the Count went to the table to write, Sir Charles inquired
where we had been, and whether I had driven much on the Continent.

When the Count handed me the letter, I saw that he exchanged a meaning
glance with Sir Charles, but what it was intended to convey I could not
guess. I only know that, for a few seconds, I felt some vague distrust
of my new friends, and yet they treated me more as an equal than as a
mere chauffeur.

The Count's friends were certainly a merry, easy-going pair, yet somehow
I instinctively held them in suspicion. Whether it was on account of the
covert glance which Sir Charles shot across at my employer, or whether
there was something unusual about their manner, I cannot tell. I am only
aware that when I left the hotel I went on my way in wonder.

Next day, at ten punctually, I ran the car from the Strand into the
courtyard of the hotel and pulled up at the restaurant entrance, so as
to be out of the way of the continuous cab traffic. The Count, however,
did not make his appearance until nearly half an hour later, and when he
did arrive he superintended the despatch by cab of a quantity of luggage
which he told me he was sending forward by _grande vitesse_ to Monte
Carlo.

After the four-wheeler had moved off, the hall-porter helped him on with
his big fur coat, and he, getting up beside me, told me to drive to
Piccadilly.

As we were crossing Trafalgar Square into Pall Mall, he turned to me,
saying--

"Remember, Ewart, your promise yesterday. If my actions--I mean, if you
think I am a little peculiar sometimes, don't trouble your head about
it. You are paid to drive--and paid well, I think. My affairs don't
concern you, do they?"

"Not in the least," I answered, nevertheless puzzled.

He descended at a tobacconist's in Bond Street, and bought a couple of
boxes of cigars, and then made several calls at shops, also visiting two
jewellers to obtain, he remarked, a silver photograph frame of a certain
size.

At Gilling's--the third shop he tried--he remained inside some little
time--quite twenty minutes, I should think. As you know, it is in the
narrowest part of Bond Street, and the traffic was congested owing to
the road at the Piccadilly end being partially up.

As I sat in my place, staring idly before me, and reflecting that I
should be so soon travelling due South over the broad, well-kept French
roads, and out of the gloom and dreariness of the English winter, I
suddenly became con