THE CAFE DE PARIS

IT was in the early days of January--damp and foggy in England.

Walter Fetherston sat idling on the _terrasse_ of the Cafe de Paris in
Monte Carlo sipping a "mazagran," basking in the afternoon sunshine, and
listening to the music of the Rumanian Orchestra.

Around him everywhere was the gay cosmopolitan world of the tables--that
giddy little after-the-war financier and profiteer world which amuses
itself on the Cote d'Azur, and in which he was such a well-known figure.

So many successive seasons had he passed there before 1914 that across at
the rooms the attendants and croupiers knew him as an habitue, and he was
always granted the _carte blanche_--the white card of the professional
gambler. With nearly half the people he met he had a nodding
acquaintance, for friendships are easily formed over the _tapis
vert_--and as easily dropped.

Preferring the fresher air of Nice, he made his headquarters at the
Hotel Royal on the world-famed promenade, and came over to "Monte" daily
by the _rapide_.

Much had occurred since that autumn morning when he had stood with
Herbert Trendall in the big room at New Scotland Yard, much that had
puzzled him, much that had held him in fear lest the ghastly truth
concerning Sir Hugh should be revealed.

His own activity had been, perhaps, unparalleled. The strain of such
constant travel and continual excitement would have broken most men; but
he possessed an iron constitution, and though he spent weeks on end in
trains and steamboats, it never affected him in the least. He could
snatch sleep at any time, and he could write anywhere.

Whether or not Enid had guessed the reason of his urgent appeal to her
not to pass through France, she had nevertheless managed to excuse
herself; but a week after Mrs. Caldwell's departure she had travelled
alone by the Harwich-Antwerp route, evidently much to the annoyance of
the alert doctor of Pimlico.

Walter had impressed upon her the desirability of not entering
France--without, however, giving any plain reason. He left her to guess.

Through secret sources in Paris he had learnt how poor Paul Le Pontois
was still awaiting trial. In order not to excite public opinion, the
matter was being kept secret by the French authorities, and it had been
decided that the inquiry should be held with closed doors.

A week after his arrest the French police received additional evidence
against him in the form of a cryptic telegram ad