pelled to go, though I had
no longer the Contessa for an excuse. She had been engaged, in my
little drama, for the part of "leading juvenile," with the privilege
of understudying the heroine. But she had not shown an aptitude for
either role, and having stepped down to that of first walking lady,
she had minced off my stage altogether. Now the cast was filled up
without her, though strangely filled, since after the first act there
had been no leading lady at all. Nevertheless, having arranged a scene
at Monte Carlo I could not persuade myself to give it up, though it
would not be played, in any event, at the Contessa's villa.

The Boy had vanished, and the sole word he had left was that I had
better not count upon seeing him again. But the more I thought of it,
the less necessity I saw for taking him at that word. He perhaps
flattered himself that he had picked up all clues and carried them off
with him in the wonderful bag. But he had purposefully hinted that
"something might happen at Monte Carlo," and I hoped the something
might mean that, after all, the Boy would materialise with his sister
at the Hotel de Paris on the night after our arrival. In any case, if
the Princess were going to Monte Carlo, there would the Fairy Prince
be also, and I did not see why I should not be there too, whether
Molly and Jack tooled me down in their motor or not.

Fifteen minutes after Joseph had gone from my life to mingle his lot
with Innocentina's, I had my own plans definitely mapped out. I would
stop in Chambery overnight, to wait for the portmanteau with which I
had kept up a speaking acquaintance in the larger centres of
civilisation, during the tour, and next day I would go on to Grenoble
by train, there to pick up letters.

The luggage duly arrived in the evening, so that there was no bar to
the carrying out of my design; and, accordingly, after my coffee on
the following morning, I conscientiously went out to see more of the
town before taking the eleven-o'clock train.

It was only ten, and as my arrangements were all made, I had time for
strolling--too much to suit my mood. The murmur of an automobile
preparing to take flight attracted me from a distance, for it seemed
that the voice had the cadence of a car I knew. I hastened my steps,
turned a corner, and there, in front of the Hotel de France's rival,
stood a fine motor, panting, quivering in eagerness to dart away.

It was a Mercedes, and if it were not Molly Winsto