The Victorian Rogues MEGAPACK ®. Морис Леблан
whom even Royalty bows, but successful adventurers? And what are your millionaire manufacturers but canting hypocrites who have got their money by paying a starvation wage and giving the public advertised shoddy, a quack medicine, or a soap which smells pleasantly but is injurious to the skin? No, my dear Ewart,” he laughed, as we turned into the long tunnel, with its row of electric lights, “the public are not philosophers. They worship the golden calf, and that is for them all-sufficient. At the Old Bailey I should be termed a thief, and they have, I know, a set of my finger-prints at Scotland Yard. But am I, after all, any greater thief than half the silk-hatted crowd who promote rotten companies in the City and persuade the widow to invest her little all in them? No. I live upon the wealthy—and live well, too, for the matter of that—and no one can ever say that I took a pennyworth from man or woman who could not afford it.”
I laughed. It always amused me to hear him talk like that. Yet there was a good deal of truth in his arguments. Many an open swindler nowadays, because he has successfully got money out of the pockets of other people by sharp practice just once removed from fraud, receives a knighthood, and struts in Pall Mall clubs and in the drawing-rooms of Mayfair.
We had emerged from the tunnel, successfully passed the douane, and were again in France.
With our engines stopped, we were silently descending the long decline which runs for miles towards Sospel, when my companion suddenly aroused himself and said—
“You mentioned Regnier’s friend—Raoul, I think you called him. Go over that incident again.”
I did as I was bidden. And when I had concluded he drew a long breath.
“Ah! Regnier is a wary bird,” he remarked, as though to himself. “I wonder what his game could be in warning you?” Then, after a pause, he asked, “Has Mademoiselle mentioned me again?”
“Several times. She is your great admirer.”
“Little fool!” he blurted forth impatiently. “Has she said any more about her missing father?”
“Yes, a good deal—always worrying about him.”
“That’s not surprising. And her lover, the man Martin, what about him?”
“She has said very little. You have taken his place in her heart,” I said.
“Quite against my will, I assure you, Ewart,” he laughed. “But, by Jove!” he added, “the whole affair is full of confounded complications. I had no idea of it all till I returned to town.”
“Then you’ve made inquiries regarding Monsieur Dumont and his mysterious disappearance?”
“Of course. That’s why I went.”
“And were they satisfactory? I mean did you discover whether Mademoiselle has told the truth?” I asked anxiously.
“She told you the exact truth. Her father, her lover, and the jewels are missing. Scotland Yard, at the express request of the Paris police, are preserving the secret. Not a syllable has been allowed to leak out to the Press. For that very reason I altered my plans.”
“And what do you now intend to do?”
“Not quite so fast, my dear Ewart. Just wait and see,” answered the man who had re-entered France by the back door.
And by midnight “Monsieur Charles Bellingham, de Londres,” was sleeping soundly in his room in the Hôtel de Paris at Monte Carlo.
CHAPTER VIII
IN WHICH THE TRUTH IS EXPLAINED
During the next three days I saw but little of Bindo.
His orders to me were not to approach or to worry him. I noticed him in a suit of cream flannels and Panama hat, sunning himself on the terrace before the Casino, or lunching at the Hermitage or Métropole with people he knew, appearing to the world to lead the idle life of a well-to-do man about town—one of a thousand other good-looking, wealthy men whose habit it was annually to spend the worst weeks in the year beside the blue Mediterranean.
To the monde and the demi-monde Bindo was alike a popular person. More than one member of the latter often received a substantial sum for acting as his spy, whether there, or at Aix, or at Ostend. But so lazy was his present attitude that I was surprised.
Daily I drove him over to Beaulieu to call upon Mademoiselle and her chaperon, and nearly every evening he dined with them.
Madame of the yellow teeth had introduced Sir Charles to him, and the pair had met as perfect strangers, as they had so often done before.
Both men were splendid actors, and it amused me to watch them when, on being introduced, they would gradually begin a conversation regarding mutual acquaintances.
But in this case I could not, for the life of me, discern what game was being played.
One afternoon I drove Bindo, with Blythe, Madame, and Mademoiselle, over to the Beau Site, at Cannes, to tea, and the party was certainly a very merry one. Yet it puzzled me to discover in what direction Bindo’s active brain was working, and what were his designs.
The only facts that were apparent were that first he was ingratiating himself further with Mademoiselle,—who regarded him with undisguised love-looks,—and secondly that, for some purpose known only to himself, he was gaining time.
The solution of the puzzle, however, came suddenly and without warning.
Bindo had been back in Monty a week, and one evening I had seen him with “The President,” leaning over the balustrade of the terrace before the Casino, with their faces turned to the moonlit sea and the gaily-lit rock of Monaco.
They were in deep, earnest conversation; therefore I turned back and left them. It would not do, I knew, if Bindo discovered me in the vicinity.
In crossing the Place I came face to face with the long-nosed stranger whom I suspected as a police-agent, but he seemed in a hurry, and I do not think he noticed me.
Next day I saw nothing of Bindo, who, strangely enough, did not sleep at the Paris. We did not meet till about eight o’clock at night, when I caught sight of him ascending the stairs to go and dress for dinner.
“Ewart!” he called to me, “come up to my room. I want you.”
I went up after him, and followed him into his room. When the door had closed, he turned quickly to me and asked—
“Is the car ready for a long run?”
“Quite,” I replied.
“Is it at the same garage?”
“Yes.”
“Then give me the key. I want to go round there this evening.”
I was surprised, but nevertheless took the key from my pocket and handed it to him.
“Are you going to drive her away?” I inquired.
“Don’t ask questions,” he snapped. “I don’t know yet what I’m going to do, except that I want you to go over to Nice and spend the evening. Go to the Casino, and watch to see if Raoul is there. Be back here by the twelve-twenty-five, and come up and report to me.”
I went to my own room, dressed, and then took train to Nice. But though I lounged about the Casino Municipal all that evening, I saw nothing of either Regnier or Raoul. It struck me, however, that Bindo had sent me over to Nice in order to get rid of me, and this surmise was somewhat confirmed when I returned after midnight.
Bindo did not question me about the person he had sent me to watch for. He merely said—
“Ewart, you and I have a long run before us to-morrow. We must be away at seven. The quicker we’re out of this place, the better.”
I saw he had hurriedly packed, and that his receipted hotel bill lay upon the dressing-table.
“Where are we going?”
“I’ll