annoyed at his failure
to learn anything from the old fellow.

Was it possible that the suspicions which both Molly and he had
entertained were true--namely, that the old man had attempted to kill
his mistress? After all, the hue-and-cry had been raised by the police
merely because Hugh Henfrey had fled and successfully escaped.

Benton, after grumbling because the old man would make no statement, and
again hinting at the fact that he might be the culprit, left with very
ill grace, his long journey from London having been in vain.

If Henfrey was to be free to marry Louise, then his innocence must first
be proved. Charles Benton had for many weeks realized that his chance of
securing old Mr. Henfrey's great fortune was slowly slipping from him.
Once Hugh had married Louise and settled the money upon her, then the
rest would be easy. He had many times discussed it with Molly, and they
were both agreed upon a vile, despicable plot which would result in the
young man's sudden end and the diversion of his father's fortune.

The whole plot against old Mr. Henfrey was truly one of the most
elaborate and amazing ones ever conceived by criminal minds.

Charles Benton was a little too well known in Nice, hence he took care
to leave the place by an early train, and went on to Cannes, where he
was a little less known. As an international crook he had spent several
seasons at Nice and Monte Carlo, but had seldom gone to Cannes, as it
was too aristocratic and too slow for an _escroc_ like himself.

Arrived at Cannes he put up at the Hotel Beau Site, and that night ate
an expensive dinner in the restaurant at the Casino. Then, next day, he
took the _train-de-luxe_ direct for Calais, and went on to London, all
unconscious of the sensational events which were then happening.

On arrival in London he found a telegram lying upon his table among some
letters. It was signed "Shaw," and urged him to meet him "at the usual
place" at seven o'clock in the evening. "I know you are away, but I'll
look in each night at seven," it concluded.

It was just six o'clock, therefore Benton washed and changed, and
just before seven o'clock entered a little cafe off Wardour Street,
patronized mostly by foreigners. At one of the tables, sitting alone,
was a wiry-looking, middle-aged man--Mr. Howell, The Sparrow's friend.

"Well?" asked Howell, when a few minutes later they were walking along
Wardour Street together. "How did you get on in Nice?"