing a few feet away
from the girl who had taken so strange a hold upon his affections. He
himself was conscious of a curious and unfamiliar nervousness.
Physically he felt as though he had been running hard. He set his teeth
and tried to keep cool. He found some plaques in his pocket and began to
stake. Then he became aware that the girl was holding in her hand a note
and endeavouring to attract the attention of the man who was giving
change.

"_Petite monnaie, s'il vous plaît_," he heard her say, stretching out
the note.

The man took no notice. Richard held out his hand.

"Will you allow me to get it changed for you?" he asked.

Her first impulse at the sound of his voice was evidently one of
resentment. She seemed, indeed, in the act of returning some chilling
reply. Then she glanced half carelessly towards him and her eyes rested
upon his face. Richard was good-looking enough, but the chief
characteristic of his face was a certain honesty, which seemed
accentuated at that moment by his undoubted earnestness. The type was
perhaps strange to her. She was almost startled by what she saw.
Scarcely knowing what she did, she allowed him to take the note from her
fingers.

"Thank you very much," she murmured.

Richard procured the change. He would have lifted every one out of the
way if she had been in a hurry. Then he turned round and counted it very
slowly into her hands. From the left one she had removed the glove and
he saw, to his relief, that there was no engagement ring there. He
counted so slowly that towards the end she seemed to become a little
impatient.

"That is quite all right," she said. "It was very kind of you to
trouble."

She spoke very correct English with the slightest of foreign accents. He
looked once more into her eyes.

"It was a pleasure," he declared.

She smiled faintly, an act of graciousness which absolutely turned his
head. With her hand full of plaques, she moved away and found a place a
little lower down the table. Richard fought with his first instinct and
conquered it. He remained where he was, and when he moved it was in
another direction. He went into the bar and ordered a whisky and soda.
He was as excited as he had been in the old days when he had rowed
stroke in a winning race for his college boat. He felt, somehow or
other, that the first step had been a success. She had been inclined at
first to resent his offer. She had looked at him and changed her mind.
Even when she had turned away, she had smiled. It was ridiculous, but he
felt as though he had taken a great step. Presently Lady Weybourne, on
her way to the baccarat rooms, saw him sitting there and looked in.

"Well, Dicky," she exclaimed, "what luck?"

"Sit down, Flossie," he begged. "I've spoken to her."

"You don't mean,--" she began, horrified.

"Oh, no, no! Nothing of that sort!" he interrupted. "Don't think I'm
such a blundering ass. She was trying to get change and couldn't reach.
I took the note from her, got the change and gave it to her. She said,
'Thank you.' When she went away, she smiled."

Lady Weybourne flopped down upon the divan and screamed with laughter.

"Dicky," she murmured, wiping her eyes, "tell me, is that why you are
sitting there, looking as though you could see right into Heaven? Do you
know that your face was one great beam when I came in?"

"Can't help it," he answered contentedly. "I've spoken to her and she
smiled."

Lady Weybourne opened her gold bag and produced a card.

"Well," she said, "here is another chance for you. Of course, I don't
know that it will come to anything, but you may as well try your luck."

"What is it?" he asked.

She thrust a square of gilt-edged cardboard into his hand.

"It's an invitation," she told him, "from the directors, to attend a
dinner at La Turbie Golf Club-house, up in the mountains, to-night. It
isn't entirely a joke, I can tell you. It takes at least an hour to get
there, climbing all the way, and the place is as likely as not to be
wrapped in clouds, but a great many of the important people are going,
and as I happened to see Mr. Grex's name amongst the list of members,
the other night, there is always a chance that they may be there. If
not, you see, you can soon come back."

"I'm on," Richard decided. "Give me the ticket. I am awfully obliged to
you, Flossie."

"If she is there," Lady Weybourne declared, rising, "I shall consider
that it is equivalent to one wheel of the coupé."

"Have a cocktail instead," he suggested.

She shook her head.

"Too early. If we meet later on, I'll have one. What are you going to
do?"

"Same as I've been doing ever since lunch," he answered,--"hang around
and see if I can meet any one who knows them."

She laughed and hurried off into the baccarat room, and Richard
presently returned to the table at which the girl was still playing. He
took particular care not to approach her, but he found a place on the
opposite side of the room, from which he could watch her unobserved. She
was still standing and apparently she was losing her money. Once, with a
little petulant frown, she turned away and moved a few yards lower down
the room. The first time she staked in her new position, she won, and a
smile which it seemed to him was the most brilliant he had ever seen,
parted her lips. He stood there looking at her, and in the midst of a
scene where money seemed god of all things, he realised all manner of
strange and pleasant sensations. The fact that he had twenty thousand
francs in his pocket to play with, scarcely occurred to him. He was
watching a little wisp of golden hair by her ear, watching her slightly
wrinkled forehead as she leaned over the table, her little grimace as
she lost and her stake was swept away. She seemed indifferent to all
bystanders. It was obvious that she had very few acquaintances. Where he
stood it was not likely that she would notice him, and he abandoned
himself wholly to the luxury of gazing at her. Then some instinct caused
him to turn his head. He felt that he in his turn was being watched. He
glanced towards the divan set against the wall, by the side of which he
was standing. Mr. Grex was seated there, only a few feet away, smoking a
cigarette. Their eyes met and Richard was conscious of a sudden
embarrassment. He felt like a detected thief, and he acted at that
moment as he often did--entirely on impulse. He leaned down and
resolutely addressed Mr. Grex.

"I should be glad, sir, if you would allow me to speak to you for a
moment."

Mr. Grex's expression was one of cold surprise, unmixed with any
curiosity.

"Do you address me?" he asked.

His tone was vastly discouraging but it was too late to draw back.

"I should like to speak to you, if I may," Richard continued.

"I am not aware," Mr. Grex said, "that I have the privilege of your
acquaintance."

"You haven't," Richard admitted, "but all the same I want to speak to
you, if I may."

"Since you have gone so far," Mr. Grex conceded, "you had better finish,
but you must allow me to tell you in advance that I look upon any
address from a perfect stranger as an impertinence."

"You'll think worse of me before I've finished, then," Richard declared
desperately. "You don't mind if I sit down?"

"These seats," Mr. Grex replied coldly, "are free to all."

The young man took his place upon the divan with a sinking heart. There
was something in Mr. Grex's tone which seemed to destroy all his
confidence, a note of something almost alien in the measured contempt of
his speech.

"I am sorry to give you any offence," Richard began. "I happened to
notice that you were watching me. I was looking at your
daughter--staring at her. I am afraid you thought me impertinent."

"Your perspicuity," Mr. Grex observed, "seems to be of a higher order
than your manners. You are, perhaps, a stranger to civilised society?"

"I don't know about that," Richard went on doggedly. "I have been to
college and mixed with the usual sort of people. My birth isn't much to
speak of, perhaps, if you count that for anything."

Something which was almost like the ghost of a smile, devoid of any
trace of humour, parted Mr. Grex's lips.

"If I count that for anything!" he repeated, half closing his eyes for a
moment. "Pray proceed, young man."

"I am an American," Richard continued. "My name is Richard Lane. My
father was very wealthy and I am his heir. My sister is Lady Weybourne.
I was lunching with her at Ciro's to-day when I saw you and your
daughter. I think I can say that I am a respectable person. I have a
great many friends to whom I can refer you."

"I am not thinking of engaging anybody, that I know of," Mr. Grex
murmured.

"I want to marry your daughter," Richard declared desperately, feeling
that any further form of explanation would only lead him into greater
trouble.

Mr. Grex knocked the ash from his cigarette.

"Is your keeper anywhere in the vicinity?" he asked.

"I am perfectly sane," Richard assured him. "I know that it sounds
foolish but it isn't really. I am twenty-seven years old and I have
never asked a girl to marry me yet. I have been waiting until--"

The words died away upon his lips. It was impossible for him to
continue, the cold enmity of this man was too chilling.

"I am absolutely in earnest," he insisted. "I have been endeavouring all
day to find some mutual friend to introduce me to your daughter. Will
you do so? Will you give me a chance?"

"I will not," Mr. Grex replied firmly.

"Why not? Please tell me why not?" Richard begged. "I am not asking for
anything more now than just an opportunity to talk with her."

"It is not a matter which admits of discussion," Mr. Grex pronounced. "I
have permitted you to say what you wished, notwithstanding the colossal,
the unimaginable impertinence of your suggestion. I request you to leave
me now and I advise you most heartily to indulge no more in the most
preposterous and idiotic idea which ever entered into the head of an
apparently sane young man."

Richard rose slowly to his feet.

"Very well, sir," he replied, "I'll go. All the same, what you have said
doesn't make any difference."

"Does not make any difference?" Mr. Grex repeated, with arched eyebrows.

"None at all," Richard declared. "I don't know what your objection to me
is, but I hope you'll get over it some day. I'd like to make friends
with you. Perhaps, later on, you may look at the matter differently."

"Later on?" Mr. Grex murmured.

"When I have married your daughter," Richard concluded, marching
defiantly away.

Mr. Grex watched the young man until he had disappeared in the crowd.
Then he leaned hack amongst the cushions of the divan with folded arms.
Little lines had become visible around his eyes, there was a slight
twitching at the corners of his lips. He looked like a man who was
inwardly enjoying some huge joke.

CHAPTER VIII

UP THE MOUNTAIN

Richard, passing the Hotel de Paris that evening in his wicked-looking
grey racing car, saw Hunterleys standing on the steps and pulled up.

"Not going up to La Turbie, by any chance?" he enquired.

Hunterleys nodded.

"I'm going up to the dinner," he replied. "The hotel motor is starting
from here in a few minutes."

"Come with me," Richard invited.

Hunterleys looked a little doubtfully at the long, low machine.

"Are you going to shoot up?" he asked. "It's rather a dangerous road."

"I'll take care of you," the young man promised. "That hotel 'bus will
be crammed."

They glided through the streets on to the broad, hard road, and crept
upwards with scarcely a sound, through the blue-black twilight. Around
and in front of them little lights shone out from the villas and small
houses dotted away in the mountains. Almost imperceptibly they passed
into a different atmosphere. The air became cold and exhilarating. The
flavour of the mountain snows gave life to the breeze. Hunterleys
buttoned up his coat but bared his head.

"My young friend," he said, "this is wonderful."

"It's a great climb," Richard assented, "and doesn't she just eat it
up!"

They paused for a moment at La Turbie. Below them was a chain of
glittering lights fringing the Bay of Mentone, and at their feet the
lights of the Casino and Monte Carlo flared up through the scented
darkness. Once more they swung upwards. The road now had become narrower
and the turnings more frequent. They were up above the region of villas
and farmhouses, in a country which seemed to consist only of bleak
hill-side, open to the winds, wrapped in shadows. Now and then they
heard the tinkling of a goat bell; far below they saw the twin lights of
other ascending cars. They reached the plateau at last and drew up
before the club-house, ablaze with cheerful lights.

"I'll just leave the car under the trees," Richard declared. "No one
will be staying late."

Hunterleys unwound his scarf and handed his coat and hat to a page-boy.
Then he stood suddenly rigid. He bit his lip. His wife had just issued
from the cloak-room and was drawing on her gloves. She saw him and
hesitated. She, too, turned a little paler. Slowly Hunterleys approached
her.

"An unexpected pleasure," he murmured.

"I am here with Mr. Draconmeyer," she told him, almost bluntly.

Hunterleys bowed.

"And a party?" he enquired.

"No," she replied. "I really did not want to come. Mr. Draconmeyer had
promised Monsieur Pericot, the director here, to come and bring Mrs.
Draconmeyer. At the last moment, however, she was not well enough, and
he almost insisted upon my taking her place."

"Is it necessary to explain?" Hunterleys asked quietly. "You know very
well how I regard this friendship of yours."

"I am sorry," she said. "If I had known that we were likely to
meet--well, I would not have come here to-night."

"You were at least considerate," he remarked bitterly. "May I be
permitted to compliment you upon your toilette?"

"As you pay for my frocks," she answered, "there is certainly no reason
why you shouldn't admire them."

He bit his lip. There was a certain challenge in her expression which
made him, for a moment, feel weak. She was a very beautiful woman and
she was looking her best. He spoke quickly on another subject.

"Are you still," he asked, "troubled by the attentions of the person you
spoke to me about?"

"I am still watched," she replied drily.

"I have made some enquiries," Hunterleys continued, "and I have come to
the conclusion that you are right."

"And you still tell me that you have nothing to do with it?"

"I assure you, upon my honour, that I have nothing whatever to do with
it."

It was obvious that she was puzzled, but at that moment Mr. Draconmeyer
presented himself. The newcomer simply bowed to Hunterleys and addressed
some remark about the room to Violet. Then Richard came up and they all
passed on into the reception room, where two or three very fussy but
very suave and charming Frenchmen were receiving the guests. A few
minutes afterwards dinner was announced. A black frown was upon
Richard's forehead.

"She isn't coming!" he muttered. "I say, Sir Henry, you won't mind if we
leave early?"

"I shall be jolly glad to get away," Hunterleys assented heartily.

Then he suddenly felt a grip of iron upon his arm.

"She's come!" Richard murmured ecstatically. "Look at her, all in white!
Just look at the colour of her hair! There she is, going into the
reception room. Jove! I'm glad we are here, after all!"

Hunterleys smiled a little wearily. They passed on into the _salle à
manger_. The seats at the long dining-tables were not reserved, and they
found a little table for two in a corner, which they annexed. Hunterleys
was in a grim humour, but his companion was in the wildest spirits.
Considering that he was placed where he could see Mr. Grex and his
daughter nearly the whole of the time, he really did contrive to keep
his eyes away from them to a wonderful extent, but he talked of her
unceasingly.

"Say, I'm sorry for you, Sir Henry!" he declared. "It's just your bad
luck, being here with me while I've got this fit on, but I've got to
talk to some one, so you may as well make up your mind to it. There
never was anything like that girl upon the earth. There never was
anything like the feeling you get," he went on, "when you're absolutely
and entirely convinced, when you know--that there's just one girl who
counts for you in the whole universe. Gee whiz! It does get hold of you!
I suppose you've been through it all, though."

"Yes, I've been through it!" Hunterleys admitted, with a sigh.

The young man bit his lip. The story of Hunterleys' matrimonial
differences was already being whispered about. Richard talked polo
vigorously for the next quarter of an hour. It was not until the coffee
and liqueurs arrived that they returned to the subject of Miss Grex.
Then it was Hunterleys himself who introduced it. He was beginning to
rather like this big, self-confident young man, so full of his simple
love affair, so absolutely honest in his purpose, in his outlook upon
life.

"Lane," he said, "I have given you several hints during the day, haven't
I?"

"That's so," Richard agreed. "You've done your best to head me off. So
did my future father-in-law. Sort of hopeless task, I can assure you."

Hunterleys shook his head.

"Honestly," he continued, "I wouldn't let myself think too much about
her, Lane. I don't want to explain exactly what I mean. There's no real
reason why I shouldn't tell you what I know about Mr. Grex, but for a
good many people's sakes, it's just as well that those few of us who
know keep quiet. I am sure you trust me, and it's just the same,
therefore, if I tell you straight, as man to man, that you're only
laying up for yourself a store of unhappiness by fixing your thoughts so
entirely upon that young woman."

Richard, for all his sublime confidence, was a little staggered by the
other's earnestness.

"Look here," he said, "the girl isn't married, to start with?"

"Not that I know of," Hunterleys confessed.

"And she's not engaged because I've seen her left hand," Richard
proceeded. "I'm not one of those Americans who go shouting all over the
world that because I've got a few million dollars I am the equal of
anybody, but honestly, Sir Henry, there are a good many prejudices over
this side that you fellows lay too much store by. Grex may be a nobleman
in disguise. I don't care. I am a man. I can give her everything she
needs in life and I am not going to admit, even if she is an aristocrat,
that you croakers are right when you shake your heads and advise me to
give her up. I don't care who she is, Hunterleys. I am going to marry
her."

Hunterleys helped himself to a liqueur.

"Young man," he said, "in a sense I admire your independence. In
another, I think you've got all the conceit a man needs for this world.
Let us presume, for a moment, that she is, as you surmise, the daughter
of a nobleman. When it suits her father to throw off his incognito, she
is probably in touch with young men in the highest circles of many
countries. Why should you suppose that you can come along and cut them
all out?"

"Because I love her," the young man answered simply. "They don't."

"You must remember," Hunterleys resumed, "that all foreign noblemen are
not what they are represented to be in your comic papers. Austrian and
Russian men of high rank are most of them very highly cultivated, very
accomplished, and very good-looking. You don't know much of the world,
do you? It's a pretty formidable enterprise to come from a New York
office, with only Harvard behind you, and a year or so's travel as a
tourist, and enter the list against men who have had twice your
opportunities. I am talking to you like this, young fellow, for your
good. I hope you realise that. You're used to getting what you want.
That's because you've been brought up in a country where money can do
almost anything. I am behind the scenes here and I can assure you that
your money won't count for much with Mr. Grex."

"I never thought it would," Richard admitted. "I think when I talk to
her she'll understand that I care more than any of the others. If you
want to know the reason, that's why I'm so hopeful."

Monsieur le Directeur had risen to his feet. Some one had proposed his
health and he made a graceful little speech of acknowledgment. He
remained standing for a few minutes after the cheers which had greeted
his neat oratorical display had died away. The conclusion of his remarks
came as rather a surprise to his guests.

"I have to ask you, ladies and gentlemen," he announced, "with many,
many regrets, and begging you to forgive my apparent inhospitality, to
make your arrangements for leaving us as speedily as may be possible.
Our magnificent situation, with which I believe that most of you are
familiar, has but one drawback. We are subject to very dense mountain
mists, and alas! I have to tell you that one of these has come on most
unexpectedly and the descent must be made with the utmost care. Believe
me, there is no risk or any danger," he went on earnestly, "so long as
you instruct your chauffeurs to proceed with all possible caution. At
the same time, as there is very little chance of the mist becoming
absolutely dispelled before daylight, in your own interests I would
suggest that a start be made as soon as possible."

Every one rose at once, Richard and Hunterleys amongst them.

"This will test your skill to-night, young man," Hunterleys remarked.
"How's the nerve, eh?"

Richard smiled almost beatifically. For once he had allowed his eyes to
wander and he was watching the girl with golden hair who was at that
moment receiving the respectful homage of the director.

"Lunatics, and men who are head over heels in love," he declared, "never
come to any harm. You'll be perfectly safe with me."

CHAPTER IX

IN THE MISTS

Their first glimpse of the night, as Hunterleys and Lane passed out
through the grudgingly opened door, was sufficiently disconcerting. A
little murmur of dismay broke from the assembled crowd. Nothing was to
be seen but a dense bank of white mist, through which shone the
brilliant lights of the automobiles waiting at the door. Monsieur le
Directeur hastened about, doing his best to reassure everybody.

"If I thought it was of the slightest use," he declared, "I would ask
you all to stay, but when the clouds once stoop like this, there is not
likely to be any change for twenty-four hours, and we have not, alas!
sleeping accommodation. If the cars are slowly driven and kept to the
inside, it is only a matter of a mile or two before you will drop below
the level of the clouds."

Hunterleys and Lane made their way out to the front, and with their coat
collars turned up, groped their way to the turf on the other side of the
avenue. From where they stood, looking downwards, the whole world seemed
wrapped in mysterious and somber silence. There was nothing to be seen
but the grey, driving clouds. In less than a minute their hair and
eyebrows were dripping. A slight breeze had sprung up, the cold was
intense.

"Cheerful sort of place, this," Lane remarked gloomily. "Shall we make a
start?"

Hunterleys hesitated.

"Not just yet. Look!"

He pointed downwards. For a moment the clouds had parted. Thousands of
feet below, like little pinpricks of red fire, they saw the lights of
Monte Carlo. Almost as they looked, the clouds closed up again. It was
as though they had peered into another world.

"Jove, that was queer!" Lane muttered. "Look! What's that?"

A long ray of sickly yellow light shone for a moment and was then
suddenly blotted out by a rolling mass of vapour. The clouds had closed
in again once more. The obscurity was denser than ever.

"The lighthouse," Hunterleys replied. "Do you think it's any use
waiting?"

"We'll go inside and put on our coats," Lane suggested. "My car is by
the side of the avenue there. I covered it over and left it."

They found their coats in the hall, wrapped themselves up and lit
cigarettes. Already many of the cars had started and vanished cautiously
into obscurity. Every now and then one could hear the tooting of their
horns from far away below. The chief steward was directing the
departures and insisting upon an interval of three minutes between each.
The two men stood on one side and watched him. He was holding open the
door of a large, exceptionally handsome car. On the other side was a
servant in white livery. Lane gripped his companion's arm.

"There she goes!" he exclaimed.

The girl, followed by Mr. Grex, stepped into the landaulette, which was
brilliantly illuminated inside with electric light. Almost immediately
the car glided noiselessly off. The two men watched it until it
disappeared. Then they crossed the road.

"Now then, Sir Henry," Richard observed grimly, as he turned the handle
of the car and they took their places in the little well-shaped space,
"better say your prayers. I'm going to drive slowly enough but it's an
awful job, this, crawling down the side of a mountain in the dark, with
nothing between you and eternity but your brakes."

They crept off. As far as the first turn the lights from the club-house
helped them. Immediately afterwards, however, the obscurity was
enveloping. Their faces were wet and shiny with moisture. Even the
fingers of Lane's gloves which gripped the wheel were sodden. He
proceeded at a snail's pace, keeping always on the inside of the road
and only a few inches from the wall or bank. Once he lost his way and
his front wheel struck a small stump, but they were going too slowly for
disaster. Another time he failed to follow the turn of the road and
found himself in a rough cart track. They backed with difficulty and got
right once more. At the fourth turn they came suddenly upon a huge car
which had left the road as they had done and was standing amongst the
pine trees, its lights flaring through the mist.

"Hullo!" Lane called out, coming to a standstill. "You've missed the
turn."

"My master is going to stay here all night," the chauffeur shouted back.

A man put his head from the window and began to talk in rapid French.

"It is inconceivable," he exclaimed, "that any one should attempt the
descent! We have rugs, my wife and I. We stay here till the clouds
pass."

"Good night, then!" Lane cried cheerfully.

"Not sure that you're not wise," Hunterleys added, with a shiver.

Twice they stopped while Lane rubbed the moisture from his gloves and
lit a fresh cigarette.

"This is a test for your nerve, young fellow," Hunterleys remarked. "Are
you feeling it?"

"Not in the least," Lane replied. "I can't make out, though, why that
steward made us all start at intervals of three minutes. Seems to me we
should have been better going together at this pace. Save any one from
getting lost, anyhow."

They crawled on for another twenty minutes. The routine was always the
same--a hundred yards or perhaps two, an abrupt turn and then a similar
distance the other way. They had one or two slight misadventures but
they made progress. Once, through a rift, they caught a momentary vision
of a carpet of lights at a giddy distance below.

"We'll make it all right," Lane declared, crawling around another
corner. "Gee! but this is the toughest thing in driving I've ever known!
I can do ninety with this car easier than I can do this three. Hullo,
some one else in trouble!"

Before them, in the middle of the road, a light was being slowly swung
backwards and forwards. Lane brought the car to a standstill. He had
scarcely done so when they were conscious of the sound of footsteps all
around them. The arms of both men were seized from behind. They were
addressed in guttural French.

"Messieurs will be pleased to descend."

"What the--what's wrong?" Lane demanded.

"Descend at once," was the prompt order.

By the light of the lantern which the speaker was holding, they caught a
glimpse of a dozen white faces and the dull gleam of metal from the
firearms which his companions were carrying. Hunterleys stepped out. An
escort of two men was at once formed on either side of him.

"Tell us what it's all about, anyhow?" he asked coolly.

"Nothing serious," the same guttural voice answered,--"a little affair
which will be settled in a few minutes. As for you, monsieur," the man
continued, turning to Lane, "you will drive your car slowly to the next
turn, and leave it there. Afterwards you will return with me."

Richard set his teeth and leaned over his wheel. Then it suddenly
flashed into his mind that Mr. Grex and his daughter were already
amongst the captured. He quickly abandoned his first instinct.

"With pleasure, monsieur," he assented. "Tell me when to stop."

He drove the car a few yards round the corner, past a line of others.
Their lights were all extinguished and the chauffeurs absent.

"This is a pleasant sort of picnic!" he grumbled, as he brought his car
to a standstill. "Now what do I do, monsieur?"

"You return with me, if you please," was the reply.

Richard stood, for a moment, irresolute. The idea of giving in without a
struggle was most distasteful to this self-reliant young American. Then
he realised that not only was his captor armed but that there were men
behind him and one on either side.

"Lead the way," he decided tersely.

They marched him up the hill, a little way across some short turf and
round the back of a rock to a long building which he remembered to have
noticed on his way up. His guide threw open the door and Richard looked
in upon a curious scene. Ranged up against the further wall were about a
dozen of the guests who had preceded him in his departure from the
Club-house. One man only had his hands tied behind him. The others,
apparently, were considered harmless. Mr. Grex was the one man, and
there was a little blood dripping from his right hand. The girl stood by
his side. She was no paler than usual--she showed, indeed, no signs of
terror at all--but her eyes were bright with indignation. One man was
busy stripping the jewels from the women and throwing them into a bag.
In the far corner the little group of chauffeurs was being watched by
two more men, also carrying firearms. Lane looked down the line of
faces. Lady Hunterleys was there, and by her side Draconmeyer.
Hunterleys was a little apart from the others. Freddy Montressor, who
was leaning against the wall, chuckled as Lane came in.

"So they've got you, too, Dicky, have they?" he remarked. "It's a
hold-up--a bully one, too. Makes one feel quite homesick, eh? How much
have you got on you?"

"Precious little, thank heavens!" Richard muttered.

His eyes were fixed upon the brigand who was collecting the jewels, and
who was now approaching Miss Grex. He felt something tingling in his
blood. One of the guests began to talk excitedly. The man who was
apparently the leader, and who was standing at the door with an electric
torch in one hand and a revolver in the other, stepped a little forward.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "once more I beg you not to be alarmed.
So long as you part with your valuables peaceably, you will be at
liberty to depart as soon as every one has been dealt with. If there is
no resistance, there will be no trouble. We do not wish to hurt any
one."

The collector of jewels had arrived in front of the girl. She unfastened
her necklace and handed it to him.

"The little pendant around my neck," she remarked calmly, "is valueless.
I desire to keep it."

"Impossible!" the man replied. "Off with it."

"But I insist!" she exclaimed. "It is an heirloom."

The man laughed brutally. His filthy hand was raised to her neck. Even
as he touched her, Lane, with a roar of anger, sent one of his guards
flying on to the floor of the barn, and, snatching the gun from his
hand, sprang forward.

"Come on, you fellows!" he shouted, bringing it down suddenly upon the
hand of the robber. "These things aren't loaded. There's only one of